For some mysterious reason I can't begin to understand, I was given the 'Star of the Week' award on the ship this week. I thought this was a reward for crew who, in the course of their work, go beyond the call of duty. But obviously this couldn't be it, or I wouldn't have gotten it.

I have no idea what the criteria could be such that I would be considered for this honour, let alone receive it.

The musical director, bless his heart, recommended me, but I had to be approved for it at a senior staff meeting. I guess I have some friends in high places.

The prize is a guest cabin for one week, and (limited) guest privileges on the ship. I can eat in guest areas, and walk around the ship in my civilian clothes, just like a real cone!

I'll tell you, this got rid of my end-of-contract anxiety pretty darned quick. I'm not nearly as anxious to leave as I was a week ago when I didn't have a cabin to myself, or dining privileges in the guest restaurants. It's almost like getting a free cruise.

The conspiracy theorist in me says that this is just a diabolical plan they have to get me to come back to work on the ship. They must have sensed I was nearing the edge, maybe beginning to consider not returning. I'll be leaving with a much better feeling about coming back now.

I'm going to miss the people here.

I first learned something was up when Kamal passed on a message from the musical director, Neil, saying only, “He say to tell you you're a star.”

“I'm a star? What do you mean?”

“Thas' all he say. 'Tell heem he's a star.' Oh, and you should call heem.”

My first thought was that the British safety officer had caught me on videotape doing something I shouldn't be doing. Phiw (if you recall his name) has been known to trap unsuspecting crew by setting up a rather obvious situation (maybe a small, stinky chemical spill, or perhaps some smoke coming out of a trash can or something) and then videotaping victims as they walk by the trap without doing anything about it. Or maybe they stop, look at it for a few seconds, then continue on without doing anything. Sort of like Candid Camera.

Phiw sometimes shows these tapes at our monthly safety meetings to embarrass the guilty parties. I was hoping that wasn't what 'you're a star' meant.

I called Neil to find out what it meant to be a star.

“Well, you're 'Star of the Week'”, he said, as if I should know already.

“Oh no! What did I do?” I said, still thinking I was caught on tape somewhere.

“No, you don't get it. It's a good thing! It's an award. You get a guest cabin for a week and guest privileges on the ship. You should feel honoured. Musicians never get to be 'Star of the Week'.”

“Well, why me? What did I do to get this?” I asked, sincerely puzzled.

“Well, each supervisor is asked to submit a name, and I submitted yours. Then, at a senior staff meeting, we voted on the candidates. You won this week.”

“But what did I do?”

Maybe this is silly, but this award, or whatever it is, embarrasses me. I mean, it's hard enough already trying to figure out ways to hide or at least disguise the fact that I hardly do any work around here. Now I've got this little star on my ID tag that identifies me as a Star of the Week with even more special privileges than I normally have. And I have plenty of free time to enjoy them, too!

In the crew elevator on the way up to my new stateroom (#9379) a hard-working, and no doubt more deserving, crew member noticed the star on my ID and congratulated me on the award. She smiled, and didn't seem jealous about it at all.

Then at the guest drill, David, my muster station leader (and the sports staff supervisor) congratulated me and asked if my new stateroom met with my approval. Had he been one of the staff who voted for me?

Even though I don't understand why I got this thing, I accepted it. It would only be an insult not to! But I do feel awkward about it. There are people, many of whom I know, who are much more deserving of special treatment than I. In fact, I don't deserve it at all!

***

I guess I'll probably do a few more contracts on ships before I'm so far over the hill that I'm out of range. For some reason I get on well in this environment. I feel strangely welcome and at home on the ship sometimes.

As if I've been 'here' before.


My ID badge with green 'Star of the Week' star

“What is a ship but a prison?” Robert Burton (1577-1640): Anatomy of Melancholy Part II

One week to go, and time expands to fill every nook and crevice of each day, each hour, each second, remaining in my contract. Xeno's arrow notwithstanding I know I'll somehow arrive at April 10th (barring unforeseen circumstances of course).

Judy Kolba, the current headliner appearing on the ship, ends her show with a little monologue on time. It starts something like this:

“Imagine that each day you are given 86,400 dollars to do with whatever you like. The only thing is, you cannot save any of the 86,400 dollars you got yesterday to spend today, and you cannot put aside any from today to use tomorrow. You have to spend it all today.”

