What If I Said...: April 2014

Here's the problem with writing a blog. Somehow I create this mini reputation, and when I don't feel like writing, I feel guilty. I don't think I'm famous by a long shot. I don't have people clamoring at me to chronicle the latest adventure in my life. But, I did go on a cruise recently, and of all the people pressuring me to write about it, my husband is the worst. And he was there with me. I finally threw my hands up in frustration and said, "Why don't YOU just write it?" Of course, he refused, and so here I am.

Throughout the week I took notes on my phone about things that stuck out to me that I wanted to remember. They ended up reading like this: "Andy, Juice Box", "Kid from Oregon pronounced Nassau Nah-SOO". And "Ice skater looking endearingly like Blaine from Glee." I definitely wanted to remember that last one. Most of my notes aren't really stories worth telling, just fleeting impressions that I'll smile about in a few years.

But there are a few stories worth telling.

Sunday night I was incredibly seasick. Actually, I was incredibly seasick for a lot of the trip. My doctor (who is the best doctor in the world, and who also reads this blog) had prescribed me a seasickness patch, which I talked myself out of at the last minute, since it was so expensive. That's a mistake I won't make again.

We took our dinners in the main dining all, a three tiered glamorous affair that reminded me of the library from Beauty and the Beast, with tables instead of books. We sat in the same section every night, a little balcony called The Island, hanging down from the third floor, overhanging the second floor, with a clear view of the first floor. We had the same servers every night. On our first evening, our waitress took one look at me and ordered a green apple for my dessert. I ended up getting one the first three nights, to help combat the constant nausea. Our head server was a man named Rajesh, who has been cruising for over ten years. He told us about his wife and his daughters back in India, who were the same ages as our girls. How his wife hates doing math homework with them, and saves it all for him. How she loves fashion and he doesn't understand the whole "matching" thing, but that she will even match the bindi on her head with her outfits. He told us that he cruises seven months on, and two and a half months off. How he tries to skype with his daughters every night, but that he's missed so much of their lives. Our assistant waitress, Liz, was from Peru, and told us all about how they cook seafood back home, with every seasoning you can think of, octopus and crab and lime. She gave us logic puzzles to solve after dinner. And she smiled her way into my heart.

Monday we were in Coco Cay, an island owned by Royal Caribbean, near Nassau. We ate barbecue and went jet skiing on very choppy waters. We "parked" halfway through in a place called Starfish Alley, where you can pick starfish the size of dinner plates off the ocean floor. It was here that I got stung by something- I'm assuming a jellyfish, although the sting didn't look anything I found on Google. At first I thought I was just getting a rash from my leg rubbing against the side of Jeremy's board shorts while riding the jet ski. I tried to reposition my leg, but it only got worse. By the time we got back on land, my leg was numb and shaking, and the sting site was burning to the point of screaming. We got jellyfish sting ointment, which only made it sting worse, and I got some sympathy points and a story to tell the kids.

That evening, we found a little bar on the Promenade called The Bull & Bear. It was modeled after an English pub, and the bartenders were Serbian and Romanian. Dejana, when she found out about my jellyfish sting, told me all about a remedy her aunt in Serbia had given her to help bee stings. "I am from Serbia," she told me. "In Serbia, we are known for two things: big bees, and war." She said to cut a clove of garlic in half, and rub it on the bee sting in a circular motion. She didn't have a remedy for the war.

Lucian became my "main" bartender. The one who I trusted enough to say, "I don't know what I want, just make me something." He told us about his girlfriend's (who worked on the ship as well) nephew who always came with his parents to meet them at the airport when they returned home, and the funny things he did. He told us about all the places he'd seen while cruising around Europe, the storm he endured off the coast of Norway, and how whenever he and his girlfriend get home from a tour, she immediately says, "Let's go on vacation!", while all he wants to do is sit at home and sleep and watch television. He always greeted us with a smile and a wink, asking us how our day had been, then telling us about his.

On Wednesday we were in St. Thomas, and Jeremy had booked a snorkeling excursion for us. We were late getting into port that morning due to rough seas Tuesday night (more seasickness), and part of me hoped our excursion would be among those canceled. See, I'm not the very strongest swimmer. And two days of nausea had me white knuckled at the thought of skipping across the bay on a pirate schooner. Turns out my fears were founded. Not only was I nauseated on the way to the cove, but once we got there I had a panic attack while trying to master the snorkel mask. I had forgotten that I have this little problem with claustrophobia, and not being able to breathe through my nose sent me over the edge. I was sitting with my head between my knees, my face buried in a towel, chanting to myself to get a grip. But it's hard to reason with yourself when you're panicking. I finally got under control enough to jump in the water, but I never did get the hang of the mask. Whenever Jeremy swam over to me to point out the sea turtles or coral, I would just take a big breath, put the mask over my eyes, and glance down in the water, followed by a semi-enthusiastic nod and a thumbs up. Mostly I floated around and counted down the minutes until I could climb back into the boat with looking like a complete wimp.

On the way back from the cove, the crew unfurled the sails and let the wind steer us. At that time, I gave my day up for bust and hung over the starboard side, losing the little bit of crackers and water that had been in my stomach to begin with. Wednesday was just about the worst vacation day I've ever had.

Thursday we spent the afternoon in St. Maarten. One thing I noticed about the islands we visited: while the ports and docks themselves were well kept and nice to look at, the main body of the island was not. More than anything, St. Maarten struck me with its poverty. Houses, where there were any, were run down and tired looking. Blankets were tacked over windows, old appliances rusted in minuscule yards. There were piles and piles of garbage. Beer bottle graveyards. Defeated looking people walked from street to street. And my heart ached. I was about to return to a ship that was almost obscene in its grandeur. And these people were cooking in stone fireplaces. Again, it was the people who pulled at my heart.

We ended up spending almost every evening in the Bull & Bear. If there's one thing I'll remember the most about the trip, this would be it. Not the island waters, not the glamorous, opulent, excessive ship. The people. These people with stories to share, secrets to tell, jokes to laugh at. These people wove their way into my vacation and made it a memorable one. I'll see more beaches in my lifetime. I'll see more opulence and restaurants and fancy desserts. But I'll never meet another Raj, or Liz, or Lucian and Dejana. I don't hold any false illusions that they'll remember me the rest of their lives. I know they meet hundreds, probably thousands of people a week. But just knowing that for one week, I got to listen to their stories, to give them a reason to talk about their families, their countries, their adventures- that means something to me. It means something to me to have my life intersect with theirs, only for an instant.

A few years ago I wrote a blog about ripples, and how our one little stone, our tiny ripple, can change the world. Listening to someone's story could save their life. Telling someone yours could make or break a kingdom. And believe it or not, this is what I've brought home from that cruise. Not just the souvenirs, or the tan, or the jellyfish scar; a confirmation that this world, this life, is smaller, and larger, than we can ever imagine.

We matter.

Our stories matter.

Our experiences and mistakes matter.

Whether you're tending a bar on a cruise ship halfway around the world from your family, or changing a diaper on your living room floor, you matter. Don't hesitate to share your life. You could be an instrument of change, of joy, of inspiration to someone you'll only see once. Make it count.