Code Blue in Casablanca

We are in Casablanca.  Except for the container cars, it looks as black and white as the movie.  The fog clouds everything, like Vaseline on a lens. 

If I’ve learned one thing from my travels, it’s get out of the port city.  In every port, we dock at a big, industrial port, just like the freighters full of refrigerators.  There’s no grass, no trees, just a mile of warehouses and security and gates.

Casablanca is Morocco’s biggest city, and its most Westernized.  I just finished reading The Caliph’s House, an ex-pat memoir by an Afghan-Scot immigrant to Casablanca.  Same as many other stories, the burned out refugee from the 20^th century decamps to some exotic vacation land and then tries to remake it to the standards he enjoyed in his home country, all the while complaining about how expensive it is to do a renovation with the horrid people who do the work for him.  Our Academic Dean recommended it to me as a good introduction to the culture.  I generally find this sort of memoir discourages me from going to visit, but here I am.

Thanks to my reading, I am prepared for a country where the population cannot be trusted, is superstitious, and has to be tricked into working.  Thanks to the diplomatic briefing, I now have a more objective vantage point.   Now I know that the drivers are crazy, the taxis are insane.  No one follows the traffic laws.  Also, there are demonstrations, terrorist plots, thefts at ATMS, and harassment of women waiting for me.

As Captain Louis Renault asks, “What in heaven’s name brought you to Casablanca?

Despite all of this, I am looking forward to visiting Morocco.  I have only one day in Casablanca and once we get through immigration, Sherrie and I are off.  It looks like we can walk to the medina and some of the main streets, to get a feel for the French Colonial architecture and the local crafts. 

Tomorrow I’m off to Fes, leading an SAS home-stay trip.  I had originally decided to travel with SAS because I thought Morocco played to the weakest of my travel skills, navigation.  My instincts are almost always wrong, and I’ve gotten turned around in every market I’ve been to on this trip.  My work buddy Chris had given me a hilarious but cautionary tale about getting lost in a souk, and I didn’t want to repeat it, especially not as a single woman.  So here I am, leading the group—I just hope I can stay out of trouble long enough to get the group back to home base.

Home base for one more week.  In just a week, we go through our last shipboard immigration, our last long lines to pick up our passport and get it stamped by bored people who would rather be enjoying the pastries our ship provides for them. 

Today’s wait was long enough that my computer finished downloading all the files I wanted from the public drive.  The lines stretched down a couple of flights of stairs, made longer by people who were sneaking in at the landings.  They listened in preport to the cultural information.  Moroccans don't wait in line, they push their way through.

Midway up the last flight, we saw our medical team in action.  "Code blue, code blue, code blue.  Deck 7"  The medical team came racing up the steps, along with several crew members.  Two for the stretcher, two with life preservers to use as pillows.  The passenger is okay, and left the scene in a wheelchair.  This is the team putting away the gear.  You can see two cooks (checked pants and hats), along with a maintenance guy (blue jumpsuit), several officers and members of the ship's medical crew.  Our SAS doc is already in the elevator with the patient.  (I have some decency.)

Faculty/staff are the first group to get off the ship after the Caribbean Sea, who won that honor as champs of the Sea Olympics.  With any luck, I should clear before lunch.  And that will give me a vantage point from which to take pictures of people struggling down the gangway with their carry-on luggage.

It's about time

Going around the world on a ship plays havoc with the notion of time.  Going in a westward direction, as we are, means you lose a whole day, but you pick it up an hour at a time.  In the mad dash across the Pacific, we had three 25-hour days in a row.  (I waste the extra hour, every time.  I stay up way too late every night.  When we gain an hour, I stay up way, way too late.)

One casualty is times for sunrise and sunset.  Generally, you can count on the days getting a bit longer each day from the winter solstice to the summer one, and shorter each day the other half of the year.  But when you are moving through time zones, sunrise and sunset catapult around.  On days when the clock is moved forward or back, the sunrise time shifts a whole hour from the expected.