The audience murmurs as it considers this pleasant fantasy.

“Consider this. Each day we are given 86,400 seconds to do with what we like. We cannot use any from yesterday, and we cannot save any for tomorrow. We have to use it all today.”

She goes on a bit, giving some examples of the value of time, noting how fast it passes in the long run, and ending by thanking everyone for sharing their valuable time with her. It's inspirational, you know.

Well, that's all fine and dandy, but I've got these 86,400 seconds to spend each day, and little, it seems, to spend it on! And what with the inflated value of seconds as I near the end of my contract, they become even more difficult to spend. But spend (or fritter) them I do. On what, I don't know exactly.

I find myself looking forward to such things as boat drill, simply because it will use up some of this excess time. Well, you see, I get up relatively early, around 7:30 a.m., and often don't work until, say, 9:00 at night. That gives me quite a bit of “free” time. I mean, I could have a whole other career going just in the time off I have.

I could be a logistics expert, for example.

In one of my early blog entries I wrote how there is no excuse for being bored on a ship like this. It's such a microcosm, so many interesting people, so many stories to hear about. Now the ship seems more like, “...a bad play surrounded by water.” (Clive James in Unreliable Memoirs Chapter 17).

I think end-of-contract anxiety mimics boredom, or at least produces some of the same symptoms, of which time-stretching is one, and the related feeling of being in a prison is another (I sometimes find myself pacing around as if I'm locked in a cell with nowhere to go).

I'm less inclined to line up another contract now than I was a while back. At this point I'm thinking about what I can do on land to avoid having to return to the ships. And this after describing the joys of shipboard employment in so many of my blog entries!

I think this is temporary, though. After a few months back on dry land I'm pretty sure returning to the ships will become once again an attractive proposition. I'm homesick now; maybe I'll get seasick again after a while back on land.


A shirt I picked up that reflects a common sentiment among crew

Ten days only.

Ten days and I'm outta here! It's funny how your attitude changes near the end of the contract, when sign-off is in sight. I can hardly wait to get off this tub!

Starting yesterday I'm visiting each port for the last time. In Labadee I saw no reason to get off the ship, so I stayed aboard. Today, in Ocho Rios, I left the ship for awhile, but nothing appealed to me, and as it was quite noisy and unpleasant, as usual, I returned to the ship before noon and remained aboard for the rest of the day.

Tomorrow we're in Grand Cayman again, and going ashore doesn't interest me much there, either. I'm looking forward to Cozumel on Friday, though. Now that's a port I never get tired of. And I enjoy both St Thomas and St Maarten, too, which I'll be visiting for the last time next week.

Suddenly I realize that the way I'm talking, you'd think I never work – that it's all vacation and empty hours. And you'd almost be right! But not quite. Sometimes, like this coming Friday morning, we have to work while we're in port. We have to rehearse the guest star's show that we are to play Friday night.

But we've played the show several times now (she's been here before) and the rehearsal shouldn't last more than an hour or so. We're trying to schedule it for first thing in the morning so as not to interfere too much with our shore time. (We have to be finished by12:00 noon at the latest, due to a football match between our boys and the Carnival team at a soccer field in Cozumel.)

And of course, sometimes we work at night, often as much as two hours (but not consecutively). People tend to forget that.

We musicians try to keep out of sight as much as possible when we're not working so as not to make other crew and officers envious or resentful. But this afternoon I was up on deck 5 forward, usually a safe area, listening to my shortwave radio in a lounge chair when a couple of senior officers suddenly materialized. I wasn't expecting to see any officers up there, but I opened my eyes, and there they were!

One of them looked over at me, plainly disgusted, and snorted in his British accent, “Well, look at you! This is the life, eh?!”.

The other one said, “Leave 'em be. He's a,” he made a pair of finger quotes, “musician.”

I removed my headphones and sputtered out something about how time off wasn't all it's cracked up to be, what with the potential for sunburn and boredom and so on. It didn't wash, though. I wished I'd had a chance to hide from them.

But soon I'll be off the ship, and I won't have to hide any more!

***

So what do I have to report? Well, I just heard at dinner that one of the dancers, Amber, was caught “kissing a guest in the Jacuzzi” and fired. She was put ashore today in Ocho Rios. So it's not just musicians, and not just males, that get fired for consorting with guests. Too bad. Spring is in the air; couldn't they just ease up a tad at this time of year?

