Ship Log Blog

Ship Log Blog

I write stories from life working on a cruise ship.
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  • Andiamo

    Moving on to the next thing… in Italian

    Letting go of the comfortable thing is hard. Stepping into a new place where you don’t know your way around is scary. Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name, but you need to go where no one knows who the fuck you are.

    I’ve been on the edge of this need for awhile now. In fact, I’ve been clinging to the known with my bare and bloody fingertips for years. Being scouted for the contract at sea was the universe giving me that not so gentle first push. It forced me to imagine a different way of being; less connected to my things, my places, my routines. It forced me to recognize the people who were the real ones, who cared about me enough to download WhatsApp and turn on their notifications.

    Over the course of the last four years as I’ve been away from home six months at a time, something not very surprising happened. My place stopped being my place. The home I’d built over the last 20 plus years loosened it’s grip. The working relationships I’d tirelessly developed exhaled and let go. The city I’d made mine moved on. The only thing about New York you can rely on is that it will always change, whether you are there or not. If you want to hang, hang tight. It’s an addictive dance, because when you’re in it you feel more alive than you’ve ever felt. It’s not until you step away that you notice how hard you were working to keep up.

    The ship isn’t my place either. I’m not a lifer. This job was meant to be more temporary than it’s ended up being. My time here is also nearing it’s end, so I’m left with that big, universal, never ending, existential question: what’s next?

    Yesterday I visited La Spezia, a small maritime city in Liguria Italy. It is the jumping off point to Cinque Terre, a beautiful and popular string of five fishing villages on Italy’s northern coast. I had an incredible day with some of my ship friends, taking the train to three of the five small towns, swimming in the perfect crisp blue water, sipping cappuccinos, ripping apart sea bream with my fingers, sampling pizza, sharing a carafe of the house white and nearly succumbing to death on an unexpectedly steep hike from Manarola to Riomaggiore with a sprained ankle. I loved it all.

    This is just one of many charming and absolutely life affirming stories I could tell you about my visits to Italy. I have felt alive and at home in Palermo, Roma, Firenze, Turino, Venezia, Lago D’Orta, Catania and so on and on. My soul sings here. Typical American, I know. Visiting Italy with nothing but time to wander and enjoy and falling in love with the place. But I’ve visited many places and not felt the same pull, Spain, France, England, Mexico, Canada, Costa Rica, Australia, Greece, Denmark… none of them have called to me quite the way Italy does.

    Many Americans feel burdened with a desire to get out, to run from the tide of fascism being cranked up by a mad man who somehow gets to make decisions for me against my will. But it turns out you can’t just leave your home country and go live somewhere else whenever you want (which is fucking dumb by the way because citizenship and countries and borders are all literally made up and no one owns the earth you know what I mean and no while we’re at it I don’t think Isreal has a right to exist come at me bro). So how to leave? The answer came in a quiet and unexpected form.

    School.

    I never got my bachelor’s degree. At eighteen I was absolutely fed up with the training wheels of education. I was ready to LIVE. I did not want to put myself and my parents thousands of dollars in debt for an acting degree that I definitely did not think I needed. So I took the first divinely inspired leap of my life and I dropped out of college to move to NYC with no plan, no job and no money. It was awesome and I don’t regret it one bit.

    Now here I am, 40 whatever, with decades of professional and street experience under my belt and a sudden need for a new path. Do you know how much more affordable universities are in Europe than they are in the US? Do you know that if you get accepted to an EU university, it comes with a visa?? MWAHAHAHA! (shoutout to my friendspiration Daphne Always for falling in love with Iceland and figuring out that the only way to move there was to go to college there).

    I started learning Italian a few years ago after living in Civitavecchia for a month at the start of my first contract. It’s been slow going because I’m lazy, but I never lost interest. I kept chipping away at it without having any idea why. Divine inspiration perhaps?

    Slowly the path begins to emerge. I’ve been hesitant to share this idea with many people for fear that sharing it drains it of it’s potency, but now I think maybe the opposite is true. Maybe if I keep talking about it I make it more real with each recitation. Any number of unexpected life events could derail this plan. I secretly hope some incredible opportunity jumps in the way so that I get a little bit more time in my beloved home city. NYC is such a unique happiness bubble in America right now with Mamdani, the Knicks, the constant flow of anti-trump rhetoric, I’m curious how long it will last. “New Yorker” is a hard earned merit badge I’m resistant to give up.

    But maybe that’s fear talking.

    At this point I’m ready for anything. Sell that project I’ve been developing, get a call from that casting director I keep submitting to, meet my soulmate and get my EU citizenship via marriage, WHO KNOWS! Whatever happens, I have a plan now and having a plan is empowering, I haven’t had one of those in a long time. Especially not one that makes me feel this excited, this lit up, this engaged.

    As I read the works of psychological and spiritual writers like Clarissa Pinkola Estes and Eckhart Tolle, I am learning how to listen to and connect with my instinct again. Something many of us unlearn at a young age and must relearn later. When I researched a potential degree program at the university I’m eyeing, I experienced such a full body yes I almost gasped. It was practically euphoric. That is a strong magnetic pull from the universal compass telling me which way to go.

    Who am I to resist?

  • Dry Dock

    The Lady gets a glow up

    In early May we finished our transatlantic crossing from New York City to Barcelona. After a 5am immigration wake up call, I stashed my suitcases in my stage manager’s empty cabin and hopped on the shuttle to the airport where I was just in time to slam a cappuccino, wolf down an iberico ham baguette and catch my EasyJet flight to Geneva. One of my oldest and bestest friends lives in Geneva with her husband and two kids. Her home regularly serves as my base when I’m bopping around Europe. She generously allows me to cat around her house for weeks at a time in exchange for cuddles, companionship at the grocery store and the occasional load of laundry.

    This visit was no different, with one exception; my mom came. A few months ago Mom expressed a desire to take a trip with me. My two week hiatus from the ship in Europe seemed like the perfect fit. As soon as she arrived at my friend’s charming, flower draped cottage in the city, we jumped in the car and headed up into the mountains. Bestie is an avid skier and gets to live that dream in her perfect chalet in Morzine in the french alps that she and her husband finished building right before covid. But this week is inter-season in Morzine. Not enough snow to ski and too muddy to mountain bike, so the lifts close down and the town goes to sleep. Bestie hates to sit still and was tired of the long cold spring, so she packed up her kids and headed to Sicily for the week leaving Mom and I alone in her big empty mountain house. Poor us.

    Good thing neither of us has any interest whatsoever in skiing or mountain biking. Three restaurants open in town is enough for us. We enjoyed grocery shopping together and I got the blessed opportunity to play mom to my mom and cook dinner every night. We went on hikes and got caught in the unseasonably late snow more than once. The waterfalls were roaring and the wildflowers were fighting for their lives. Waking up to snow falling in the mountains in May and having an excuse to light the fireplace was a welcome surprise. We went in the hot tub everyday and spent long slow mornings and evenings talking unhurried about life and art and family and history and God and everything else that came to mind. We sampled the local chartreuse and genepi and Mom did her watercolor at the big table while I read Corey Ann Haydu’s debut adult novel “Mother’s and Other Strangers” under a blanket on the couch. They were precious days.

