BrianDavidBruns

If your ship sinks and you’re stranded, without food or water, with only an open boat and your own resources, can you stay alive?
Sure!
This was proven in rather dramatic fashion by Frenchman Alain Bombard, who believed people could survive such trials. On October, 19, 1953 he voluntarily set off from the Canary Islands to cross the Atlantic in a 15 foot rubber boat. He intended to make it to the West Indies. Not a scrap of food. Not a drop of water. Just his clothes and an inflatable cushion.
Bombard believed that shipwreck survivors died drinking seawater simply because they waited too long to do so. From the time he set off, he drank 1.5 pints (.71 liters) of seawater every day. He supplemented this with water squeezed from fish caught with a makeshift harpoon. Gross? Yes. But not as bad as the raw plankton he swallowed. He would trail a cloth through the sea to capture the microscopic organisms, figuring if they could keep a whale alive, then he’d have no problem. Unlike a whale, which can gobble zillions of the stuff with one big mouthful, he struggled to get one or two teaspoons of it a day. After twenty days of this self-induced torture, he broke out in a painful rash.
But he wasn’t dead.
Not that the sea didn’t try. A storm within days of setting out nearly wrecked his little rubber boat. His sail ripped and the spare was blown away entirely. More distressing still was what else it blew away: his inflatable cushion. Knowing he could live without food and water, but not without a comfortable posterior, Bombard secured his craft with a sea anchor and jumped overboard after it. While he was diving, he discovered to his horror that the sea anchor was not working. This parachute-like device was tied to the boat and left to drag in the ocean, thus keeping the craft nearby. Without it, the current was sweeping the boat hopelessly out of reach. Luckily the sea anchor fixed itself—it had been caught in its own mooring line—and he was able to haul himself back aboard. Strangely, whether he retrieved the cushion or not was never revealed.
Weeks passed, but Alain Bombard did not die. He survived off of seawater, plankton, and whatever raw fish he could catch at the surface. On day 53 he hailed a passing ship to ask his position. Sadly, he had another 600 miles to go before reaching his intended destination. He seriously considered giving up, for had he not already vindicated his supposition that man could survive on sea water? After a meal on the ship, his spirits were revived, however, and he voluntarily returned to his little rubber boat.
On Christmas Eve he reached Barbados, having sailed more than 2,750 miles (4425 kilometers) in 65 days. He lost 56 pounds (25 kilograms), but was otherwise fine. And that was in an open boat with nothing. If your cruise ship goes down and you’re in a life raft, it has a roof. That makes a huge difference. Also, life rafts are equipped with emergency rations of food and water, and even fishing kits. Most importantly of all, however, is that modern life rafts have radio transponders. You won’t have to wait months. Probably not even days.
The moral of the story? If your ship goes down, don’t panic. Be awesome. You absolutely have it in you. It's just gonna taste really bad.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
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Working midnight buffet, I sensed something was wrong. Ketchup bottles slid to port. All of them, in unison. Any sharp turn was amplified up here on deck 14, but Conquest continued to list further… further…. Silverware bundles tumbled off tables. Then plates. The ship keeled more. Waiters were ordered to the dish room to manually hold up stacks of plates and saucers. Glasses were deemed safe in their washing racks. But it was too late. Sharp crashes cried entire stacks of plates were gone… one… three… a cascade.
And Conquest kept listing.
Simultaneously two dozen ketchup bottles exploded on the tiles. Plates in hundreds shattered everywhere. I tripped over a plastic pitcher crushed open on the floor. In a flash the cream inside streaked fifty feet across the deck. Now I had to hold onto something to avoid falling myself. Then she righted. The chaos audibly lessened, but only for a moment. Conquest righted abruptly: too abruptly. Experienced crew members knew what that meant and abandoned property in favor of protecting themselves. I gripped the buffet as the floor tried to dump me starboard. The cream was still very much alive, a shocking white lightning bolt zigzagging into the dark. Watching the fluid move so violently made me realize there was something much greater to worry about. A waiter was stationed by the pool.
I scrambled over the slanting deck to the stern with great difficulty; to the pizza station, the grill, the pool. A gaping, empty hole was the pool, for all water had already pushed out to sweep across the restaurant before draining en masse to the deck below. The unsecured tables were piled high in a corner, entangled and dripping, legs worked together like the roots of a mangrove. Perched atop and soaked to the skin was a smiling Indonesian waiter.
A close call, but everyone was all right. What had happened?
Conquest had nearly collided with an errant barge while entering the busy mouth of the Mississippi River. A late-night sinking in the vast, black wastes of the ocean, a la Titanic, it was not. But was being ten miles from the unlit, swampy, forested bayou really any better? Because the water was not one degree above freezing didn’t mean a better chance at survival, it meant you’d linger… terrified… struggling… until exhaustion took you down, down to the dark depths.
So should you be scared of ships hitting each other?
No. How many big ship collisions have their been in the last century? In the modern cruising era, only the Andrea Doria—and that was in 1956. In a foggy night near Nantucket she was struck broadside by the MS Stockholm. The Andrea Doria listed so badly that half her lifeboats were unusable. Despite this, her modern ship design was so efficient she remained afloat for eleven hours, allowing all survivors to be safely evacuated. That’s less miracle and more engineering. Miraculous was Linda Morgan. The teenager was sleeping in her cabin with her half-sister when the ships struck. The blow somehow lifted her into the bow of the Stockholm and deposited her safely behind a bulkhead as the ships scraped along each other through the fog. Later, she was found wandering around asking for her mother in her native Spanish, much to the astonishment of the Swedish-speaking crew. Her sister was not so lucky, nor were 45 others directly struck by the collision. But nowadays ships have even more safety features, including zillions of inflatable life rafts that deploy automatically. They don’t need electronics, just physics. They can’t go wrong. Neither can you, if you stay calm. So enjoy your cruise!
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
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One would think that having my own, personal cabin would protect me from unwelcome surprises due to strangers. One would be wrong. First sight of my cabin on Sensation was a doozy. It was an interior guest cabin with beds against two different walls. The room reeked of fish.