I also feel a little guilty for the way I talked about Kamal here on the blog the other day. After I wrote my piece, and posted it, Kamal surprised me with an Easter present – a framed picture of him and me that he printed with his new printer. The card said, “Gracias Ricardo – Happy Easter”. I think he was thanking me for fixing his printer (which, I confess, I did, against my better judgment).

Kamal, poor thing, looks up to me. I think I'm older than his father. I look older (I've seen a picture of his father). Well, I'm glad he seems to respect his elders.

He often joins me back on deck 5 aft for tea at sunset. We talk. It's nice, I guess. I'm sorry I said those things about those habits of his that drive me absolutely crazy.


Omar's Easter picture to Ricardo

It was a day off today, and with the way I've been feeling lately, the end-of-contract anxiety, I decided (on the spur of the moment) to splurge a little and rent a car. I haven't spent much money during the last 6 months, and we rarely have a day off in Sint Maarten. A car would get me away from the ship, the cones, the shopping, the noise. Only $45. It could be a nice, and theraputic, change.

And it was.

I had picked up a booklet, “Island Walks: A Walking Guide for St Maarten”, months ago but had only had a chance to try one of the hikes – one that starts within walking distance of the ship. With a car I could drive to a trailhead anywhere on the island (it's a small island, only about 65 sq. km.).

Where to go? For some reason I chose a trail in an area for which the book supplied some explicit warnings.

Around and from the area of Pic Paradis several interesting and often strenuous hikes can be undertaken. The trails are supposed to be open and marked, but especially in Pic Paradis, where rains and wind have a strong effect on the condition of the trails, hikers should be aware that circumstances can be unpredictable. It is also one of the most secluded areas of the island, so it might be a good idea to contact the French tourist office in Marigot, next to the museum. They can provide you with the number of an experienced, well equipped and knowledgeable hiking guide.

The author had also mentioned, earlier in the introduction, that it was probably a good idea to not hike alone, due to the rising crime rate (which, she hastend to add, was happening everywhere, not just in St. Maarten). Oh. And watch out for stray dogs that you may encounter.

On the positive side, there are no poisonous snakes or dangerous animals (other than dogs) on St Maarten. I think there must be some spiders, or something, but as far as the author is concerned only dogs and wasps are of any nuisance.

It felt great to be driving around on dry land. Alone. Eva used to love getting away on her own in her car, and I can understand it.

St Maarten is rugged, you might say mountainous, except the hills aren't quite high enough to qualify as full-fledged mountains. As I drove out into the countryside I passed through villages where herds of goats occasionally shared the highway with the cars and trucks. Roosters crowed. It felt good.

In addition to being rugged, St Maarten is also dry, especially when you compare it to islands in the western Caribbean, like Jamaica and Haiti. Here several varieties of cacti (some in flower!) cover the rocky, desert-like hillsides. No dripping jungles on this Caribbean island.

I took the turn to head up to Pic Paradis and soon found myself on a dirt road passing through a dry but grassy valley. There were some great views on the way up. The road ended at a communications tower where the trail begins. I parked the car at the side of the road and got out. I was alone.

I started along the trail and noted that the air was quite different up in the hills. It felt drier than at sea level. It smelled different than the sea air I was used to - the smell of the grass made me think of summertine in rural Ontario.

Before long I came to an area where the grass had been recently burned. The rocks on the ground were still warm from the fire, and a faint smell of smoke hung in the air. There was no sign of an active fire, though, so I continued on.

The grass was tall – about as tall as me – and it frequently overgrew the trail. But I wasn't worried about getting lost. I know, the book said Pic Paradis was 'secluded', but they don't know what secluded is in St Maarten, apparently. Every so often, when the trail presented a view, you could see civilization below. The views of the sea and surrounding islands were spectacular. I wasn't worried.

But then I fell. I sometimes forget that what for a normal person would be a minor injury could be for me (whose blood doesn't easily clot) a serious threat to my longevity.

My fall probably looked worse than it turned out to be (had anybody been around to see it). I initially tripped over a rock and went down on one knee, but realized immediately that the slope was steeper than I thought. Unable to stop the fall with my hands, I tucked my head under and rolled on my shoulder, finally coming to rest in the grass looking up into the sky. I was shakey, rather uncertain of my continuity, and sort of afraid to look. I'm too old for for this!