    And then the week was over! I drove Mom back to Geneva and put her in a cab at 7:30 in the morning. I spent a few more days with Bestie and her family, participating in the chaotic domestic bliss when I wasn’t writing in the garden/creeping on the hot Italian gardener from behind my laptop. The day came to say goodbye to my beloved friend and head south toward the unknown catastrophe known as “dry dock” awaiting me in Palermo.

    Dry dock is when they take the ship out of the water and fix everything that’s broken. Ships are required to do a dry dock every four-ish years and it’s my current lady’s time. I re-joined the ship at the tail end of the ordeal, day twelve of fourteen. Once in Palermo, I walked the half mile from the shipyard’s main gate and arrived at my loud, dirty construction zone floating miraculously in the air. My cabin was full of contractors and tools so I was given someone else’s cabin for the night. My company brought me back before the end of dry dock because I was needed to re-tech my show, but other than that I was useless, in the way and deeply over stimulated. There was nowhere to sit that wasn’t covered in plastic. So that first evening I went out to dinner with some of my favorite ship friends and enjoyed a delicious pasta alla norma and flirted with the server in my subpar Italian while reacquainting myself with why I love Italy so much.

    The next day was our last in Palermo. I will spare you the gross details about my key card not working and the safety training I had to sit through even though I’d only been gone for 10 days and how many times I had to stand in line at the crew office. I crossed the gangway at noon and flew away free as a bird toward the siren song of Sicilia. I walked the two miles into old town and revisited a sandwich shop I’d once enjoyed for it’s arancinetti five years earlier.

    Ok wait there’s a backstory here.

    Five years ago I was nannying for a friend for six weeks in Budapest while her husband was shooting a tv show for Disney. During that six weeks we had a twelve day break from production and my friend decided to get out of Budapest which was hotter than every literal and figurative definition of hell and go to Sicily. Once we arrived at the lovely country house that had been rented for the occasion, my dear friend lovingly peer pressured me into downloading tinder. I did. We made a game of it. That’s how I met Angelo. The story of my short love affair with Angelo doesn’t belong in this blog, but suffice to say we shared a special connection. We made love in my hotel room in Cefalu and ate warm blackberries wild off a bush and swam together in the ocean. I purchased from him a black leather backpack that he had made with his own hands and after we kissed a chocolatey gelato kiss goodbye I carried with me a spark of hope that I might see him again someday.

    That day came. When I arrived at the Fincantieri shipyard in Sicily, I messaged Angelo that I was going to be in Palermo for one day and would he be at his shop. He replied that yes he would. When I got there the shop was closed so I sent him a photo of me standing outside. He said he would be back in 20 minutes. So I took a walk. I drank an amaro and wandered through the winding streets taking in the ancient architecture and lusting after the lemoncello I would not be allowed to bring onboard. I stopped at the window of a cute little shop to admire the tiny brass jewelry inside when suddenly I hear my name “ANNA!”. I look up and there he is, Angelo, my Sicilian. He was inside the shop I’d been admiring, delivering some purses for the owner to sell. Serendipity? Fate? Small town? Who cares, it felt like magic.

    We walked together for coffee. He took me to his shop. I picked out a small leather purse and he made me a custom strap so that I could wear it around my waist. We talked about his daughter and my writing and his girlfriend and how life changes or doesn’t in five years. The connection between us was still there. He is a kind, thoughtful and gentle man. The kind of man I seem to need regular reminders still exists. We hugged goodbye and I promised to see him again in another five years.

    As I floated back towards the ship, the magic of that day decided it wasn’t done with me yet. I suddenly came upon shelves of books lining the street. The man sitting there showed me to the english language section of this shocking al fresco library. I gasped in awe. Tens of thousands of books, row after row, spiraling around the cobblestone courtyard and burrowing farther inside a centuries old building. I turned around and found myself face to face with Pietro, the proud owner of this library. He told me he is rich in books, that I can take what I want and put money into the box if I choose. I picked three books and put money into the box. I said “Grazie Señore” to which he replied “No, non Señore, Peter”. Ok Peter, Thank you. We took a picture together. He walked me around the corner to his friend’s beautiful and luxurious cafe and hotel. He bought me a coffee and told me he wished I didn’t have to go. He allowed me to practice my Italian while we spoke of language and books and Sicily. Before I walked away he said “Palermo e magica”. Yes Peter, yes it is.

    Our lady ship was 93% ready to go and corporate time waits for no contractor. MOST of the new carpet was laid, new furniture in place, new menus items tasted. Just behind every crew door sat piles of drop cloths and broken pallets where hopefully no one would notice how close we came to not quite making it. Shit was dusty but Civitavecchia, 2600 new passengers and 150 incoming crew were ready for us just up the Italian coast. The following morning I awoke to the familiar and yet unfamiliar sensation of the ship rocking. We were floating again. Sailing away.

    That day was bad. It hurt. My ego wanted to be in pain, to suffer, to wallow in doubt and regret like a pig in shit. I fought it. I will not let my ego dictate this life. That thing I said, the way he took it, that misunderstanding, the unanswered text, that little bird who got caught on the ship and won’t make it back to land. I let them all go over and over.

    Instead I thought of Angelo and how our connection stayed quiet for years, changed and yet remains. I thought of my mom and how beautiful and wise she is, how deep and unwavering our love will always be. I thought of my Bestie and how wildly different our lives are and yet our friendship has survived across decades and continents. I thought about pasta alla norma and tiny flower buds pushing through the snow and the white chocolate raspberry cookie at Oh Martine in Geneva and Pietro with his books. I promised myself that tomorrow would be better.

    It was.

  • Luggage Limits

    The audacity to try it

    The Atlantic crossing has begun. We sailed away from Red Hook Brooklyn and New York harbor three hours late on a cold and rainy Saturday night. We headed east over the bodies*, under the Verrazano, across the Lower Bay and out into the shark infested open water on our way to Barcelona with stops in Portugal, Morocco and Spain along the way.

    The NYC season was busier and colder than I expected. Over the course of four weeks I twice had the opportunity to rehearse my upcoming Edinburgh Fringe Festival production by signing the members of the theater company onboard. At the start of the first week, a storm diverted us from Bermuda to St John New Brunswick Canada and I found my winter wardrobe to be lacking. I was able to go to my apartment on week two and trade out some shoes, grab a sweater, pet my cat, sign and mail my taxes and fret uselessly about how messy my subletters are (why is she pawing through my jewelry box?). On our last day I was able to visit a friend who’s going through big life stuff and sit with her in soul healing loving support for a couple of hours. All in all, a successful mid contract month.

    Did you notice I said we were three hours late sailing away from NYC at the start of the crossing? It was a busy day. Apparently the ship had over 500 pallets of supplies to onload for the crossing and subsequent dry dock. It was all hands on deck, everyone rushing to move these deliveries off the A1A to their destinations onboard. “All hands” means all hands except mine and the other cast members as we have been designated useless for operational ship business.

    Something else slowed us down that day and that is the story I have come here to tell.