Days, too, are hard to account for when you are dividing the time into “sea days” and “land days.”  Saturday and Sunday are just names, not leisure time.  I refer to the calendar many times each day to confirm the date. I cross the days off, not in anticipation, but so I can locate “today.” 

I have a chart in my office that tells me when we are going to change our clocks.  I added a column to tell me what time it is back at home base.  I’m not calling; I just like knowing.

We’re traveling around Western Africa at the moment, and we were scheduled to change our clocks tonight, and again in three days as we approach Casablanca.  But not, as you might think, going back an hour heading west and forward an hour as we head back east. We were scheduled to go forward tonight, and then back.  I think the time changes may be related to observances of Daylight Savings Time rather than geographic location.

Rather than disrupt our sleep patterns twice for a zero sum change, the staff captain appears to have elected to tick to our own clock.  It’s a sensible decision, but it makes me vaguely uncomfortable to be out of sync, even if it’s out of sync with an abstract and arbitrary concept.

Ghana sits very close to the Equator, and they do not observe Daylight Savings Time.  All year long, sunrise and sunset are at 6:30.  You could set your clock by it.

In Ghana, the sun is the only thing that runs on schedule.

Sea Zero: The big nothing

There is no yellow rope at the Equator, but you know when you’re there.

We’re back in the doldrums.  The sea is flat, there’s no wind.  The sea and air temperature are the same, which means the sea has warmed up 32 degrees in the last five days, going from 55 to 87.

We’re heading for absolute zero, 0-0 in latitude and 0-0 in longitude.  Wikipedia probably has a better name for it, but the internet is down.

Update:  I couldn't turn up a name for the intersection of the equator and the prime meridian.  Evidently an arbitrary line does not rate a name.  I did, however, turn up two non-royal passengers from Charlottesville who have never crossed the equator on a ship.  I am lobbying for a change of course, and I am claiming "Sea Zero" as mine.

There’s a closed circuit TV system on board and one of the channels shows the ship’s position.  I keep turning it on to check our progress.  At 0645 as I write this, we are 01 48.09 S and 000 54.37 E.  No word on whether Captain Jeremy is going to alter course to hit the big 0-0.  Last fall, the ship did cross precisely at that point, making the passengers “Emerald Shellbacks,” but it was their first crossing (fall was the Atlantic circuit starting from Halifax) and probably the other captain as well.  We’ve picked up a few passengers in Cape Town—no word on whether they’ve made a sea crossing, but I really don’t see anyone’s dunking the Saudi Prince in fake fish guts under any circumstances. 

Although we might like to.  Prince Fahad is one of dozens or maybe hundreds of Saudi princes; they are a billion a dozen.  (A student told me the other day, “He has $7 billion dollars worth of camels.”  I replied, “That IS a lot of cigarettes.”  Joke wafted right up over her head.)  He was brought on board as an Unreasonable at Sea mentor.  Let’s just say that the Unreasonable Institute has shown us over and over that their name is apt.  Just not for the reason they picked it.

We still have time.  The only people awake at this time (besides the crew) are the students trying to get in time at the gym before faculty hours start (at 0700) and the insomniacs.  Maybe we’ll hear from Captain Jeremy yet.

Talking about this in the office yesterday, my boss Jim (from Arizona) was reminded of the Four Corners, where you can put one foot or hand in each of the four states, AZ, NM, CO and UT.  I said, “Or, for some of us, sitting down would accomplish the same thing.”  I was reminded of the first time I crossed the Continental Divide, and Paul availed himself of the handy rest room.  I wondered idly how many men gave in to the urge to watch their pee divide itself between the Atlantic and the Pacific. 

We are at the end of Spirit Week, and it is “Wear the World” Day.  I am wearing a length of Indonesian batik fabric I bought in Burma as a skirt, with a t-shirt made in El Salvador over leggings made, to my surprise, in the USA.  The elastic holding up my skirt I got in India.  Pretty sure my Keens are from Viet Nam. Horn earrings from South Africa make it a three-hemisphere ensemble.

Meanwhile, Thelma and Louise is stuck on Channel 6 in the “Press Play” mode, unmodifiable until our AV guy shows up for the day.  Too bad; I like to watch the last scene, where my friend Chris goes over the cliff, goes over the cliff. 