But my fall was just a warning. No broken bones, and no major bleeding. My artificial heart valve, although operating at high speed, seemed otherwise unperturbed. As my old dad used to say in his 'funny' voice, “I faw down and hurt my knee.” That was the fortunate extent of my injuries.

Lucky again. I was about a half-hour hike away from the car, but I walked slowly and carefully, favouring my bruised and scraped but not profusely bleeding knee, and made it back without further incident. The experience served to keep me from getting too cocky. I won't hike alone next time.

After stopping at a drugstore for bandages and antiseptic, I continued my drive around the island. I passed several beaches and turned in at Oriente Beach, a clothing-optional beach on the Atlantic (French) side I had heard about. Oriente Beach was different, wilder, wavier and windier than the more protected beaches on the Caribbean side. Some people, but not most, were nude or topless. Open-air bars and restaurants lined the beach. It looked like a fun place, but I didn't stay this time.

On my way back to Philipsburg I turned off at Guana Bay. I had heard the name somewhere so I was curious. It appeared to be a housing development in progress. Lots of building going on. There was a nice beach down on the bay, and it was totally empty. Not a soul there. I walked alone along the beach for awhile then headed back.

As I was leaving Guana Bay I noticed a sign pointing down another road to the beach: “The Boardroom Jazz Club Bar and Restaurant”. I had to see what that was about so I followed the direction indicated by the sign. Indeed, I came to a club on the beach, but the parking lot was empty. It was only 2:00 p.m., the club was closed. How odd, I thought. I wonder who plays there? The owner, maybe? They're not going to get a lot of walk-in business there.

One final thing I wanted to see before returning the car was the “Seaman's Club”, an old-fashioned bordello one of the Polish musicians recommended. I didn't want to visit the place though, just see what it looked like. There's a road that goes down to the cargo pier, and that's where this place is supposed to be, so I took it.

I passed warehouses, and containers stacked high at the side of the road, and I was thinking it seemed an unlikely area for a commercial establishment like a bordello. But I was wrong. Soon I came to a gaily painted building, green and purple - it looked like it belonged in a circus or carnival - which I knew had to be the place. And it was. I should have taken a picture, but I drove past slowly, without stopping, because some dockside toughs were eyeing me suspiciously (and malevolently) and I figured I'd already had my share of luck for today.

Even with my sore knee I'm glad I took the day off to get away on my own. I feel refreshed, happier, and readier to stick out the two weeks (and a bit) left on my contract. And I finally got to see a lot of St Maarten/Martin that I hadn't seen before.

One lesson learned: rent a car and drive around near the beginning of the contract. Don't save it for the end.


Sign pointing to jazz club in Guana Bay, St Maarten

I've heard that funny things can happen near the end of your contract. Some people just seem to lose it during the last few weeks, and many of them get fired with only a couple of weeks left to go.

I can understand this. I'm starting to get unreasonably impatient waiting for my contract to end. For six months I was fine, but something has snapped. Two weeks seems like an eternity to wait. If I were still a drinker I'd be drinking now for sure.

For one thing, my cabinmate's personal quirks and habits are driving me crazy. I was OK until the last couple of weeks. Some of his habits bothered me, but not much. Now I can't take it anymore.

He has a really annoying habit of chuckling to himself for no apparent reason. At first I took it personally. Kamal would chuckle and I would ask, “What's so funny?”.

“Oh, nothing.”

I suspected he was laughing at me or he would have told me. What is his secret little joke? But I soon realized that this is no more than an involuntary impulse of his. He does it even in his sleep (which also drives me nuts!). Not only does he chuckle in his sleep, but he makes strange little animal-like noises – 'eep', 'urp', 'fuzzle' – in his throat and/or through his nose.

On the job Kamal is a poorly-contained bundle of Pure Energy. Every part of his body jerks or pulses while he's playing, from his feet to his head. In one part of the show, when the tempo gets bright and energetic, he throws his head back and forth so violently that I'm concerned for his long-term physical well-being. That can't be good for you!

He also sings along with the tunes when he doesn't have to play. Why, oh why does he do that? Between the singing and the jerky movements it's all I can do, sitting next to him, to maintain my concentration, to say nothing of my sanity.