“What’s with the separate bunks?” I asked my departing counterpart, Robin. “Aren’t you here with your girlfriend?” He was about to answer when a very tall, attractive woman entered. She was six feet tall and, while pleasantly slender, still built solid. Her long hair was naturally blonde, but the last six inches were dyed black. She wore a cowboy hat and boots over snug blue jeans. Vanessa was her name. She answered, “He stinks. He belches all night, so I want as much distance as possible.”
“You like cod liver oil?” she suddenly asked, prompting me to reply, “You asking me on a date?”
She gestured broadly to the room. “We’ve got plenty for ya. I’m sick of ‘em. If I smell one more damned pill, I’m gonna puke. Loverboy here don’t eat no food, jus’ lives off cod liver oil.”
A quick glance proved Vanessa wasn’t kidding. I counted no less than four bottles of cod liver pills of varying sizes. A fifth bottle lay on its side on a bunk behind where Robin sat, looking suspiciously as if it had dumped its contents between the cushions. A family-sized jar with a wide mouth was currently open, the smell of heavy fish oil almost visually emanated from it.
“Aren’t you supposed to refrigerate those once opened?” I asked in wonder. Robin scoffed, “Bah! You Yanks always worry about stuff like that.”
“So’d you tell him yet?” Vanessa asked Robin. He ignored her, but she pressed the question. Robin reacted strongly, and suddenly both were glaring at each other, postures frozen in defiance: she tall and leaning willowy-strong over him, he looking up to meet her with bulldog neck tensed and fists clenched. He finally spat, “Shut up, woman!”
Offended, Vanessa snatched up the nearest bottle of fish oil pills—the family-sized jar sans lid—and hurled it at him. Delicate globules of smelly fish oil sprayed wide, bouncing off Robin to clatter off the walls, the desk, the bed and everything else until they found every last corner.
Robin snarled, reaching for her. She gamely bounced back, but this was no game. They exchanged all manner of insults, voices rising until she screeched and he bellowed. Finally he muscled his way in to give her a solid slap across the face. The sound was shockingly loud. Violence in person is completely unlike anything in the movies. It was immediate, intimate, horrible.
“Oh!” she cried in surprise, hair flinging wild. I leapt in between the two of them, now shouting myself. I had no idea what was going on, even as I sensed this was not an unusual occurrence between them. Indeed, before I could interfere they both whirled upon me as one.
“This is none of your business, Yank!” Robin bellowed.
“I can handle this myself!” Vanessa echoed. She was already returning her attention to her adversary, adding, “I’m from Texas!”
Vanessa delivered a tremendous blow of her own, a wallop that sent Robin reeling. Before he had a chance to recover, she shoved him onto the bed. Next came a sharp crack of head hitting the bulkhead, and Robin collapsed. He gave a low moan, and Vanessa was atop him. Then they began madly kissing, passionately rolling across the tiny bunk… and grinding cod liver pills into my future mattress.
Excerpted from Ship for Brains [Cruise Confidential, Book 2] by Brian David Bruns (World Waters, 2011)

I stumbled onto this blog by “Crewbar Queen,” begun on two separate sites several years ago. She obviously held a staff position, based on the ease of her entry into ships. She didn’t see it that way. Her words, filled with anxiety and confusion, moved me. All crew can relate to her every word. Below is her only post.
“It’s Sunday and I joined the ship today. I am already exhausted. I look around as I type this, staring at the four walls of this closet size cabin with four beds in it. Soon my roommates will be off work so I am glad I was able to shower before they get back. One bathroom, four beds, one tv, one other Canadian, a Filipino Girl and a Romanian. I can't remember their names yet. The Romanian girl seemed stuck up as hell. In fact, so did most of the Romanian girls I met today.
“I wonder what I am doing here. From the second I stepped onboard today, I have been pulled in every direction, fitted for an ugly red uniform, thrown into a boring three hour safety class which pretty much has me fearing a Titanic-like experience now, and I have been lost three times.
“I am starting work tomorrow. I will just stand alongside some girl who seems to struggle with the English language, and learn as I go. 2000 guests got off the ship today and another 2000 got on. I am feeling a little overwhelmed at the amount of knowledge I need to have. Everyone here seems so intense. The Safety Manager flipped out on me and this other Canadian girl when we were late for class today. He actually threatened to send us back home before we left port. I never realized I would need to know how many lifeboats a ship carries, or how to evacuate the passengers. Isn't there a captain and some sort of safety squad for that??
“I kind of miss home. I packed my life into cardboard boxes in less than a week and left every comfort zone I was sheltered by. The small voice inside of me that I normally ignore finally spoke loud enough to get me here, and now it's still trying to talk me through it. This is supposed to be a chance to see the world and an opportunity to grow.
“Later - My roommates are back and I am sitting in bed. The Romanian girl’s name is Alina. She hardly said two words to me when she got here, but she sure is full of conversation for this guy in her bed now. All I can hear is her giggling and his deep Caribbean accent. I guess he's her boyfriend. I didn't realize we could fit another body into this cabin. Wait...is she really....what the f@#$, they are screwing!
“Does she not realize two other people are in this room? Does she seriously think this curtain that closes around each bunk is sound proof?? I open my curtain and look across at the bunk next to me where the Filipino girl, Carmella, is sitting. I look at her as if to say, "is this really happening?". She smiles obliviously and keeps staring at the TV, slurping her instant noodles. Clearly, this is something she is used to. I'm logging off for the night. I'm not to used to falling asleep to live porn, I think I'll pop in some of these ear plugs they gave us to drown out the sound of the engine and try to get some sleep.”
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

I stumbled onto this blog by “Crewbar Queen,” begun on two separate sites several years ago. She obviously held a staff position, based on the ease of her entry into ships. She didn’t see it that way. Her words, filled with anxiety and confusion, moved me. All crew can relate to her every word. Below is her only post.
“It’s Sunday and I joined the ship today. I am already exhausted. I look around as I type this, staring at the four walls of this closet size cabin with four beds in it. Soon my roommates will be off work so I am glad I was able to shower before they get back. One bathroom, four beds, one tv, one other Canadian, a Filipino Girl and a Romanian. I can't remember their names yet. The Romanian girl seemed stuck up as hell. In fact, so did most of the Romanian girls I met today.