Before reinventing herself as a savvy MBA and coming to work for UVA, Chris was a production assistant on lots of movies you would recognize.  Her stories keep me entertained on the rare day that my job doesn’t present me with adequate hilarity.  There are probably still a few people reading this blog who don’t know that Chris served as the body double for both Thelma and Louise for the scene where they drive off the cliff.

Speaking of outlaw heroes, we had an Explorer Seminar on pirates the other night.  (Back in pirate territory, evidently.)  In an attempt to get more than a dozen students to come to these seminars, the faculty dressed up, took pirate names, and assigned one person the role of chasing, capturing, and carrying off one of our staff members.  (Interestingly, this versatile young woman had, at 1830 won the "Twins Day" contest by dressing quite convincingly as our IT Coordinator Dan, complete with two-day beard.  At 2000 she was all girl, being carried off by a pirate.  "And other duties as assigned," all in the job description!)

The faculty deconstructed the pirate anti-hero and told us about some famous pirates and privateers. Urbane Sir Walter Raleigh wound up in prison for getting married without the Queen's permission, regained favor, but eventually had his head cut off.  It was the custom of pirate widows to embalm their dead husband's head and keep it as protection.  We even had a discourse on art painted by pirates.  This is a faculty that knows how to research arcane topics.

Then it was time for Captain Jeremy to talk about pirates in the modern day.  He does not find them romantic, cute, or funny. He observed, with his dry Britwit, that one could no longer dispatch pirates in the most expeditious manner, by killing them, as there are now pesky laws protecting their civil rights.  Neither can one bring them back to Britain for trial, lest that they seek asylum in a country that does not have the death penalty—and then where would we all be?  When caught, they are usually deposited in the Seychelles.  The US, he said, has the naval power to do something, but so few cargo ships fly under the US flag there is no incentive to address the problem.  So we are standing by with our extra watch, our crew members posted with high pressure water hoses, and our reports from British intelligence.

If you squint, I think you can see Sea Zero just off the bow, port side.  Unless it’s a pirate ship.

Easter surprise

We just spent six days in Cape Town, so it’s not clear to me why the ship did not have time to gas up, but I guess the gas station is not a particularly good place to have passengers embarking and disembarking, so we have spent all of today bunkered.  We sailed from one side of the docking area to the other and my view changed from water to gas tank.  Every once in a while, the staff captain comes on and reminds us that we are not allowed to smoke while the ship is bunkered.  (So polite:  Why not just say, “Stop trying to blow up the ship”?)

The worst part of this unannounced delay is that, after a week of high winds and clouds covering Table Mountain, today is a day when you could actually go to the summit.  If you could get off the ship, which you can’t.  Anyway, it should make for smoother sailing when we actually do leave. 

Today is also Easter, which I celebrated by wearing a skirt.  And earrings.  It turns out that holidays don’t really register unless advertisements make you aware of them.  It’s hard enough to keep track of days of the week when your only distinction between days is whether you’re moving through the water (sea days, when we work) or not (port days, when we don’t).  Valentine’s Day slipped by virtually unnoticed, since we were in Viet Nam celebrating Tet at the time.  On St. Patrick’s Day, the Lifelong Learner Coordinator, Deb, handed out Mardi Gras necklaces, I supposed because she forgot she had packed them.

A lot of us are reassessing what we packed and what we purchased, and trying to figure out how to get all of it home.  Several people mailed packages from Cape Town.  My plan is to stuff my coat of many pockets full of everything that won’t fit in my luggage. Some insane person actually brought a Le Creuset dutch oven and cookbook as an auction donation.  That's half the allowable weight of a suitcase!

The Field Office coordinator, Karen, a person of incredible energy and dedication, has been sorting through cabinets and drawers, organizing materials that are useful, and getting rid of things that aren’t.  Today, she found…teeth.

Yes, teeth.  This is m y voyage for teeth.  Not one, but two sets of dental models from an orthodontist in Charlottesville.  (Perhaps this is because I didn’t pick up any of the dental casts in Yangon?)