    There is a woman named Hope. She arrived to join us as a passenger for the crossing. When she pulled up to the loading dock she asked “Is there a limit to the number of pieces of luggage I can bring?”. She was told No. She then proceeded to load everything she owns on to the luggage carts one piece at a time. Twelve large suitcases and eighteen boxes and crates. The port staff dutifully accepted these parcels, labeled them, and loaded them onto the ship.

    Hope is moving to Barcelona. Hope thought it would be a good idea to use our cruise ship as a cargo vessel to move all of her belongings across the world while enjoying the amenities. Hope did not ask anyone for permission, she just showed up and did it.

    Hope is a genius.

    The AUDACITY! I’m jealous of this energy while also being completely horrified by it. Can I trade her some of my shame for just a pinch of her bravery? Because frankly she could use it and so could I. Audacity is the courage or confidence that other people find shocking or rude and my god does this woman have it in spades.

    I like to imagine that Hope is a survivor. Maybe she grew up in chaos or hardship and learned to use her ingenuity early. She must be Mensa smart to have come up with the idea to use a cruise ship as a moving van and seriously foolhardy to think that she could get away with it. That is the epitome of audacity. I’m fascinated to know what factors create a person that bold. I’m desperate to meet her. Can she show me her ways? Is audacity teachable? Learnable?

    I am the opposite of Hope. I carry shame to spare. I could blame it on my gender, on my safe middle class upbringing, on my nature or my ancestors or that thing that happened in middle school. It’s probably a concoction of all of those things. The bottom line is that for most of my life I sat quietly in the corner hoping someone would notice my hard work while less talented people got the opportunities I was too afraid to ask for. I don’t think I’ve always been that way, but at some point my audacity was beaten out of me. Until I didn’t know what it felt like to advocate for myself with reckless abandon.

    What am I so afraid of? Someone saying no? Being laughed at or whispered about? I was deeply scarred once in the past when someone labeled me desperate. That word cut to the bone. Heaven forbid anyone know how much I want something, how much I care. I’m embarrassed to ask for the bare minimum. I squirm with discomfort when my best friend asks the waiter if they could please hold the black pepper.

    There’s a line in The Miss Behave Show by Amy Saunders that says “It’s not always the person who’s the most talented or deserving who wins, it’s usually just the fucker who wants it the most”. This is my fourth contract hosting The Miss Behave Show at sea and I think some of it’s ethos might finally be rubbing off on me. My stage character has always been more bold than I am, more confrontational, less afraid to ask permission. She does what she wants and maybe she’ll apologize later if she goes too far. Maybe.

    As I come into midlife, I am lifting my heart to the sky and welcoming my audacity. My stage persona and the real person underneath are merging. As I learn to let go of ego and the fear of being judged, there are fewer reasons not to ask for the thing. Audacity is a muscle that must be trained the same way I’m finally strengthening my hamstrings. Slowly and painfully. It requires stretching and recovery and as old wounds heal and new connections develop, weird new spots become tender. I still can’t imagine attempting Hope level shit, but with each unsolicited email, with each awkward ask, I might just get there.

    Speaking of Hope, what happened there? Well, as soon as the powers that be figured out what was going on (someone sent her crate of dishes to one of restaurants) they contacted Hope and let her know that we do not in fact have room to store her boxes and that they would be off loaded. She said that if the boxes aren’t going to Barcelona then she isn’t going either. So her husband stood on the gangway and waved goodbye as Hope and her eighteen boxes and crates debarked. Don’t worry, hubby and the twelve suitcases are still making the transatlantic journey with the rest of us.

    It didn’t quite work out for Hope this time. It turns out audacity doesn’t always guarantee success, but I’m willing to bet it’s worth it most days. Every time you shoot your shot and get knocked down, you’re a little bit stronger. Each rejection makes the next one sting less. I’m pretty sure Hope didn’t lose one minute of sleep over having her boxes rejected, she’s probably riding VIP on the Queen Mary II or fucking the co-pilot in the back of some cargo plane.

    Hope is my patron saint for this next chapter in life. She will be my north star. I will carry her in my chest and think of her every time I’m afraid to TRY THAT SHIT. Because even if the boxes don’t make the ship, you’re still moving to Barcelona.

    *A few weeks ago we literally had a dead body bump up against our ship while docked in Red Hook and had to have the coast guard come and remove it.

  • Spontaneous Uncontrollable Joy

    And no pictures to prove it

    This story was originally published to subscribers of Ship Log Blog on Substack. Get new posts by email at the link below:

    shiplogblog.substack.com
    Not Antigua

    Last week I signed up to “escort” a shore excursion in Antigua. This is a cool opportunity crew has to tag along with the adventures offered to sailors. It is technically a volunteer experience as we are often asked to help out a little, but helping usually consists of being the line leader to the bus and filling out a survey afterward. It’s a great way to do really fun things in port for free.

    The excursion I signed up to escort was “Half Day Catamaran to Beach”. Which sounded pretty fucking perfect to me. Antigua was the only port left that I had not yet gotten off to explore and this was my last chance.

    I met the Shore Excursion people at 9:30am and by 9:50 I was leading a group of about 30 sailors down to the gangway and out to the port where we met our tour guide, a delightfully grumpy Antiguan woman who mama ducked us to a small dock just in time for our catamaran to pull up. We hopped on and buzzed away from the chaos.

    It is difficult to explain how incredible it feels to leave the ship and get on a boat. Please feel free to go back into the archives at shiplogblog.com for an in depth explanation on the difference between a ship and a boat. They are not the same. The ship is an artificial floating city where I both live and work. A boat is FREEDOM. It zips right past the towering hulk of the ship and zooms away into paradise.

    Antigua IS paradise. It has a truly indescribable color to it’s water. Milky teal? That sounds gross. Lightly pearlescent blue green. That’s better.

    I sat at the front of the catamaran by the nets with some sailors from Houston and navigated the usual questions about what it’s like working on a ship that always come when people find out I’m crew. I’m used to it. It’s boring but not terribly taxing. It honestly makes me seem exotic and interesting which of course I am.

    We got to our first destination, a coral reef. I donned my snorkeling gear and nerdy bright orange floatie that I was required to wear for insurance reasons and jumped in. I love being in the water and bonus points for any opportunity I get to keep my face submerged for as long as possible. I’ve seen enough reefs to recognize that this one was dying, but most of them are. It didn’t make the parrot fish any less beautiful.

    After about 15 minutes I climbed back on the boat, already sporting what would turn out to be a pretty killer sunburn on my ass, and I broke my no day drinking rule to partake in some local rum punch and flirt with the boat crew.

    We unmoored from the reef and sailed to shore, pulling right up onto Dickenson Bay Beach, one of the more beautiful and popular beaches on the island. Our snorkeling guide Marke handed me another rum punch and asked if I’d like to share a joint with him, an offer I had to regretfully decline due to the invisible contractual tether tying me to maritime law no matter where I am.

    I swam alone into that pearlescent water and got my heart pumping with some gentle freestyle laps back and forth away from the tourists. Here’s where that spontaneous joy comes in.

    It hit me like a wave, tickling each chakra from the root to the crown until it burst out of me in a surge of laughter. I floated there in that tropical eden, looking out over the ocean, overcome with such gratitude for this existence, this life, this planet, there was nothing I could do but laugh and spin while tears spilled from my eyes and the salt from my body rejoined the mother from which it came.