“I wonder what I am doing here. From the second I stepped onboard today, I have been pulled in every direction, fitted for an ugly red uniform, thrown into a boring three hour safety class which pretty much has me fearing a Titanic-like experience now, and I have been lost three times.
“I am starting work tomorrow. I will just stand alongside some girl who seems to struggle with the English language, and learn as I go. 2000 guests got off the ship today and another 2000 got on. I am feeling a little overwhelmed at the amount of knowledge I need to have. Everyone here seems so intense. The Safety Manager flipped out on me and this other Canadian girl when we were late for class today. He actually threatened to send us back home before we left port. I never realized I would need to know how many lifeboats a ship carries, or how to evacuate the passengers. Isn't there a captain and some sort of safety squad for that??
“I kind of miss home. I packed my life into cardboard boxes in less than a week and left every comfort zone I was sheltered by. The small voice inside of me that I normally ignore finally spoke loud enough to get me here, and now it's still trying to talk me through it. This is supposed to be a chance to see the world and an opportunity to grow.
“Later - My roommates are back and I am sitting in bed. The Romanian girl’s name is Alina. She hardly said two words to me when she got here, but she sure is full of conversation for this guy in her bed now. All I can hear is her giggling and his deep Caribbean accent. I guess he's her boyfriend. I didn't realize we could fit another body into this cabin. Wait...is she really....what the f@#$, they are screwing!
“Does she not realize two other people are in this room? Does she seriously think this curtain that closes around each bunk is sound proof?? I open my curtain and look across at the bunk next to me where the Filipino girl, Carmella, is sitting. I look at her as if to say, "is this really happening?". She smiles obliviously and keeps staring at the TV, slurping her instant noodles. Clearly, this is something she is used to. I'm logging off for the night. I'm not to used to falling asleep to live porn, I think I'll pop in some of these ear plugs they gave us to drown out the sound of the engine and try to get some sleep.”
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

The anatomy of a conch is a curious and unnerving thing.
“Yeah, mon,” said the Bahamian in the conch shack by the sea. “Take da skin and eyes right off, den trow dem in da water. Dey live by demselves for two more days.”
My friend Laureen leaned over the counter to get a better look. In Donny’s hands was a large conch shell and a knife. “No, uh, gills or organs or anything?” I asked. “Just the skin? Living?”
Donny demonstrated. Experienced fingers pulled from the shell a floppy, purplish alien-slug-thing. Using his knife, he expertly cut something slimy off of something else slimy—conch skin and eyes from conch body, presumably—then tossed it over his shoulder. Through the open rear of the shack it flew, to plop back into the Caribbean Sea.
Donny was a thick man of middle years. The majority of his hair was going grey, and the majority of his teeth were going away. He and his wife, Monique, were proprietors of The Burning Spot, one of a long row of conch shacks lining a pier nestled beneath the huge bridge leading to Paradise Island. The Burning Spot was the size of a garden shed, though the entire back was open to the sea. From the ceiling dangled all sorts of oddities mixed in with daily use items. Funky ornaments made of seashells swung in the breeze, bumping into grill brushes and spatter guards. The front wall of the shack folded into a counter, over which Laureen and I draped ourselves, beside a pile of conch shells strung together and heaped several feet high. As we watched Donny continue to intimately manipulate the conch, I pressed into the stack of conch shells.
“Gaaaaah!” I suddenly bellowed, stumbling backwards. Laureen teased me with a voice usually reserved for small children, “Was it all slimy and icky, Bri Bri?”
“I-I just got tentacled!” I protested. “These things are still alive!” Donny and Monique laughed hysterically. Monique buried her face into his broad shoulder, overcome with mirth.
“If their skin can stay alive for two days,” Laureen observed, poking me “Whatcha think a whole one can do?” I muttered, “I thought they were just shells. For decoration.”
“Decoration’s over dere, mon,” Donny said, gesturing above him with his dripping knife. In the sheltered corner hung an old and tired pom pom, heavy and limp, some strands stuck to a cast iron pan. There was obviously a story there, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it. Watching Donny laugh maniacally holding a sharp knife in one hand, and a slain alien in the other, brought to mind all sorts of B-rated horror movie imagery.
“Donny catch dem every mornin’,” Monique said, to which I quipped, “Cheerleaders?”
Monique laughed heartily, revealing huge, brilliant teeth. “He wish! He jump right off de back here sunup. Dey come to de pier every day, like de ships.”
Donny’s continuing work freaked me out. From the bodies of the conchs he pulled weird, half toothpick-sized slivers of what looked like gelatin. Each such find brought delight, and he promptly popped them in his mouth. He loved ‘em. I didn’t have the stomach to ask if they were conch anatomy or parasites. Yet despite the grisly performance, the results were worthy. We took our bowls of chilled conch salad to a crooked wooden table in front of the shack, and readily devoured the contents. The minutes-fresh meat was firm and bright. Mixed in were chopped tomatoes, onions, and peppers, the whole doused in copious amounts of freshly squeezed lime juice, then a pinch of salt and pepper. The conch salad was delicious.
*excerpted from Unsinkable Mister Brown, by Brian David Bruns. PARIS BOOK FESTIVAL WINNER: SILVER
Available everywhere books are sold.

Few things bring out fear, prejudice, and ethnocentrism more completely than medical care on cruise ships. We’re all subject to a bit of this. After all, when ill, who doesn’t prefer mom’s chicken soup over an injection, regardless of how credentialed the medical professional may be? Alas, mom’s not on the cruise, so we have to rely on the ship’s medical staff. But is he/she credentialed? Yes. Is he/she what you are used to at home? No. Does it matter? Probably not.
First, the scare-tactics: an oft-cited paper by Consumer Affairs in 2002 found medical facilities on ships lacking. They were quite harsh without actually providing much data. For example, they claimed a survey conducted by the American Medical Association found 27% of ship doctors and nurses did not have ‘advanced training’ in treating heart attacks. They did not define ‘advanced training,’ so even a gastroenterologist serving a stint at sea could easily be considered unqualified. Yet these ‘severely lacking’ individuals, as the article called them, have a success rate that puts U.S. hospitals to shame. Indeed, losing merely .000004% of such patients are odds I’ll take any day! Those are numbers cited in that very same article, by the way. The language was damning. The numbers were not.
