I get off work at midnight, and I’m running out the door. The elevator makes it down to deck 8 before I realize I’ve forgotten to lock up. Swearing internally, I smile prettily at the two drunken guests stumbling in as I slip out. I can feel their eyes tracking me as I run up the stairs. The cruise ship rocks crazily this late at night, but I’m used to it. I walk in a zigzag pattern with the movement of the ship, before fumbling with my keys in a lock that’s always jammed up.

Mission accomplished, I try for home again, keying the button for Deck 1. I don’t live on 1, of course, as it’s reserved for paying passengers. However, the regular elevator won’t take me all the way to where I need to go. I pop out in a guest hallway and wiggle past the NO ENTRY EXCEPT FOR CREW sign.

The main crew hallway is sterile, and I hate it. It’s blindingly off-white, with walls that have seen three-too-many coats of paint. It runs from the very tip of the ship to the very back, which lets the crew traverse the length without ever stepping foot in a guest area.

I live at the very front, with my room against the outermost wall of the ship. Late at night, while lying in bed, I can hear the ocean water slap against the side of my room. It’s a noisy neighbor that never goes away, though you do get used to it.

I make a detour through the belly of the ship before going home for the night. Every port day, I put my name in the lottery for a free tour. There are hundreds of crew and only a few dozen tours maximum at any given time. Some are more applied for than others, like brewery runs and dolphin swims. I’m more easy going, and I always make sure to check the box that says “Any”.

Today is my lucky day. I snatch the shiny paper stock, the same size and shape as a guest ticket, feeling like Charlie Bucket. On the front, my name is printed in bold with my job function scribbled in hastily beside it. I fist-bump the air, earning a bizarre look from the housekeeping staff that is existing the smoking room nearby, a small cloud of ash and tar and body odor floating behind him. Snorkeling the mesoamerican reef will be a fine way to spend my day in Honduras. The only downside is the starting time. Who the hell gets up to snorkel at 7:45 AM? I grumble to myself.

I head back towards my cabin, stopping briefly to clock my hours at the terminal in front of the crew bar. The deep thumping bass of an Enrique Iglesias remix slips around the cracks of the door. A poster by the computers tells me it’s Latin Night. I can’t help but weigh the pros and cons of sleep versus party.

The cheers from inside make my mind up for me. I jog back to my room, passing drowsy looking waiters slinking off to their beds and cooks in stained uniforms sitting and jabbering on the staircase in a language I can’t identify and can’t understand (underneath a lovely sign, one of many that says “English Only!”). I dodge the ping-pong tournament that they’ve set up in the gangway area, and it only takes two tries before my keycard gets me into my cabin.

I flick the lights on to illuminate the space. Sterile, like the hallway. I don’t like it but I don’t dislike it either. It takes too much effort to pack and unpack. I have been on three ships in the past three months, and sorting your life out every time you arrive somewhere new is like living a sick game of deja vu over and over.

I grab one of my three personal shirts I brought with me to the ship. Space is tight, and I pack light out of necessity. Many crew keep their gigantic suitcase in their floorspace, with no place else to put it. My bag, sturdy burlap and canvas, rolls up neatly into my sock drawer. Besides, everyone else is wearing the same clothes over and over too.

A quick change, spray of perfume, and dab of mascara, and I’m running out the door again. People think that cruise ship life is lazy, vacuous, a constant vacation from reality. I find myself bouncing from activity to activity so fast that I almost never feel free to relax. I stay at the bar longer than I should. Time slows down to a crawl when the European deck officers bring out a game of King’s Cup, also known as Ring of Fire, or simply “hey let’s play that game with the beer in the middle and the cards all around”. It’s typical for me to hang out with the Europeans. Some of my best friends hail from Italy, the Netherlands, Spain, Germany, etc. The others with us are various native English speakers — the lone Canadian, a few Aussies, and the new guy who has drunkenly proclaimed to me at least a dozen times tonight that he’s from Scotland. At least, that’s what I think he’s saying. As the alcohol flows, I find it harder and harder to understand their English, heavy accents and too much beer obscuring their words.

Someone buys a round of shots, and we all cry “Opa!”. It sets off a chain reaction, and I have tequila thrust at me from every angle. God bless Latin night. Of course, I do my fair share and buy a round. At 80 cents per pop, it costs less than 10 bucks to buy the group a round. I would accept a drink from any guy or gal here; being roofied simply doesn’t occur in this safe space. The worst thing to occur is when the bartender thinks you’re done when you’ve simply just run to the restroom, and she tosses your half full cider. It’s a family atmosphere, and even though I’ve only met most of these people last week, it feels like I’ve known them all forever.

Late in the evening, the bar lights flash on suddenly, unexpectedly. We’re all left blinking like blinded owls. The Scottish lad doesn’t look nearly as attractive anymore. It takes a few foggy seconds for my brain to kick in. Bar closed means it’s time to go to bed. I stumble to my room, checking and triple checking my alarm is set for 7 AM. This will theoretically give me enough time to get ready for my snorkeling excursion. I drunkenly reason with myself that I can sleep when I’m dead, anyways.