    I may complain sometimes about the sacrifices required to do this job, to be away from my friends and family for such long periods of time, but it’s moments like this that remind me how lucky I am. If I died tomorrow I would die happy knowing I didn’t waste my life tucked away in some cubicle I hated. I LIVED. I may never have any measurable success or money or a storybook romance for the ages, but I walked out into the world bravely and I tasted life, the good and the bad and I thanked the stars for the meal.

    I got day drunk and suffered the subsequent hangover because sometimes the cute boat crew and sunshine call for breaking your own rules.

    Here’s the kicker. I didn’t take one picture that day. I never even took my phone out of my bag. I’d like to think my memory will hold this one for me. I am trying to break the habit of performing life for the algorithm. This life is for me, not for the followers or the saturated calorie rich validation I get from the likes or for Suckerberg’s bank account.

    My journal, this blog post and my own neurons will have to be enough to sustain this memory’s hold. And if the fog of age and time take it, that’s ok too. Because the magical connection I felt to all things in that sparkling milky teal moment charged me like a battery of love and joy and gratitude and that will never not be true.

    Thanks for reading and joining me on this journey of living an authentic life in an increasingly artificial world. Breaking my old people pleasing habits and nurturing love within myself instead of chasing it from external sources has been a longer path than I could have imagined, but I’m walking it and I’m happy to know I’m not walking alone.

  • Because I said so

    On being done with asking “why?”

    This story was originally published to subscribers of Ship Log Blog on Substack. Get new posts by email at the link below:

    shiplogblog.substack.com
    Why this particular bathroom selfie?

    I feel bad for “who, what, where, when and how”. My whole life I have been obsessed with just one: Why? It’s like those other poor Ws don’t even matter. I didn’t care about the practical, give me existential every time.

    My mom ended up deploying that classic mom response in exhaustion.

    “Because I said so”

    I hated this sentence so much. I found it inexplicably frustrating not to have the reasoning behind every family decision, every get in the car, every no dessert until you eat your vegetables explained to me as though I had the right to approve or deny based on the information.

    This need to know followed me into adulthood, except at some point it turned inward. Why is it so hard to advocate for myself? Why do I always fall for narcissists and addicts? Why does my brain say such cruel things to me? Why do I always think of the witty comeback when it’s too late? Why do I sleep so much or resist online dating or want to eat triscuits and cheese for every meal when I know it hurts my tummy?

    Why am I always sad when I should be angry? Why can’t I decide what I want next? Why am I so averse to loving myself?

    I’ve spent years in therapy asking these whys. Like if I could just figure out the causation, truly understand the reasoning, I could fix it. I could make a plan and turn it around.

    My therapist used to say to me “Ya know, right now it doesn’t really matter why”.

    I wish he had screamed it. I wish I had heard him, believed him the first 30 times he said it. But that’s not how the heart, mind and soul work is it? We come to these understandings in our own time. But I think I finally get it.

    Why is the least important, least interesting question there is.

    Why is the past and what matters is the present.

    As I am on my midlife enlightenment journey, embracing radical acceptance has been an incredible gift. It makes the “why” of it all so much less important. “Why” is ruminating, which has been my ego’s favorite game for as long as I can remember and WE DON’T DO RUMINATION ANYMORE REMEMBER??

    When I realized that knowing why wouldn’t change the past, present or future, I began to see how little weight it carried. Does it help to understand your traumas to know that you created your egoic mask for self protection in the first place? Sure, but once you understand that the ego is a defense mechanism that no longer serves you, the only path is releasing it. At a certain point “why” becomes obsolete.

    This is an incredibly liberating understanding and helps in all aspects of life. Including the tightly controlled environment I currently live in.

    Which brings me to the ship.

    A cruise ship is all the best parts of corporate structure and military structure smooshed together in a tight floating package. They are the peanut butter cup of American capitalism.

    There are a lot of seemingly nonsensical rules, regulations and requests that crew members must obey. A lot of these things make no sense to me. Some of them actually make no sense at all, and were decided by people who love spreadsheets in a boardroom far far away.

    Meanwhile, some are very important.

    Like the maritime rules. These I don’t question. I don’t understand how this big bitch stays afloat. I watched the Costa Concordia documentary. I accept that safety is and should be the number one priority on the ocean. So when they close deck 7 for maintenance or run an hour long P.A. test at 8am or hold an analogue crew drill that requires two hours of standing quietly in line wearing a life vest in 95 degree heat, I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and let it go.

    I do not ask why. If I did I’m sure the captain would deploy my mom’s answer.

    (When they told me I had to wear sleeves in the mess hall I DID ask why. “Because it’s unsanitary to have exposed armpits hanging over the salad”. To which I said “excellent point” and bought a cute little shrug to go over my strappy dresses.)

    Some of the corporate mandates from shoreside are very annoying. I’m talking about the “hotel” side of the operation, not maritime. These are the decisions handed down by those data loving boardroom overlords. These are harder to radically accept. I want very much to ask why. Sometimes I still do, quietly and snarkily to my peers.

    But alas, my why’s go unanswered, so these too I have released. I have to wear the hot itchy accessory for the entirety of my show? ok. I’m not allowed to eat upstairs in the dining hall until 5pm on sea days? sure why not. No gym clothes in the mess hall, no stickers on my name badge, no saying “cunt” into the microphone? You got it boss.

    I used to rail against it, but now I am at peace with the madness. It’s all above my pay grade anyway. Rules change as senior leadership comes and goes like the phases of the moon. One can’t be too precious about anything.

    A new decree came down the pipeline this week. Very soon we will reposition to NYC for the month of April. NYC is my home. I was excited. I had plans. I was going to rehearse my play in midtown and visit my best friend and pick up those toiletries I left behind.

    But then “they” changed our port from the one in midtown to the one in Red Hook.

    Then “they” announced that the CBP (US Customs and Border Patrol) would not be granting shore leave. This means that crew members would not be allowed off the ship.

    You read that correctly. I, an American citizen, when docked in my hometown, a few short miles away from my apartment, am not allowed to get off the ship in which I am currently contractually contained.

    One friend stated it succinctly when she said “That sounds prison-esque”

    DOESN’T IT JUST?

    I’ve often described working on a ship as like being in prison in paradise. It’s unsettling to be accustomed to a certain amount of freedom and to have that freedom stripped away. Considering all the authoritarian atrocities being committed across the world and in my own country right now, I am talking from a place of real privilege here and I recognize that.

    In flows the radical acceptance. I don’t need to ask “why” the CBP isn’t granting shore leave even to the American crew members. I could offer any number of guesses but it doesn’t change the outcome. I have to stay on the ship.

    SO I’ll try to sign my theater company members onboard on day passes so we can rehearse here. I’ll find another friend who can bring that bag of toiletries to me. And I’ll wave at Brooklyn from the edge of deck 16. I’ll see her again soon enough.

    These days, when a “why” starts to bubble up, as it has the habit of doing, I hear the answer from God/the Unmanifested/the Tao/the Universe and it sounds surprisingly like my mom.