And he buys things without any thought, which also drives me crazy. Don't ask me why. The first thing was a watch. A big, heavy watch, it must weigh a couple of pounds, with a wristband far too big for his wrist.

“Hey! How you like my new watch?”, he asks as he proudly displays it drooping off his wrist. “It was only $17, on sale. Tha's a good price, si?”.

Maybe he doesn't understand American dollars yet.

Then he bought a laptop, having made his choice based entirely on price. But the printer. He spent $300 on a Canon inkjet printer without knowing anything about it. It wasn't until he unpacked it that he realized it could print in colour, or that it had wireless features, or that it could run on a rechargeable battery. He bought it only because it was small and cute.

“I'm so excited abou' my printer, man!” he said as he tore open the packaging. When he got it all unpacked he sang, “I've got a printer! I've got a printer! Na na na na na.” shaking his head back and forth, hair flying.

What is this, a nuthouse?

He was so excited about his printer that he didn't bother to look at the “Getting Started” guide before using it and immediately broke the ink cartridge. I was not at all surprised, or sorry for him.

You see? I'm loosing it. This shouldn't matter to me. But it does, and I just want to get home.

Plus, I've had some disturbing news lately. Things I don't even want to know about.

One guy I see regularly back on deck 5 aft was really upset the other day. A good friend of his, someone working on another ship, had disappeared. One of those cruise ship disappearances I told you about early on. The last anyone saw of him was in the disco the night before he didn't show up for his morning shift. Gone. Vanished. Best guess is he got in a fight and was thrown overboard. Could be he got drunk and fell overboard, though.

Then I got an e-mail from my drummer/bandleader friend, Perry, saying that a pianist friend of his (whom I have worked with) died in his sleep. Joe had been “feeling tired and a little ill” for a while and was scheduled to go to McMaster for tests next week. He was 49 years old.

Finally, I got a return e-mail from a good friend whom I had written saying that her mother had suffered a stroke, and also that she's having bad trouble with one of her daughters. This on top of all kinds of other pressures she's been under.

Maybe it's the time of year. And maybe I should be happy to be out here in this paradise which is really limbo. But now that the end is near (so to speak) I just want to get home.

Captains spell each other off on these ships. Our ship alternates between Captain Johnny (the comedian captain) and Captain Thor (the rock star captain). Captain Thor is currently the master of the ship, and today he held the first rehearsal with his new rock band.

I'm not in his new band, but Kamal, our guitarist, and Crusher, our drummer, were both 'asked' to be in it. When you're asked to be in the captain's band you say yes. Or, more properly, "Aye-aye Captain!"

I wasn't asked. Captain Thor got Claudio, a sound technician who also plays bass, to play in his band. I'd like to think it's because Claudio will be around longer (on the ship, I mean - my contract's up in just over three weeks). But I think it's because he's younger, and can jump around better than I can.

It's just as well I wasn't asked. I'm not much into Bruce Springsteen, the captain's main man, and the jumping around might aggravate the old gout...

When I ran into Kamal after the rehearsal I asked him how it went. Maybe he was trying to downplay things so as not to make me feel too sorry about not being asked to be in the band when he replied, "Oh, it was bored. The music was very bored, and I was boring."

"You mean you were bored, because the music was boring?" I asked.

"Isn' tha' what I sayed?"

"Well, it's good to be in the captain's band, isn't it? Don't you feel kind of privileged? I mean, it's not about the music."

"I would feel more privilege' if we got some money. Today was s'pose to be my day off. But, well, anyway our fridge benefit is he took us to lonch in the Win'jammer." The Windjammer is the guest buffet on deck 12. When he said "fridge benefit" I thought he was going to say he got a case of beer or something.

I thought I'd make Kamal hip to the politics of the situation. "Getting friendly with the captain is a good thing, Kamal. Most people on the ship don't get that opportunity. Maybe you've noticed, the captain carries considerable weight on the ship. He's a good guy to have on your side."

"I guess so. But I still like to be paid. Should I make a complain' with our supervisor?"

"Whatever you think, Kamal." Some people are their own worst enemies.

I have a feeling I'll get to hear the band. There's one more Captain's meeting before I leave, and the band will probably debut at it. I heard last year's version of his band (on my first contract) and I'll be durned if Captain Thor wasn't pretty good.