Best answer to “What were they thinking?” gets a more traditional, and quite lovely souvenir from my trip.  Your ideas in the comments.

Beware the Ides of March

Today was Neptune Day, a day of pure silliness.  Dating back hundreds of years, it’s an initiation ritual for sailors crossing the equator for the first time.  Charles Darwin wrote about it on his voyage on the Beagle.  The Wikipedia article on it has a shout-out to Semester at Sea.

It is one of those loosely kept secrets.  We were warned we’d get dirty, we were invited to donate hair to make wigs for people with cancer, we were assured participation was voluntary.  We were advised to get sleep, because the festivities would start early. 

Faculty and staff members who have already crossed the equator by ship played the roles of Queen Minerva (Judy McLeod of Charlottesville, in a headdress of her own device) and members of the royal court.  King Neptune was played by Captain Jeremy, in a get up so bizarre it was only his English accent that revealed him to us.

It was pretty much impossible to get pictures.  Put 700 people on the pool deck and you can’t see the pool.  I got there early enough to get a stool at the bar, which was in the shade, but behind the royal proceedings.

The morning actually started with members of the crew providing a wake-up call, deck by deck.  They paraded through the corridors beating on snare drums and blowing whistles, dressed vaguely like Romans.  Hours later, the troops were assembled on the pool deck, waiting. 

Arch came.  He’s our rock star.  Everywhere he goes, he attracts a circle of attention.  When he started dancing, the cameras came out.  It did pull some focus from the Royal Court, who arrived to find attention was directed elsewhere.  No matter, they quickly took over.

To be inducted into the honorable order of Shellbacks, you have to prove your worthiness.  Basically, this is just hazing, but our version of it is good natured and tame.  The crew pours gunk on you (it looks like the fruit punch they serve for lunch), you jump into our tiny swimming pool, you kiss a fish (a real one, dead) and kiss King Neptune’s ring.  If you are willing, the Royal Barber shaves some portion of your head.

Jim was one of the barbers.  He estimated that 100 people had their heads shaved.  Arch was the first. 

Jim was at it for hours.  That part was not a secret, but there was no way to see the proceedings.  He reported later that he could barely breathe.  Students crowded in to see (and chant) from every direction.  It was brutally hot.

Finally, the barbers turned over their razors to the students.  There are now many boys and a few girls with shaved heads.  Or Mohawks, or other fanciful partially shaved heads. 

The water of our pool turned from crystal clear to brown.  The deck flooded from all the splashing, and clumps of hair sloshed from side to side with the deck’s motion.  The students started painting on each other with chalk and body paint they got in India.  I went down to my air conditioned office for some peace and quiet.  I knew Neptune Day was over when I heard the announcement that everyone needed to vacate Deck 7, leaving the crew to clean up after us once again. 

Oh, Captain, my captain

Tonight was a Q&A with Captain Jeremy Kingston, and there were no holds barred.  The questions ranged from how much fuel the boat uses to what kind of car he drives on land.  Captain Jeremy came with three of his officers, Staff Captain Korney (the second in command), Hotel Manager Stefan (who handles all the food service and housekeeping staff), and Chief Engineer.  It was an interesting evening.

Our ship is really fast.  The promotional materials say it’s the fastest ship of its class, a statement that doesn’t really say much.  (My father used to quote a district manager who boasted the company was “the largest one of its size in the industry.”  Not all records need to be claimed.)  The captain said apart from its sister ship, the Voyager, the only cruise ship he knows of the goes faster is the QEII.  He’s had the ship over 30 knots, but says the top speed is really closer to 28.  We have four engines, and today we’re running on one, at about 14 knots.

We measure the fuel in tons.  We measure the cost in millions.  For this voyage, fuel costs are $3.5 million.  For the whole year, food costs are $1.8 million.  Fuel for the ship costs about 6 times what fuel for the passengers costs.