    “Because I said so”

    There are plenty of important battles to be fought, grounds to stand, major life decisions to be made. As I a sit in the middle of a huge inflection point in my life, I don’t need to wrestle with the small stuff. “Because I said so” is good enough for me.

    ADDENDUM:

    It turns out bad information is as common as seasickness around here. A few days ago the crew engagement officer stopped me on the A1A to tell me he’d heard I was saying there was no shore leave for NYC when in fact they cannot stop Americans from leaving the ship in American ports.

    Like, duh.

    So it looks like I AM allowed to get off the ship in my hometown. I’m so glad I already arranged for my theater company to come onboard. It’s a good thing I’m so relaxed and zen about everything these days or this whole misunderstanding could have been pretty annoying.

  • Touching Land

    How to stay connected to the Earth when living on the water

    This story was originally published to subscribers of Ship Log Blog on Substack. Get new posts by email at the link below:

    shiplogblog.substack.com
    My hand touching Africa for the first time

    When you live at sea, land becomes a gift.

    My ship contracts are six months long. Over the course of those six months we often visit the same ports over and over again with one central “home port” at the center of every week. There are exceptions to this. Sometimes we reposition, ship speak for switching from one home port to another, often crossing whole oceans.

    On my second contract, I started in Australia, crossed the Indian Ocean to Africa, swept around the Cape of Good Hope, danced with the desert in Namibia, sailed up the west coast of the Motherland, through the straight of Gibraltar and landed in our new home in Athens. A truly once in a lifetime journey. Rarely experienced and for me, never to be repeated.

    I am one month into my current contract. Five months and three home ports to go.

    This contract will reposition a few times. Right now our home port is San Juan Puerto Rico. A lovely base. Beautiful, historic, practical and ass deep in mofongo. All the things a healthy crew population wants from their weekly hometown.

    While stationed out of San Juan we hit a wide variety of Caribbean islands. You know the vibe: turquoise water, beautiful white sand beaches, a kaleidoscope of colorful homes, abundant rum drinks. It’s peak colonialism and touristy as hell, but it’s warm and sunny and calming to the nervous system.

    I am determined to save money (says the bitch who buys an oat latte onboard every goddamn day), so I’m not shelling out cash on cabs, beach resorts, lounge chairs and piña coladas. Instead I get off in ports where there is a beach within a 30 minute walk. If I can find a patch of sand under a tree and an egress into the waves I am happy for an hour of quiet communion with Mother Earth.

    Sometimes there are cute towns right next to the ship with shops and markets and coffee, like in Curaçao and Martinique. Usually it’s a tourist trap candy coated discount diamond shopping facade surrounded by palm trees and iguanas.

    Some of my favorite days are when the crew engagement officer plans events for the “Impact Squad”. This is when a group of us go out and volunteer in one of our ports, usually doing a beach clean up. Not only is this a great way to see a part of an island I might not usually get to see, but it also helps assuage some of the guilt I feel for selling my soul and working on a fucking cruise ship.

    Impact Squad in Barbados

    Soon we’re sailing north. We will reposition to New York City for the month of April. This is exciting for me, as NYC is home. Sailing into New York harbor under the Verrazzano Bridge and past the statue of liberty (long may she stand) is going to be thrilling and probably a little emotional.

    My life is divided into two halves (It’s actually divided into so many more halves than that but that’s a different post). The New Yorker half and the seafaring half. I spend one half of each year in each place. To have these two people come crashing together on my birth month will be… something. I don’t know yet how it will feel so I’ll let you know when I get there.

    Most crew members have never been to NYC. For them it will be a once in a lifetime opportunity. They cannot wait to see Times Square.

    Me? I’ll be running from the ship where it will be docked in midtown west to a rehearsal studio on 54th street to do a run thru of the play I’m premiering at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in August. NYC means taking advantage of being home and putting on the other mask for an afternoon. It also means my best friend can bring me that bag of extra toiletries I left in my coat closet.

    Then we cross the Atlantic.

    I’ve crossed the Indian Ocean, I’ve crossed the equator at sea, I’ve touched five of the six continents, but I haven’t done the Atlantic crossing yet. If I were collecting sailor tattoos this one would earn me a single anchor on the forearm. I’ll probably just add another bird to my progressive tattoo by Gerald Feliciano. Maybe a pigeon.

    Crossings are awesome. Not the many sea days in a row but the variety of ports you hit when you get to the other side. I am especially excited about The Azores and Tangier.

    Once we’re in the Mediterranean it’s a whole new ball game. The ports are beautiful ancient cities. The water is teal instead of turquoise, the beaches are rocks instead of sand, and the food is incredible. You can walk off the ship, put your name badge in your pocket and disappear into the throngs for the whole day. I love getting lost in Europe.

    Our first stop in the Med will be dry dock in Palermo. This is when they take the ship out of the water and fix all the shit that’s broken. Our ship launched in 2022 and believe me when I say that four years is a long time for a tin can floating in salt water full of drunk people. She’s ready for her spa day. I love Palermo but sadly they are kicking us off the ship during the two week dry dock period. Weird they don’t want to pay us to sit around and eat their food while they’re replacing the engines or whatever.

    I’ll spend dry dock in Switzerland with my best friend and my mom. I’ll tell you all about that when its’s over.

    The last three months, May, June and July, will be based out of Barcelona. A legend of a home port. We swing around France, Spain and Italy on a constantly rotating itinerary of beauty and perfection. Florence, Rome, Ibiza, Sicily, Majorca, Corsica, Nice, Cannes, ugh I’m annoyed at myself just thinking about it.

    cheesin in Malta

    The reality is everything gets old eventually. Feeling like a tourist all the time is boring. There are plenty of days I don’t get off the ship at all. Sometimes it’s nicer to stay onboard when all the sailors are gone and enjoy the quiet of my office on deck 7 all by myself.

    Crew members find hacks for port. We get to revisit the same places again and again so there is less pressure to get it right the first time. We can volunteer to escort the shore excursions for the sailors and get a taste of that vacation life, but most of the time it’s about experiencing the place as a visitor, a person who wants to really appreciate what makes that place unique.

    For me that is the nature, the food, the language, the architecture. I’ll save a few key points in my google maps in my extensive pre-port research but once I’m there, I’m a bird. I fly on instinct. Usually alone but occasionally with one or two friends.

    Connecting to the land is the balance that makes life at sea possible.

    I always dreamed that I would have a life that would allow me to see the world, I never knew that I would be doing it from the water.

    I’ll make sure to come back here and give updates when I visit new ports that I especially love. I am pretty proficient on all the Greek and Croatian ports I visited on my first two contracts, check out my archive at http://www.shiplogblog.com for those.

    PS. I am in the midst of a deep psychological, spiritual and emotional shift. It is psychically draining. I am trying to balance using this space to process those feelings with fun truths and levity about life at sea. Forgive me if it feels schizophrenic. Forgive me if I take longer than a week between posts. Healing is hard.

  • There’s nothing typical about this

    How I function in a tin can in the middle of the ocean when the world is on fire

    This story was originally published to subscribers of Ship Log Blog on Substack. Get new posts by email at the link below:

    www.shiplogblog.substack.com

    Today I’m frustrated because there are too many people sitting in my spot.