Ship doctors rarely see passengers for anything beyond dehydration or stomach ache. The overwhelming majority of medical issues you’ll have on a cruise will be what you brought with you: heart attacks being most common. Time is the most important issue in treating heart attack, not size of the facility. Still not convinced? Consider: “living on a cruise ship provides a better quality of life and is cost effective for elderly people who need help to live independently”, according to a study published in the Journal of the American Geriatrics Society (2004). Many elderly, high-risk folks hop from ship to ship, more than satisfied with ship facilities and personnel. A brilliant article from CNN Health explains much of ship doctor training: http://brev.is/pzt3
I’ve met many a cruise ship nurse and doctor. More than a few are American surgeons and nurse practitioners that have taken tours as ship medical personnel for a change of pace. But most ship doctors are not licensed in the U.S. That doesn’t mean they haven’t been licensed professionals for a great many years back home. That home may be from Europe, for example, or Africa. This is where ethnocentrism rears its ugly head. Whispers of witch doctors. I’ve read online complaints (generally from my fellow Americans) of “some African doctor identifying my wife’s ailment as caused by her sins and prescribing a bath in the blood of Jesus Christ.” I find this as plausible as reports of Elvis sightings.
Ultimately, cruise lines are not required to provide medical care at all. You are placing yourself under the perceived protection of a corporation; corporations that intentionally pay taxes in one country, register ships in another, hire employees from many, take passengers from yet more, then sail where there are no laws at all. If you have an underlying medical condition or concern, it behooves you to take responsibility for your own care by research and preparation. As ships often mention, their medical facilities are the equivalent of a small town. If a medical emergency emerges beyond the abilities of the ship, you will be helicoptered off to the nearest hospital. If that’s not in the U.S., so be it. If you are that terrified of the rest of the world’s standards, then don’t leave home.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
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Halloween is the one glorious night where you are not only free, but encouraged, to embrace that which brings fear and loathing into the hearts and minds of common man. A cross-dressing man fits into that category as snugly as, say, Freddie Kruger or H.R. Giger’s Alien. But sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do.
Gathering a Halloween costume of any kind while sailing the Mediterranean is no small task, but even more so on the Wind Surf. Though the world’s largest sailing ship, she was still small enough to fit into as many old world ports as you can imagine. Thus we were in port seven days a week, frequently in seven different nations. Cobbling together a unified costume from bits and pieces obtained in Morocco, Spain, France, Monaco, Malta, Tunisia, Italy, Croatia, and Greece is not easy—especially when none of those countries celebrate the American holiday. Regardless, a Halloween crew party was announced, and nothing brings a shiver down my spine more than the thought of missing a crew party.
But what to be, and how? There were no superstores loaded with costumes, nor seasonal businesses in strip malls. Solutions always present themselves, however, and in my case it was in the form of… well, getting into women’s pants. While I admit to constantly thinking about getting into women’s pants, that rarely means actually donning them. But this is just what was suggested one evening when brainstorming with a friend from the spa.
“I have nothing to wear,” I lamented to Natalie, echoing women everywhere and from all times. Natalie noted this. “You sound just like my cabin mate,” she said. “Claudia whined about not having a dress for formal night, so I offered her one of mine.” I laughed, while she chortled in her wine. Natalie was six foot two inches tall, a full foot taller than Claudia. “You would fit better into one of my dresses,” Natalie continued. An idea was born.
So I borrowed a slim black dress from the Australian giantess and next port, Toulon, France, I found a wig shop. I opted for dirty blonde. Shoes were hopeless for my size twelve and a half feet (we weren’t in Vegas, after all), but accessories were hurled upon me by the entire spa staff. After great deliberation by the spa girls doing my makeover, I was ordered to shave my goatee. I complied. Then came the order to shave my chest. I did not. Soon enough, however, I was all dolled up and ready for the Halloween party on Wind Surf.
When I arrived to the party arm in arm with Natalie, everything came to a screeching halt. Literally: the Italian DJ actually fumbled with his music, horrified. Italian men would rather be hurled into the bowels of Hell than be seen without their machismo. The Asian crew stared, agog, while the usually uptight Brits gave me surprisingly ‘understanding’ nods.
Because the Surf was so small, the party only involved a few dozen crew members. Most costumes were improvised. Natalie wrapped herself toga-like in a white sheet and played goddess. Several spa girls borrowed boiler suits and with the help of lacy bras became… well… slutty, grease-smeared engineers. They were very popular, as one could imagine. The Canadian dive instructor grabbed a gondolier outfit in Venice, while the Indonesian (and flamboyantly gay) photographer just pranced around in his underwear. Oh, he also wore skull makeup. By the end of the night, most people were following suit. It was quite a party, as crew parties always are.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
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Like in any big city, few stars can be seen at night on a cruise ship. Even if sailing black waters with black sky far from mankind, the ships themselves blast so much light pollution that you see nothing but black. It’s just like how stars are not visible from the surface of the moon. I pondered this while at the stern rail, as aft, port, and starboard were impenetrable black. Far beyond the bow, however, the orange glow of oil refineries illuminated the swamps of Louisiana. We were nearing the mouth of the Mississippi River and occasional navigation beacons of red and green popped through the broken surface of the sea.
“What happens if I fall overboard?” a man had asked me earlier. It was such a common question that my answer had become habit. “The ship will stop and a boat will pick you up.”
But this was only half true. I gazed into the wake of the ship and watched the brown water churn. The waves looked very small indeed from the top decks. If the hundred-plus foot fall did not kill the passenger, he would disappear in the gargantuan swells. Fortunately, it is unlikely modern azipod propellers would chop him into chum. Safety training was very clear in the case of a man overboard: throw a life-ring first, then call the bridge. People assume the life-ring is simply a flotation device, but it is in fact much more. A person’s head will disappear from sight within seconds from the deck of a big ship. After throwing a life ring we were trained to grab someone, anyone, to physically point at the swimmer and not stop until he’s found, no matter how long it takes. That physical act of pointing is paramount, for even if aware of the swimmer, he’ll be lost in less than one minute at sea. But at night? And if no one sees you fall? Goodbye.