Captain Jeremy came on board in 2005, immediately after the ship reached Hawaii following the major storm in the Pacific.  He said it limped in using the navigation system from one of the lifeboats, steering using a direct connection to the rudder.  (It also had windows blown out on the bridge and in some of the cabins.  It was really limping.) 

The ship management company decided the captain needed to be relieved of duty, and brought in Jeremy, who was just finishing a tour with another ship.  He is one semester on, one semester off, working about 6 months of the year.  Others on the ship work closer to 10 months before getting vacation. 

He was asked what’s the worst weather he’s been in, and he said a storm in the Atlantic, on a different ship.  And that second was the storm we went through in the days just before Japan.  Even though he thought his personal gear was secured, one big lurch to starboard sent all of his drawers and doors flying.  In this, the captain is no different from anyone else on board:  the ocean doesn’t play favorites.

The most interesting questions were about pirates.  A few days ago, my boss Jim’s wife, Nancy, mentioned that it seemed as if we were going faster at night, and Jim confirmed that we were.  He said it was a safety precaution, to outrun any pirates who might be operating in the area.  Tonight, Captain Jeremy was asked what was the fastest we’d traveled, and he said about 25 knots, just after leaving Singapore.  What he didn’t say directly was that it was during the passage through the Strait of Malacca, another pirate haven.

He did say, with evident relief, that we had passed out of the area considered at risk for pirates about an hour earlier.  The pirates operating in the Gulf of Aden have been going further and further afield, presumably because of the presence of military ships deployed to their earlier zone of operations.  Now, the area of highest activity extends east to Sri Lanka and south to 10 degrees below the equator. 

It’s a calculated risk.  The captain told us they had been receiving intelligence reports from the UK and the British Navy has been monitoring our ship.  (I have no idea what they would do to help.  They are not exactly nearby.)  Most interesting, he said that the Navy’s evaluation of our ship is that it cannot be boarded if we are moving at more than 16 knots, due to the design of the hull and the pattern of the wake we generate.

And finally, a low tech defense system:  the crew is prepared to deploy high pressure fire hoses to flood any ship that tries to interfere with our passage. 

Back in Japan, when passengers were fretting about rough seas, I put my faith in the captain and the crew.  What other alternative did I have?  My anxiety would not have helped to steer the ship through the storm.  My reasons for wanting to live were no stronger than anyone else’s.  Those charged with our safe passage were doing the best they could.

As similar fears have been raised about piracy, I’ve taken the same approach.  Still, it’s a relief to know that we’re out of the danger zone.  Because this guy does not look like great protection.

Quiet reflection

There are not a lot of quiet moments on a ship with 630 undergraduate students, and there are not a lot of times when the community comes together.  Our largest room only holds half of us, so mandatory events like Logistical Preport are televised and people see them in the classrooms or in the cabins.  Last night, we came together in silence to say goodbye to a faculty member who died in Shanghai.

Like everything on board, the memorial service brought special challenges and was changed by the unique community in which we are living.  He died three weeks ago, and the ship sailed the next day, leaving his widow and one of our staff members behind to deal with the logistics of death in a foreign country.  Our psychologist rejoined us in Hong Kong as the wife (also a faculty member), flew home to the US for some time with her family.  With her brother, she rejoined us in Singapore, and we all came together to say goodbye to our colleague last night.

One of our local tour guides found us 800 perfect roses to cast upon the waters.  Two children of another faculty member provided piano and sax music and a student arranged some haunting melodies to play on her violin.  The Archbishop officiated in flowing white robes. 

(It's amazing what people bring with them.  But I guess if you're the Archbishop, you don't leave home without clerical robes.)

Wherever Arch goes, there is magic, and some of us are happy to listen to him order lunch, just to experience his presence.  There was absolute silence in the Union as we wait to hear what would he say on this occasion.  He is not an orator--he talks as if he is having a conversation--so we had to strain to hear.

"The minister was in the bedroom with his wife," Arch started, "and the wife said [falsetto voice], 'I can't sleep tonight, my dear.  Would you please tell me one of your sermons?'"

Should we be laughing at a memorial service?  Well, it's clearly a joke, right?  Is it ruder to laugh at a memorial service or to not laugh at a little joke?