    Two days ago I was elated because I had a spiritual experience while held in the arms of Yemaya in Aruba.

    Such is the swing of daily life at sea.

    You build a routine only to have it disrupted, over and over again.

    There is a place outside on deck seven that I refer to as “my office”. It is my refuge. It is the only place on the ship where there is no music playing. There are big couches and shade from the sun and the waves washing away from the ship for miles in every direction. I do a lot of my best thinking there.

    Unless it’s a sea day, like today, and every one of the 2700 sailors onboard have no port to explore, no beach to get drunk on, so they stumble upon my space and think “OH NEAT, LOOK WHAT I FOUND” and lay down and fall asleep.

    The audacity!

    This is of course their ship more than it is mine. I live here, but they pay for it. Such is the truly zen level of acceptance I have achieved.

    I came here with the intention of giving you a “day in the life” post, but I can’t do it.

    Why not?

    • It’s formulaic and I’m done producing what I think people want instead of what feels important to me.
    • There is no such thing as a typical day here. Everything changes while everything stays the same.
    • Nothing about this week has been normal. Nothing about my life or my soul or my country or this world or even the cosmos is normal right now.

    If you’re witchy like me, you probably noticed all the articles about the big astrological shifts happening this week/month. I’m not an astrologer and I take most things with a grain of salt so I won’t attempt to explain them to you, I’ll let the experts do that. Saturn and Neptune moved into Aries (my sun sign) which is a shift 36 years in the making or maybe 6000 years in the making depending on which corner of the sky you’re interpreting.

    The Lunar new year changed over from the Wood Snake to the Fire Horse. There is fuel to be burned and the fire has begun. There was a new moon and an eclipse and a full blood moon on the horizon.

    I am 40 going on 41. I just went through a devastating experience where all of my codependent and insecure attachment tendencies that I REALLY THOUGHT I had worked through were violently hurled upon me. Like I thought I was being presented with a delicious cake that I had patiently waited years for but instead the eternal jokester snuck up behind me and shoved my head so hard into that cake it went up my nose and burned my eyes and choked me out in a very not sexy way.

    My nervous system went crazy. I questioned everything. All these years in therapy trying desperately to understand myself, as if I could just understand why I am this way then I could fix what’s wrong. The underlying belief being that there is something wrong to be fixed.

    When I’m at sea, I have a lot of free time. The kind of free time that might drive some people absolutely nuts. I come into these contracts with PLANS. Writing projects, fitness goals, journals to fill, languages to learn and books to read.

    I finished my most recent book (The Stand by Stephen King) which is about a million pages long and was the same book I was reading when I went through the aforementioned devastating experience. I needed something very different to read. I proceeded to download as many “classics” as I could (I wish I didn’t have to rely so heavily on a kindle while I’m here but I’m sure you can understand the logistical nightmare that physical books provide)

    My downloads included The Picture of Dorian Gray, 1984, Pride and Prejudice, Wuthering Heights (duh), Frankenstein, The Old Man and The Sea, The Bell Jar, 100 years of Solitude and more.

    But all the nervous system regulation I was doing: intentional breathing, grounding into my feet, mantras of “I am safe” and “That was then and this is now” were not doing the whole job, I needed HELP in the weeks between therapy sessions.

    So I went in search of my second spiritual awakening.

    My first spiritual awakening happened in my early 20s when I read books like The Alchemist and The Untethered Soul. I distinctly remember the sense of peace I got from the practice of meditation and detachment that I learned from those books.

    But time took over and I forgot.

    So I started reading Eckhardt Tolle’s The Power of Now. I’m still reading it. It’s what I need. Rewiring 20 years of neural pathways and divesting from an addiction to pain is not easy. In fact it is very painful and confusing.

    Some favorite metaphors of how it feels to be me right now:

    • Being dragged along the muck and silt at the bottom of a river.
    • Dissolving into goo inside a cocoon, fully rebuilding into a butterfly who must fight and push and break it’s way out and then lay vulnerable for days until it’s wings are strong enough to fly.
    • The thick ass seed of a lotus flower that has finally cracked open and must push it’s way through the mud before bursting free into the water and blooming.
    • Trapped in a fucking washing machine full of razor blades.

    That day in Aruba I wrote these words to myself:

    Today’s the day I broke the pattern

    Todays’s the day I took my stand

    Today’s the day I chose myself

    Today’s the day I shed my skin

    Today’s the day I took my power back.

    It was February 16th. That day held astrological power but also personal significance.

    The experience of the last month has been the most painful rebirth of my life, and I believe it will be the most powerful.

    I don’t want understanding anymore, I want peace. I don’t want to shrink myself to make other people comfortable, I want to be big, loud and honest. I want to know that I belong in the room where it happens. I don’t want anyone to ever touch me again unless it’s with love.

    This week in St. Maarten I rode the highest zipline in the world and I chastised myself the whole time for not staying in the moment. The next day I suddenly remembered the powerful way in which I can connect to chi (the life force of energy that flows inside us) as easily as flicking on a light switch and I felt like a powerful magical sorceress.

    Healing is not linear because it is a spiral and holy shit am I riding that spiral right now. Around and around like a blender I go. I’m exhausted, I’m exhilarated, I am DOING THE DAMN THING.

    I’ve started writing to God for strength. GOD. I have a very eastern definition of God and I’ve finally stopped being so prissy about using that word. Interpret it however you want. I need divinity right now.

    We all do.

    This transformation is not singular to me. The old systems are dying. Good riddance. The weak, shriveled patriarchy is gasping it’s last breath. It’s death will be violent. The divine feminine is rising. She will not shrink away and hide her power anymore. Her reign is coming, albeit slowly. The full transmutation may not happen in my lifetime, but I feel it on the horizon.

    The only hope for the human race is spiritual intervention. I can’t say whether we can do it, but I know I’m doing my part. Right now, in my tiny corner of the universe, by facing and embracing my darkness and divinity.

    Here’s your day in the life at sea:

    • I wake up
    • I struggle to get nourishment
    • I hydrate
    • I sit in “my office” to write, read, drink coffee
    • I take pee breaks
    • I giggle with TJ (ship bestie/show partner)
    • I nap
    • I go to the gym (cardio! lifting heavy! it sucks!)
    • I eat again, however unsatisfactorily
    • If it’s a show day, I do the show
    • Breakfast for dinner
    • Bed

    Additions: Have an existential crisis, cry, battle my inner demons, feel guilty, feel enlightened, swim in the ocean, volunteer on land, wander around a new port with cellular roaming turned off, talk to my mom, my therapist, my best friend, embrace the universal truths I have to share, feel scared for the world, feel helpless, delete instagram, resist the urge to live in my pain body, wonder if that guy with the pink scrunchie thinks I’m cute, ignore the DM from the community dick, doubt myself, believe in myself, trust the process, break one rule just to feel alive.

    and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

  • A Peek below

    What’s behind all those “crew only” doors?

    This story was originally published to subscribers of Ship Log Blog on Substack. Get new posts by email at the link below:

    www.shiplogblog.substack.com

    Last night I was walking down the A1A, the navy blue river of buzzing crew business that runs aft to stern on deck four. Carrying my swimsuit in my tote under the bright florescence, avoiding eye contact with housekeeping and tired food service staff amidst a sea of conversation in Tagalog, Afrikaans and Croatian.