That very cruise someone had, in fact, gone overboard. Rumors of how and why among the crew and guests were rampant. The leading story among passengers was that two honeymooners were arguing and there was a push. Crew thought differently. Another suicide, most agreed. For suicides were not so rare on cruise ships. More than a few folks intentionally spent their every last penny on a final week of wild abandon and, late on the final night, jumped overboard. What better way to ensure no one will rescue you? How many people are looking aft of a ship at 3AM? It is possible to survive such falls, but unlikely unless you’re a fighter.
Though statistically utterly insignificant, unexplained deaths on a cruise ship do happen. Because most occur in international waters, reporting obligations and behavior are decidedly less than altruistic. Cruise lines invariably fudge reporting, because people read headlines, not articles. Whether it’s a suicide or not matters little to critics, who pounce upon any hint of cruise line recklessness. Even if it is a suicide, days can pass before verification from land-based authorities, even with the presence of a note. By then, sensational headlines can blow things wildly out of proportion.
On that cruise, nobody knew for certain what happened. An investigation was resolved somewhere on land, as was always the case. The only fact the crew knew for sure was that the man was never found until he washed up on the Gulf Coast several days later.
I focused on a floating piece of flotsam and watched it disappear into the night. It was lost to the blackness within fifteen seconds.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns
Discover life below the waterline, where dozens of nationalities combine in ways none could have ever imagined. Strange cabins mates, strange food, strange ports, and strange ways (not to mention strange guests!). From the author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential comes the memories, the dramas, and most of all the laughs, of a job unlike anything else in the world. We enjoy vacation. They live adventure.

Like in any big city, few stars can be seen at night on a cruise ship. Even if sailing black waters with black sky far from mankind, the ships themselves blast so much light pollution that you see nothing but black. It’s just like how stars are not visible from the surface of the moon. I pondered this while at the stern rail, as aft, port, and starboard were impenetrable black. Far beyond the bow, however, the orange glow of oil refineries illuminated the swamps of Louisiana. We were nearing the mouth of the Mississippi River and occasional navigation beacons of red and green popped through the broken surface of the sea.
“What happens if I fall overboard?” a man had asked me earlier. It was such a common question that my answer had become habit. “The ship will stop and a boat will pick you up.”
But this was only half true. I gazed into the wake of the ship and watched the brown water churn. The waves looked very small indeed from the top decks. If the hundred-plus foot fall did not kill the passenger, he would disappear in the gargantuan swells. Fortunately, it is unlikely modern azipod propellers would chop him into chum. Safety training was very clear in the case of a man overboard: throw a life-ring first, then call the bridge. People assume the life-ring is simply a flotation device, but it is in fact much more. A person’s head will disappear from sight within seconds from the deck of a big ship. After throwing a life ring we were trained to grab someone, anyone, to physically point at the swimmer and not stop until he’s found, no matter how long it takes. That physical act of pointing is paramount, for even if aware of the swimmer, he’ll be lost in less than one minute at sea. But at night? And if no one sees you fall? Goodbye.
That very cruise someone had, in fact, gone overboard. Rumors of how and why among the crew and guests were rampant. The leading story among passengers was that two honeymooners were arguing and there was a push. Crew thought differently. Another suicide, most agreed. For suicides were not so rare on cruise ships. More than a few folks intentionally spent their every last penny on a final week of wild abandon and, late on the final night, jumped overboard. What better way to ensure no one will rescue you? How many people are looking aft of a ship at 3AM? It is possible to survive such falls, but unlikely unless you’re a fighter.
Though statistically utterly insignificant, unexplained deaths on a cruise ship do happen. Because most occur in international waters, reporting obligations and behavior are decidedly less than altruistic. Cruise lines invariably fudge reporting, because people read headlines, not articles. Whether it’s a suicide or not matters little to critics, who pounce upon any hint of cruise line recklessness. Even if it is a suicide, days can pass before verification from land-based authorities, even with the presence of a note. By then, sensational headlines can blow things wildly out of proportion.
On that cruise, nobody knew for certain what happened. An investigation was resolved somewhere on land, as was always the case. The only fact the crew knew for sure was that the man was never found until he washed up on the Gulf Coast several days later.
I focused on a floating piece of flotsam and watched it disappear into the night. It was lost to the blackness within fifteen seconds.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns
Discover life below the waterline, where dozens of nationalities combine in ways none could have ever imagined. Strange cabins mates, strange food, strange ports, and strange ways (not to mention strange guests!). From the author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential comes the memories, the dramas, and most of all the laughs, of a job unlike anything else in the world. We enjoy vacation. They live adventure.

Moving up from waiter to manager in Carnival Cruise Lines was literal: I ascended six decks above the crew who dwell below the waterline. As a junior officer I still had a cabin-mate, but things were looking up. This was the officer’s deck, after all, and I would no longer be subjected to the crew’s competing music (usually Indian vs. hip hop) long after the quiet-hours (which begin at 10PM). For the previous several months I had tried to sleep with my head and feet pressed against walls thumping with bass and plugging my ears over lyrics such as, “Yo, yo, I hate cops and bit*hes, but cops and bit*hes both want me.” Now the music had moved to the other end of the spectrum: “Let your light shine through me, oh Lord, my shepherd.”
You see, my new cabin-mate, from northern India, was a Reborn Christian. When Bogo wasn’t praying out loud (while showering, shaving, dressing, or really just breathing) he was preaching to me. He had so many Bibles to give away that I had to relinquish the shelf in my bunk for the overflow. This was not a big deal, though I’m no longer Christian. Bogo was a good guy. He was probably forty-something, with a graying Persian-style mustache and shaved head. A strange series of indentations marred the back of his skull, not unlike someone pressing their fingers into a wet ball of clay. How he shaved in those grooves I never found out. How he got the horrendous purple circles beneath his eyes I found out all too well.
More trying than the continual reminders that I was going to Hell were the photos of his baby plastered all over the walls. Bogo had been denied leave to see the birth of his son—no reason given—so photos were all the poor guy had. I know he wanted to experience that magical, monumental moment of birth, but honestly, I didn’t. Couldn’t he have shown photos of a two-minute baby, carefully cleaned and warmly wrapped in a blanket with Mom? Instead I was barraged with Junior’s first terrifying seconds in this world: discolored, slimy, and screaming. Bogo displayed no less than fifteen full-sized glossy photos by his bunk. They scared me so much I leapt into the top bunk like a child avoiding the monster under his bed.