Everybody's a musician...

Overheard at boat drill yesterday morning (a nice looking Australian blond to her friend): “The first thing I do after I get up, before coffee, before even showering, is get my iPod. I have to have my music.”

Everyone on the ship, it seems, has an iPod these days. Except me. So far, anyway. That may be about to change.

I do not understand people who “have to have my music”. But they probably don't understand me, either. I have to have my talk. The only .mp3s I brought with me are interviews with various people concerning Delmart Vreeland, a man-in-black type probably known to lbpas contributor Moresby, who occupied a jail cell in Toronto for awhile (Vreeland occupied the cell in Toronto, that is. Moresby's was in Florida). It's a long and unlikely story.

Other than that I still tune in my listening material on a trusty short-wave radio. When everyone else was out buying iPods, I was combing the streets of St Maarten looking for a good price on a shortwave radio to replace an inferior model I picked up a couple of years ago because it looked cool (manufactured in China for Grundig, but designed by the Porsche group).

For anyone interested, the radio I bought in St Maarten is the best SW receiver I have ever had (and I've had several). It's a Sony ICF-SW7600GR. It has several features, including a 'line out' in addition to the headphone out, and lower- and upper-sideband sync useful for eliminating interference from adjacent signals. This is in addition to SSB and a phantom powered external antenna jack for connecting an active antenna. It also has an antenna attenuation control to reduce sensitivity for quicker frequency scanning. In Canada this radio sells for $325, but I got it for $175 (US) in St Maarten. A good price, I figger.

When I tune in RCI (Radio Canada International) on this radio Michael Enright comes through loud and clear. Unfortunately.

I like shortwave because it is essentially talk radio. There's very little music (that stuff I don't have to have...) and what music there is is often interesting. And there's some crazy stuff out there I find entertaining. For example, FreedomRadioUSA can be good listening (check www.freedomradio.us for more info and a schedule of times and frequencies). It's sort of evangelical-Christian conspiracy-theory radio.

You can almost always find English language broadcasting and interesting programing on the venerable old stations such as VOA (Voice of America), American Armed Forces Network, BBC, Radio Nederland, and Deutche Welle. And if you like listening to fire-and-brimstone preachers, there's no shortage of them on SW.

Although RCI has cut back its programming due toi budget cuts, and there was talk of shutting it down as a waste of taxpayers' money, it still provides a valuable service, and I don't think SW is going to disappear soon. It will still be here when the digital superstructure implodes one of these days.

And speaking of digital, I've been checking out some of the new digital radio services coming online, like Sirius. These services provide a couple of hundred stations via satellite. But they charge a subscription fee, similar to satellite television, and I don't know if coverage extends into the Caribbean. I'm not really interested in subscription services anyway. I like to pick and choose, and you can't with these services. Also, you're still locked to programming schedules, which I'd like not to be.

I had bought a cheap, headphones-only DAB (Digital Audio Broadcasting) receiver from Radio Shack when I was back in Canada last summer, because several stations broadcast DAB, including CBC. But I found that it was very difficult to pick up a signal at my house in Oakville. It would NOT work indoors at all, and even outdoors it was spotty. I took it back.

Re-enter the iPod.

The popularity of the iPod and similar devices has created a new demand pool for audio, and not just music. Podcasting, as I think it will be called, is the automated distribution of audio programing for listening offline, or on-demand, using your trusty mobile audio device.

Now, you don't need an iPod to listen to podcasts. You can listen on your desktop computer, or your laptop. But an iPod is a mighty convenient device for this, and the advent of podcasting may just encourage me to buy one. Depending on what sort of podcasting will be available, of course.

This would be perfect for me on the ship, where I have access to broadband services for downloading only a few times a week. When I'm ashore and connected I could load up on programing and listen to it at my leisure onboard. Lie in the sun up on deck 5 with my iPod. Perfect!

The other thing this opens up is the ability to create your own programing for podcast, which is essentially cost-free. At least it's a lot cheaper than setting up a shortwave transmitter, and a lot easier than trying to syndicate homemade programs for radio broadcast yourself. I'm thinking about how to further pursue this. Any ideas are welcome.

In my opinion, this could be one of those 'big things' – a paradigm shifter, if you will. Take a look at www.podcast.net for a glimpse of what's to come.

And stay tuned...