    It’s the entertainment department spa night and I don’t want to rub it in. After finishing my first double show, I’m looking forward to getting into this sacred space after midnight with all the dancers and acrobats to sweat out the stress of moving day in the sauna and freeze away the aching pain in my lower back in the cold plunge.

    My show partner TJ and I finally moved into our crew cabins. It was a long day of hauling around suitcases and tracking down someone to unlock our doors but we made it. There is a whole city down here and having the safety of your own room is absolutely key to peace of mind.

    This hidden city includes a crew office, medical center, mess hall, laundry room, dressing rooms, gyms, bars, smoking room, garbage room, a botanical closet for the horticulturalist and even a weapons closet. Not to mention all the food storage rooms and freezers, the engine control room, the ballast tanks, water desalination center and all the other places I have never set foot in my life (I did get invited to a couple secret parties in the engineer’s workshop a couple times but you didn’t hear that from me).

    Amidst all this, my cabin is my sanctuary. I decorate it the second I get inside. For me decorating means using magnets to cover all of the hospitalesque white walls with huge colorful scarves creating a kind of bohemian wall paper. I have a large room (relatively speaking), a full sized bed, two portholes, closets, a desk and my very own bathroom. This sounds luxurious (and for ship life, it really is) but don’t get it twisted, we’re talking about a room that the Kardashians would consider the size of a very small walk in closet.

    My most valuable perk are the portholes. Living by the movement of the sun and waking to natural light is essential for my mental health and for it I am grateful. Few crew have them.

    All operational crew areas are clean and sterile with uniform blue floors and shiny white walls. These arteries of the ship run absolutely everywhere, behind every wall, next to every staircase. It’s overwhelming and confusing at first, but you learn your way around quickly. Discovering the little shortcuts and hidden doors is an important hack to survival. Knowing how to slip through sailor areas because you aren’t wearing the right kind of shoes for the A1A or cutting across that crew stairwell to get to the accessible bathroom in the balcony of the nightclub can save a lot of time and energy. It helps to follow around a seasoned seafarer for your first few weeks to learn the ropes.

    Your peers are the lifeblood of your survival, without them you might as well be adrift at sea screaming for Wilson like Tom Hanks. I could do a whole post about social life below decks, and maybe I will, but for now here’s a brief overview.

    Let me start by saying that I am an anomaly. I’m 40, which makes me an outlier within entertainment where most of the performers are fresh out of college. They like to hang out in big groups and go together to beach clubs and restaurants on land and in gaggles to crew bar on emo night. People plan movie nights and watch parties and dance classes.

    There are so many group chats.

    Having friends and a social support network is important for morale. I participate in this lifestyle sparingly. I tend to collect 2-3 very close friends who are my ride or dies. These are the people I spend time with when I am not sleeping late or reading quietly on deck 7.

    Crew members usually form bonds with those they can relate easiest to, those from the same country or who work in the same department. Smokers end up being friends with smokers, dancers with dancers and drinkers… get fired. Romantic bonds build quickly and intensely and blow up just as fast. More on that later.

    The biggest side effect working on a ship has had on my life and the hardest to explain to those who don’t do it is the unbreakable change in my perception of time. I told myself I would do one contract. “One and Done” she said. And somehow three years have gone by and I’m still here.

    My friend Megs, a ship general manager and career seafarer explained it to me once. She said “Just wait, before you know it we’ll be sitting right back here eating pizza in my cabin and it will feel like we never left”. She was right, it’s like that every time.

    I go home and I relearn how to live like a normal person, I buy my own groceries and cook my own meals, I snuggle my cat and hustle for gigs, I trudge up and down the subway steps in the snow and feel superior for having lived in NYC for my entire adult life.

    Then BOOP suddenly I’m back in my crew cabin staring at the gold Paloma Picasso scarf I use to cover my TV and wonder which port is just outside my window. I’m stuck on this merry-go-round now and I don’t know how to get off. I’ve started longing for it when I’m home, the quiet moments to write and read and lift weights for free while exploring places like New Zealand, Namibia, Montenegro and Martinique.

    While the Sailors sit by the pool getting hammered on piña coladas and achieving their perfect 2nd degree sunburns, thousands of people are below them shuffling up and down hallways pushing carts full of wet towels and cold ice and hot pappardelle ragu.

    While Susan and Derek are getting that sunset selfie in the window of the steakhouse, Althea and Gabriel are washing dishes and shoving dry waste into the incinerator.

    Since mom and dad left the kids at home, they’re fucking on the balcony for an audience of fishes while the contortionist just pulled a muscle in his scapula and the entertainment director has to cancel the 10pm show.

    It’s two worlds on top of each other. Stranger Things has nothing on us.

    I recently went to visit a friend on their ship contract and I spent nine days as a sailor in my own cabin on deck nine. I will never do it again. I did not enjoy the experience of being on a ship without being crew. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was supposed to be working, that I was part of the upside down instead of one of the rubes. I was constantly annoyed that I couldn’t access the crew spaces I’m used to being able to hide away inside. The crew lifestyle has become normalized for me and I don’t want to be onboard unless I’m being paid to be there.

    I’ve tricked you all into thinking this is going to be a blog about working on a cruise ship, this post in particular was the amuse bouche. I hope I’ve lured you into a false sense of security because really soon I’m going to hit you with the heart wrenching existential crisis of it all. See you soon.

    *my company refers to passengers as “sailors”

  • Welcome to Ship Log Blog

    Life behind the scenes on a cruise ship

    This story was originally published to subscribers of Ship Log Blog on Substack. Get new posts by email at the link below:

    shiplogblog.substack.com

    Ahoy crew, welcome aboard!

    My name is Anna, but most people call me Boo. I work as a performer on a cruise ship. This has been my life for the past three years and I am about to embark on my fourth ship contract.

    I live at sea on contracts that last six months at a time. I exist in a double life between the strange floating world that most people only see for a week and my life of the last 22 years in New York City.

    I used to refer to my land life as my “real life” but the longer I’m at sea, the less either feel particularly real.

    This is Ship Log Blog.

    It’s where I write about what life is actually like behind the scenes at sea and how it feels to step back on land.

    The parts few people see.
    The parts you can never truly understand unless you live it.
    The parts that are funny, exciting, heart breaking, beautiful, lonely and surreal.

    Because working on a cruise ship is not a normal job.
    It’s a lifestyle that completely messes with your sense of time, relationships, sleep, geography, and self.

    One day you’re watching the sunset in the middle of the ocean.
    The next you’re trying to remember what country you’re in.
    You form intense friendships that last a contract and disappear at the gangway.
    You live in a tin can with thousands of people and still find ways to be completely alone.

    And somehow, you also become completely addicted to this life. That’s the part that surprised me the most.

    I started writing Ship Log Blog because friends and family kept asking the same questions:

    “What is it really like to work on a cruise ship?”
    “Aren’t you sad to leave home?”
    “Can you fuck the passengers?”

    The answer to that last one is no. The answers to all the others were too big and too complicated for small talk.

    So I started writing them down.