What really bothered me was that Bogo was an insomniac. I discovered this in dramatic fashion.
In the afternoon just two days before I had left the charming Transylvanian town where I had vacationed (I carefully omitted any mention of this Pagan location to Bogo), and drove four hours to Brasov. At midnight I drove five more hours to Bucharest, followed by a pre-dawn flight to Frankfurt. Then came the eleven hour flight to Chicago (with screaming kids beside me), followed by another five hours flight to New Orleans. Then came the final hour-plus taxi to Gulfport, Mississippi. I was exhausted, but immediately put to work on the ship for fifteen straight hours, literally without even a fifteen minute break. I knew that low-level management always got the worst of it, but ships are insane.
Sometime about 3:30AM I finally got off work and shuffled to my cabin. I had not slept a wink in fifty hours and countless time zones. My eyes burned, my head pounded, and my muscles barely worked. Too tired to even undress, I pulled my heavy body onto the bunk for a glorious six hours of sleep before the next shift. Ecstasy was closing my eyes, soothing the itch, watching the redness melt lovingly into cool blackness. I drifted gratefully into slumber… until a voice commanded, “Admit your sins and I will lead you in prayer!”

*Warning: profanity implied within (only implied, but we’re talkin’ about sailors here…)
New York Stock Exchange on a Sunday night.
Bourbon Street on a Monday morning.
Cruise ship kitchen on a galley tour.
All are silent, empty sights unable to convey the absolute bedlam and pandemonium perpetrated there daily. The echoes have died, the detritus of maelstrom removed: ticker tape swept, bottles recycled, grills scraped. I understand the desire to join a galley tour, but it really is useless in understanding the function of the place. For cruise ship galleys are not about equipment, nor layout, nor routine. They are not about the useless statistics guides boast of, of zillions of dishes served in mere minutes, etc. Cruise ship galleys are about the workers sweating and swearing and stealing within.
Swearing and stealing? THAT never happened at the chef’s table inside the kitchen, you say. Yeah, and I’m sure your teenage kids behave exactly the same when you’re gone as they do when you’re watching. Galley tours are organized groups pulsing through shiny stainless steel corridors like blood pumping through a healthy heart; meal times are a violent cardiac arrest, with bodies straining against blockage. As time ticks by the heart palpitates and everyone and everything pushes harder, louder, more erratically. But bodies pooling by the front line have nowhere to go. Pressure rises and things turn ugly. Eventually at every meal something will rupture and waiters will scamper and steal every which way, like internal bleeding.
Too graphic a metaphor, you think? Hardly. It’s a jungle in there. Cruise ship waiters squabble over hash browns like hyenas fighting for scraps stolen from a lion’s kill. It’s survival of the fittest. I will never, ever forget the first time I was assigned to pick up the hot food at breakfast in the dining room on Carnival Conquest. I had been given sixteen orders simultaneously. So had everyone else. Simultaneously.
“Hi, chef,” I began, “I need, uh, six orders of eggs over-easy, two with pancakes, one with bacon, one with pancakes and bacon, two with sausage and bacon, and one with pancakes, sausage, bacon, and hash browns. I need two orders of eggs over-hard with pancakes and sausage, and…”
“New boy, out of my way,” interrupted another waiter. He bellowed, “SIX OVER-HARD, PANCAKES, BACON, BROWNS! Let’s go!”
“Hey, Filipino,” an Indian waiter chided. “Leave the guy alone. Chef, ignore him and the American. Help a fellow Indian. Give me four scrambled, two with browns, four with….”
“Rasclat, get your hands off my pancakes!”
“Hey!” everyone cried as a Bulgarian butt in.
“Those are my hash browns, you bastard! I need four scrambled, two with bacon, one with sausage, and one with browns.”
“F@*# you! Chef, are those my hash browns?”
“Kiss my ass, Euro-boy. Colonize someone else!”
“Hey, why are you giving him my eggs?” I asked. “America never colonized anybody.”
“You bomb everybody. Take my oil but not my eggs!”
“What blood clot took my over-easies? Chef, lay those eggs faster!”
“Do I look like a chicken to you? You know any black chickens, motherf@*#er?”
“Get your f@*#ing jelly off my tray, a$#hole!”
“How you say chicken in your white-monkey language?”
“F@*# you!”
“No, f@*# you!”
“F@*# you both. Were are my sausages? Not the f@*#ing links, the f@*#ing patties, blood clot!”
At that point everyone dropped civility and the language turned truly ugly. The kicker? Breakfast in the dining room involved only about 10% of the waiters aboard. Enjoy the tour, ‘cause you sure as Hell don’t wanna be in there during a real dinner.

Getting your first roommate in college (for example) can be intimidating, as any life change can be. But getting a new cabin mate on a cruise ship is particularly so. Sharing your limited personal space with a complete stranger is not something common, after all (one-night stands excepted, I guess). But when that stranger is invariably from another nation, indeed probably from another hemisphere entirely, of a different color and different religion speaking a different language (or many), you just don’t know what to expect. When approaching my first cabin as crew, I thought I was prepared for anything. Talk about a failure of imagination…
B deck cabins were about twenty feet below the waterline. The corridor was taller than on the newer ships, but just as narrow. The poor lighting emphasized the lack of freshness and painted everything in a dismal, back-alley vibe. Thick veins of exposed pipes added to the feeling. The entire scene could have been a set for the climactic showdown in a bad action movie. My cabin door was horrendously scratched, dented even, as if somehow utilized in a brutal dog-fight. Adding to that impression were the sounds coming through the door: the sharp crack of hand-to-hand combat.
It was surprisingly roomy for a crew cabin, no doubt due to the lack of a sink and a shower shared with the neighboring cabin (common on newer ships). But on Fantasy, those were down the hall. Inside were two narrow bunks and two wooden lockers, smudged with age and flaking laminate. A small desk was completely covered by a 13-inch television, the space beneath stuffed with a dorm-sized refrigerator. A single chair hosted a Nintendo. The air was stiflingly hot and stagnant: the vent being hidden behind a randomly-taped plastic bag that cut off air flow.