It was classic Arch to knock us off balance a little.  It's a little hard to pull of self-deprecating when you're a Nobel Prize winner, but it's his way of saying, under these fabulous white bishop's vestments, I may or may not have pants I pull on one leg at a time.  This is not about me, folks, it's about us.

He went on to talk about how the ship becomes your home, and the people your family.  He talked about how shipboard life forces us to slow down and pay attention.  He talked about how we take care of each other, how we'd learned to take care of each other.

It was a good message for a group of young people who have little experience with death. My day to that point had been so hectic I needed the reminder—as well as the forced time to slow down and pay attention.  There was nothing groundbreaking about this.  It's probably Memorial Service 101.  Still, I love to see Arch in action.

I saw people putting their arms around each other and people clearly wrestling with grief.  A memorial service is a chance to take a breath and consider the losses in your own life, beyond the person being remembered.  I talked with several people who were revisiting their losses, on into the next day.

At the end of the service, we filed silently from fore to aft, then down to Deck 4, a deck that's off limits under normal circumstances.  The ship started a long, slow figure eight, a symbol for time stretching on infinitely.  Because we could see nothing but sea, the only evidence was the wake, a graceful arc from the stern, fading out of sight.

One by one, we threw roses into the ocean, which swallowed them up immediately.  The widow and her brother stood, greeting each of us and graciously receiving our inadequate condolences.

Our procession down the stairs was marred by a shout from the dining room.  Someone called for a doctor who is a passenger on board.  He ran up the stairs, followed by his wife, who is a nurse.  She looked stricken.  They had been on the scene when our colleague died, and were also longtime friends of his from Charlottesville.  Both had tried to resuscitate him in Shanghai, performing CPR until the ambulance arrived.  It seemed especially cruel to call on him again. 

My mind went immediately to the direst scenario.  Could this be happening again?  How could this be happening again?  The staff captain called a "Code Blue" medical emergency over the intercom.

As it turned out, it was not a life-threatening emergency.  A student had fallen and hit his head, probably fainting from dehydration.  There were three doctors in the dining room at the time.  (There is currently a delegation on board of residents and med students from Charlottesville, along with two board-certified docs, in addition to the two full time docs on the ship, so it's not unusual to have a doctor nearby.)

The community gathered on Decks 5 and 6

I ate dinner with the new widow on her first day back on ship.  Her husband had no history of heart disease, and he appeared fine right up until he wasn't.  He is in some of my pictures from that morning in Shanghai, just part of the crowd around the temple we were visiting.  Then suddenly gone. I was following him as he boarded the bus and collapsed that day, and now I was returning some things left behind in their hurried exit from the bus.

It's hard for me to accept that reality; I don't know how my friend is making it through the day.  She said to me she knows what she's doing.  Being on the ship keeps her from being at home.  I guess it's a more manageable hole in her life, to not-see her husband where he was for only a few short weeks instead of missing all the small things of their lives together.  She said the experience has given her some insight into caring for others, as she has seen how she has been cared for.

I've been struggling with this death since Shanghai.  It was a private moment on a crowded street in Shanghai, not my story, but important to me.  Thoughts of death triggering thoughts about life.  Thoughts about privacy and responsibility. 

I have now visited (we were told at preport) more countries than 95% of the people on earth will ever see.  In most of them, I have taken pictures and told stories, treating other people's faces and stories as if they were my own.  Watching death on a Shanghai street brought the participant and the observer together in a new way.  When the dying man is a friend, the details become intimate, and the responsibility becomes great.

In my "back home" life, I am privileged to have extraordinary people in my life.  I said to one of them, "I don't want to make this about me.  It shouldn't be about me," and I got the gentle response, "It's always about you."  Gentle, not to point out self-centeredness (which I have in abundance), but to say, "If you didn't make that connection to you, there would be nothing there." 

I hope those reading this will be equally generous in judging my telling of my connection to this story.  

Safety is no accident

Man overboard, port side!

It gets your attention, doesn’t it?