    Here, you’ll get stories about:

    • Crew life and the weird rules we live by
    • Ports around the world through crew eyes
    • The emotional whiplash of living half your life at sea and half on land
    • Relationships and what both distance and extreme closeness does to them
    • The funny, the absurd, and the unexpectedly profound moments that happen on board

    This isn’t a travel blog.

    This is a logbook from someone living at sea.

    If you’ve ever wondered what happens below deck, you’re in the right place. Except it’s not a Bravo show about a luxury yacht, it’s the diary of someone in the trenches struggling to find an empty washing machine in crew laundry on day six.

    I plan to write once a week, either straight from my favorite spot on deck 7 or from the in between moments on land when I’m trying to remember what “real life” means.

    If you’re new here, I’m really glad you found this corner of the internet.

    And if you’ve been reading Ship Log Blog on my website for a while, welcome to the next chapter. This is where the stories arrive first now.

    If you want to dig deep into the archives, check them out at http://www.shiplogblog.com

    Thanks for being here.

    Let’t set sail.

  • New Rules to live by

    Rule Number 1: Don’t fall in love with the fuckboy

    Here I am in Orlando, at rehearsal, about to start my fourth ship contract and instead of brainstorming my writing projects and saving all the cool coffee shops and vintage stores in google maps for my upcoming ports, I am bogged down by a foolishly broken heart. For the past year I have been romantically entangled with an emotionally avoidant Romeo. We spent the majority of 2025 in a long distance non committed unofficial sexy emotional situationship. He spent a week with me in NYC before leaving for his own ship contract. I decided to go visit him onboard during his first month at sea to show him the ropes and finally get dicked down on the balcony of a passenger cabin. After a passionate and intimate week together, I kissed him goodbye and then he jumped into bed with one of the women in his cast so quickly I’m surprised he didn’t get whiplash. Honestly the most embarrassing part is how much it hurt. As if I didn’t see this coming from an ocean away.

    After being single for the past 12 years and celibate for the past three, my heart had finally softened, my pussy swelled and my nervous system bonded to this man. Turns out I can’t make eye contact with you while you are inside of me for nine days straight and not get attached. The resulting crash out has been much more destabilizing than I could have imagined. It holds so much power because I genuinely care about him and I believe he cares about me too. But that’s not enough. I collided head first into the reality that I simply cannot do what I was trying to do. I can’t be in a “casual” relationship with someone who is still building their identity. I can’t deny what I truly want; connection, intimacy, passion and most of all devotion. Denying these truths is denying who I am and I shan’t do it anymore. I SHAN’T I SAY!

    I cut it off as quickly as a could, which in this case was about two weeks later, following an intense theatrical rehearsal and premier process in NYC (more on that later). I miss him. I miss talking to him everyday. I miss sharing thoughts and advice and loving support with someone I care for. Most notably, I miss the innocence and excitement I felt. Hoping and believing that our very genuine connection would lead to attachment, despite all his warnings to the contrary.

    Rule Number 2: When someone tells you who they are, believe them.

    I am proud that I’m honoring myself, listening to my intuition and breaking my generational trauma of codependence but I also hate it here. It felt so good to be seen by him, to feel sexy, desired, cared for. But it was all built on a foundation of uncertainty which was driving me batshit. I could write a novel of opinions about what happened between us but it’s not my business anymore. My job now is to remember that I don’t want someone who doesn’t want me, to let go, to move on and to not let my heart turn back into stone. It would be so cool if I could accomplish that before I leave Orlando so that I can step onboard next week in San Juan with a fresh sense of self. Lofty goals.

    Hey Boo, besides getting dicknotized, what have you been up to for the past seven months?? Good question, thank you for asking dear reader. First I would like to apologize for my long absence from this blog. I could have sworn I wrote a post after my last contract in July. I did not. So here’s a quick recap: I spent April in Vegas, May in NYC, June and July on the ship, attended a friend’s wedding in Greece, crashed with my high school bestie in Geneva, visited Harry in Edinburgh for the Fringe, did some hiking in the French alps, drove to Turin, spent the night in Orta San Giulio in Italy and then landed right back in Brooklyn in September.

    I wrote a one woman show. My visit to the Edinburgh Fringe was a fact finding mission; should I self produce my show here? The overwhelming answer to that question was a resounding hell no. Not yet. That is a financial risk I am not currently in the position to take. A beloved and trusted adviser and mentor told me: “The way to the fringe is to get cast in someone else’s show, go there on someone else’s dime, use your time to make connections, guest in variety shows and practice pitching your own stuff.” Her words to the goddess’s ears.

    Lo and behold. One month back in NYC, wondering what in the absolute fuck I was going to spend my winter doing, I got a text from a director I have worked with many times in the past. Someone I auditioned for 20 years ago and have done three different plays with including fringe festivals and an autobiographical one woman show that she wrote. She and her husband/co-producer took me to dinner and told me that after years of doing the North American fringe circuit, they are finally ready to go to Edinburgh and did I want to be in their play. Serendipity at it’s finest folks.

    I spent the fall and winter rehearsing for that play while also taking a writing class at NYU. The writing class was everything I hoped it would be and more, I would do it again in every timeline. I also spent this time barely making a living. My gigs have dwindled to the barest minimum and I had to live off my previous contract money. I did some production management for a producer I like, I took a marketing class, I got LASIK and I got really good at taking nudes. It helps to be creative when nurturing a long distance sexual liaison. Voice notes are fun. Damn I miss that part too.

    The man came to stay with me and I found I enjoyed navigating life next to him (uh oh), the holidays came and went, rehearsals ramped up, I visited the man at sea, my romantic fantasy came crashing down, rehearsal and tech week commenced while my nervous system shook like it was in a washing machine, I packed up all of my belongings, the show premiered, I squeezed my cat and then I got on a plane.

    The rehearsal process for the ship is different this time. TJ and I already know the show, we don’t need much work. We have understudies for the first time, so most of the work is them watching us and learning. I have finally come to the realization that this is my only source of income now. I have resisted the idea of coming back here over and over again but it looks like that is my path. There is not a lot of work in my field at the moment and I am very lucky to have this job. Over the past three years I have figured out how to lead two lives, six months at a time. I think I’ll be riding this wave for as long as it’s available to me.

    My contract will end on July 26th in Barcelona. We’re hitting 2 continents, 37 countries and doing a transatlantic crossing. As soon as I debark I’ll head straight to Scotland where I will join the team for our month long run with TheSpace UK in a 54 seat venue on The Royal Mile. We will run the show over zoom while I’m at sea to try to keep it fresh. When we are docked in NYC over the month of April I will get off the ship, go to rehearsal, run the show and then get back onboard. Talk about double life! While onboard I’ll be working on the short story I started in my writing class, workshopping my one woman show and developing a new tv project based very loosely on this blog. I am so grateful for this time to create art while putting money in my IRA and paying off my laser eye surgery. In September my best friend and I are going to Borneo to celebrate our 40th birthdays even though we’ll both be 41 by then.

    I promised a loyal reader I would blog once a month. I would like to transition this forum into one I engage with both on land and at sea. Help keep me honest.

    Rule Number 3: Don’t ever take the budget airline

    This rule needs no explanation.