The narrow access to the bunks was blocked by my new roommate. His tiny body lay diagonally across the cabin as to fill it, legs splayed wide open, each foot propped onto its own case of dried noodles. His rear sat deep into a smashed third box, and his head rested on the feet of a huge teddy bear that occupied the lower bunk. The controls of his gaming console sat comfortably on his lap. Though the Nintendo was hooked up to the TV and the controller in his hands, the screen instead blasted a very loud, very obnoxious Asian martial arts movie.
And he was completely naked.
I had never met a man from Thailand before, certainly not one bare-ass naked and spread-eagled in front of me. Such things would become commonplace once I got used to ships, of course.
‘Ben’, he called himself, because his real name was a whopping eighteen letters long. Upon waking he immediately mentioned his girlfriend was going to sleep with him every night. How two humans and a four-foot teddy bear could share a bunk so small—my own head and feet both pressed against the walls—was a marvel. But Ben and ‘Amy’ were quiet and courteous. The only noise they ever made, in fact, was their incessant watching of what appeared to be the same martial arts film over and over and over.
“When are you going to get a new movie?” I finally asked, exasperated.
“It’s not the same movie,” Ben replied. “It’s a forty-part Chinese movie I bought in Malaysia. Dubbed in Korean for Amy. Subtitled in Thai for me.”
“On a Japanese TV,” I added. “On an Finnish ship under Panama’s flag, serving Americans like me.”
“See?” Ben exclaimed. “You’re learning ships already!”

There is much to enjoy in an art auction aboard a cruise ship. The auction process can be quite entertaining for those who participate, and art itself can bring stimulation into even the most dreary life. Yet there is much to fear. I have been a professional artist, art historian, and also art dealer, and can assure you that being fleeced by an art dealer is by no means restricted to ships. First I will discuss some tips about the art world in general, then specifically about ships.
The easiest way to catch a lying salesperson, be it in gallery or auction, is when talking about limited editions. Watch for lines like ‘the lower the number, the more valuable the work’, or ‘the first numbers are crisper because the plates are fresher’ or ‘artist’s proofs are worth more.’ It’s all BS.
First of all, every work of a limited edition from any reputable atelier (workshop) is certified before it leaves, and if it’s not perfect then no reputable artist would sign it. Second, and far more revealing, is how the process works: hand-made lithographs have a different plate for each color, and use semi-transparent inks for blending (serigraphs a different screen). That’s a lot of plates, which means a lot of human error. So to get an edition of 100, you start with 200 runs of the first color plate, then throw out the mistakes (smudging, etc.). Now you have 193 left, for example, and run on top of those the second color plate. Throw out the mistakes that don’t align right, etc. and move on down the line of color plates until done. By the end you’ll have your 100, and any left over are labeled AP (artist proof) or PP (printer’s proof) or whatever else they want to call it. Thomas Kinkade, for example, made up dozens of such tags to give the illusion of exclusivity (ironic, because his weren’t done by hand and really were posters). There is no ‘first print pulled’ or ‘artist color check’ or any of that crap. All were assembled simultaneously. Thus, limited editions all have an identical tangible value. Until they begin to sell out, of course. Art is very much about supply and demand.
Ultimately, the real value of art is simply what someone wants to pay for it. That’s why Picasso paintings sell for $100M.
Beware the sales tool pushing art as an investment. That’s pure gambling. The biggest gains are always from the biggest risks. Is that a game you really want to play? How many people really wanted to shell out tens of thousands of dollars for a Jackson Pollock splatter painting back when the average house cost $14,500? As luck (and a surprise encounter with a zillionaire art buyer and a dramatic, early demise) would have it, such a painting would now be worth millions. Yet most who bought Pollock’s works did so because they enjoyed his art for one reason or another, and that’s the only reason to buy art. Because you like it.
Buying art is like buying a car. The more you know about it, the less you can be had by a salesman. In Venice I went to an art dealer in Piazza San Marco selling Picassos. They were limited editions complete with certificates of authenticity for a few thousand euros, which I knew was about 1/80th the going price for what I was looking at. After scrutinizing the work a moment, I realized they were limited edition machine lithographs of an original Picasso limited edition hand-press etching. In other words, they Xeroxed the expensive Picasso and sold the copies in small batches. The certificate of authenticity was from the local company churning them out.
So what about art auctions at sea? I have a lot to say about art auctioneers, dishing on them (us) heavily in my book Ship for Brains. Because of international waters, are they inherently less trustworthy than galleries on land? No. Losing a contract with the cruise line is a killing blow for a gallery, so they won’t blatantly scam people. But that doesn’t mean individual art auctioneers aren’t liars. Many were in my days. One auctioneer, for example, promised a private lunch with the world-famous artist Peter Max with every purchase of a limited edition. Ludicrous he said it. Ludicrous people bought it. Eventually word of such antics forced the art gallery to videotape every auction and scrutinize every auctioneer for lies. Labor intensive, to be sure, but credibility is everything in the art world.
The most common question from American buyers was always: why is it so expensive? If you can’t tell the difference in quality between a $15 poster and a $1500 lithograph from Marcel Mouly, or are disdainful of any such difference, then collecting art isn’t for you. Art auctions sell quality art (well, there’s some crap, too: they are selling to the general public). This is an opportunity to learn the difference between that Star Wars poster still on your wall and a lithograph from a French atelier that worked with Picasso. And, just for the record, in college I learned to create lithographs, serigraphs, copper-plate etchings, etc, to earn my degree as art historian. It’s freakin’ HARD.
The most common misconception from American buyers was always: how can it be original if there is more than one? This concept is unique to us from the States. Maybe it comes from our inherent need for individuality, I don’t know. I do know it’s wrong. The vast majority of Americans are NOT educated about art: didn’t take classes in school (high school or college), don’t have it at home (or know anyone who does), don’t go to art museums, don’t spend time discussing its relevance (modern or historical). We are an extremely art-illiterate society. That’s OK. Yet these very same people insist that to be an original work means there is only one, such as a painting. That’s not OK. Admitting ignorance is the first step to overcoming it.
Anything that is made by hand by an artist is an original work of art. It’s a craft.