Having enjoyed the loop-de-loop of yesterday, we were treated to another one today, as the crew sprang into action for a drill which includes running, life jackets, blankets, medical kits, and lowering of the smallest life boat.  All very exciting.

The staff captain announced over the intercom, “For exercise only, for exercise only. Man overboard, port side. Report to stations, Team B.”  Suddenly people were everywhere, rushing to the port side on Decks 5 and 6.

Passengers, too.  Who could resist?  What a day to have left the camera in my room!  My desk is Deck 5, midships, port side, so I saw them rush by the door and then by the window.  We are, of course, not permitted to go out where the action is, but I got a report from a student who watched the drill from the dining room.

A dummy was thrown overboard, and a life preserver thrown after it.  But the dummy did not catch the life preserver, and so the launch was lowered to go help, loaded with medical supplies and blankets.  In the meantime, my source tells me, dolphins arrived on the scene to surround the fake guy.  Dolphins are very smart, and I’m sure they can tell the difference between a real drowning person and a dummy, but maybe they wanted to get in on the fun, too.

The ship made a tight turn (the tightest turn it can, anyway) and we felt it heeling as it went back to pick up the imaginary passenger.  Looking out the window, we could see a great arc of wake.

The ship has fairly frequent drills, most often a call to stations for evacuating passengers, (which is hard to simulate as we’re strolling around the decks).  It’s interesting to me to see how everyone has a part to play.  Today I saw line officers, cooks, and housekeepers, as well as people in white jumpsuits, blue jumpsuits, and khaki (uniforms whose inhabitants’ roles I cannot pinpoint).  Disaster can move more quickly than men in white jumpsuits, so practice is important. 

A new friend, Leah, who has sailed on several voyages, told me she wanted no part of the drill today.  She saw a man overboard rescue in 1999 on the Red Sea, and that was quite enough for her.  Late one night, a student decided he would like to “touch the sea,” and lowered himself over the rail with a life preserver.  The life preserver was swept away when he hit the water and it took a few hours to rescue him.  By that time I suppose he had sobered up.

I was surprised not to find more documentation of this online.  Here’s an amazingly offhand account from the Executive Dean of that voyage, and a third hand report from someone who sailed on a subsequent voyage (almost to the bottom of the page.

The 1999 voyage was a different ship and a different sponsoring university.  Not that we don’t have our share of drunk students making poor choices, but I thought the disclaimer was only fair.  I am confident that the crew then was just as concerned with getting everyone back safely as we are.

Tomorrow is Burma.  Venomous snakes, parasitic worms, and a river so shallow they are dredging it for our arrival.  But so worth it. 

Rock and Roll is here to stay

Remember how much fun it was to ride roller coasters and how you said you never wanted to stop?  (Yeah, me neither.)  And how you wanted your dad to go really fast so the speedboat left the water momentarily and went slapping down hard on the surface? (Hated that, too.) 

Or the absolute thrills of the prop plane ride from Charlottesville to Dulles where the plane creaks and shudders and you’re pretty sure it won’t fall apart because, actually, what choice do you have?  Meanwhile, the plane goes one way and your stomach goes the other.

Yes, it is remarkable how much sailing feels like that plane ride today.  Only there are no “fasten seat belts” signs and we are going about our business as usual.  We went through a rough patch last night and I got out the seasickness pills just in case.  So far, so good—I’m one of the lucky ones.

Lots of people sporting The Patch as a fashion accessory this morning and the occasional shriek as we take a nose dive or there’s a particularly loud CRAAAACK.   The sea doesn’t look rough—it’s a beautiful sunny day and the swells don’t look bad—but we are moving unpredictably through all three dimensions.

There was a karaoke night in the faculty lounge a few days ago.  Perhaps next we should try mechanical bull riding?  That is, if anyone is venturing up to Deck 7.  The higher you go in the ship, the more pronounced the changes are.   We have nightly seminars in the Union (on Deck 6) and it’s a distinct challenge for the faculty members who teach them.  And I’ve been told running on the treadmills (also Deck 6) is an art form unto itself. 

By all reports, worse weather is on the way.  Should be entertaining!