Art auctions on ships provide an introduction into a vastly complicated world. Can you learn all there is to know about wine (domestic, import, vintages, varietals, not to mention taste, bouquet, procedures, etal.) in a short presentation? Or when buying a car? Understand that auctions cater to the masses of unsophisticated buyers. It’s their business, it’s your opportunity. If you are serious about collecting art, do your homework. Are your best interests in mind when you’re educated by a salesman? I think not. If you’re worried about a good price, buy it outside the auction so you can haggle down instead of bidding up. Why, oh why do people forget that the whole darn point of an auction is to get the prices HIGHER?
If you are there for the excitement of an auction, great! Have fun. It’s not rigged, you’re just in their house and playing into their strengths, not yours. Auctions get people excited and they act impulsively. Most complainers aren’t scammed: they’re embarrassed. And, really, when any salesman gives you free booze, be careful!
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

What do you say to a group of thirty scared, exhausted, but excited people who have flown 5,000 to 10,000 miles from home to start a new job at sea? What words can simultaneously console both a macho Bulgarian man and a timid Indonesian woman? Upon joining Carnival Fantasy’s restaurant training, I heard the following spiel, more or less, and found it engaging.
“Let me welcome you aboard,” said the trainer. “We are going to have a lot of fun, and we are going to do a lot of work. I guarantee this will be a new experience for all of you. It will not be easy. Let’s start with why you are here. You’re all here for the same reason: money.
“So to make money, you first need to learn about serving Americans. It doesn’t matter what things were like back home. The majority of cruisers are American, so you need to learn what they like and what they don’t like. Americans are the easiest people to serve in the world. They’re not interested in fine service. They eat out all the time there, so being in the dining room is not a special occasion for them the way it is for most of us. So they don’t want a servant: they want a friend. They will ask personal questions about you and your family. They’ll ask where you’re from, but don’t be upset if they don’t know where that is. Most won’t.
“This is an American corporation with American guests, which means American standards. That doesn’t mean you must eat hamburgers every day, but it does mean washing with soap and water every day. I’m from India, for example, and lots of Indians smell bad because they don’t use soap. That may be fine back home, but it can’t happen here. America means deodorant.
“And ships mean English. In guest areas always use English. Even if you are talking about cricket scores in your native language, Americans will assume you’re talking about them. Nobody knows why. I guess it’s their big sense of personal identity.
“Now let me tell you a true story. A waiter from the Philippines once had a table of old ladies who refused to leave after lunch. He needed them out so he could set up his station for dinner. Finally they ordered more coffee, which was long gone. He had to brew more. It meant he was going to miss preparing for his dinner guests, which probably meant hard time for the second seating, too. He stormed away swearing in Tagalog, using very bad words. He assumed he was safe. But one of the ladies was married to a military man stationed in the Philippines. She understood every word and told the hotel director. The waiter was forced to apologize and was sent home the very next port, mid-cruise.
“Carnival has over sixty nationalities that get along very well. If we don’t, we get sent home. That means no money. If you fight with anybody because he’s different, you will be sent home. No money. Even if someone hits you and you don’t fight back, you are both going home. Carnival takes it that seriously. Revel in learning about the world, but don’t forget why we are here.
“Look around,” he said. “These strange foreigners are all here, just like you, for the money. And though it may not seem like it now, by the end of training these strange foreigners will feel like family.” He was right. When the four weeks were up, there was not a dry eye in the class.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

What do you say to a group of thirty scared, exhausted, but excited people who have flown 5,000 to 10,000 miles from home to start a new job at sea? What words can simultaneously console both a macho Bulgarian man and a timid Indonesian woman? Upon joining Carnival Fantasy’s restaurant training, I heard the following spiel, more or less, and found it engaging.
“Let me welcome you aboard,” said the trainer. “We are going to have a lot of fun, and we are going to do a lot of work. I guarantee this will be a new experience for all of you. It will not be easy. Let’s start with why you are here. You’re all here for the same reason: money.
“So to make money, you first need to learn about serving Americans. It doesn’t matter what things were like back home. The majority of cruisers are American, so you need to learn what they like and what they don’t like. Americans are the easiest people to serve in the world. They’re not interested in fine service. They eat out all the time there, so being in the dining room is not a special occasion for them the way it is for most of us. So they don’t want a servant: they want a friend. They will ask personal questions about you and your family. They’ll ask where you’re from, but don’t be upset if they don’t know where that is. Most won’t.
“This is an American corporation with American guests, which means American standards. That doesn’t mean you must eat hamburgers every day, but it does mean washing with soap and water every day. I’m from India, for example, and lots of Indians smell bad because they don’t use soap. That may be fine back home, but it can’t happen here. America means deodorant.
“And ships mean English. In guest areas always use English. Even if you are talking about cricket scores in your native language, Americans will assume you’re talking about them. Nobody knows why. I guess it’s their big sense of personal identity.
“Now let me tell you a true story. A waiter from the Philippines once had a table of old ladies who refused to leave after lunch. He needed them out so he could set up his station for dinner. Finally they ordered more coffee, which was long gone. He had to brew more. It meant he was going to miss preparing for his dinner guests, which probably meant hard time for the second seating, too. He stormed away swearing in Tagalog, using very bad words. He assumed he was safe. But one of the ladies was married to a military man stationed in the Philippines. She understood every word and told the hotel director. The waiter was forced to apologize and was sent home the very next port, mid-cruise.
“Carnival has over sixty nationalities that get along very well. If we don’t, we get sent home. That means no money. If you fight with anybody because he’s different, you will be sent home. No money. Even if someone hits you and you don’t fight back, you are both going home. Carnival takes it that seriously. Revel in learning about the world, but don’t forget why we are here.
“Look around,” he said. “These strange foreigners are all here, just like you, for the money. And though it may not seem like it now, by the end of training these strange foreigners will feel like family.” He was right. When the four weeks were up, there was not a dry eye in the class.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me!
www.BrianDavidBruns.com
https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

I’m talking about a man of a different sort. A bird whisperer. The Bird Man of Conquest. I prefer the latter name because it evokes the cramped, sparse living conditions of Alcatraz. That’s closer to a crew’s experience than, say, comfy suburbanites with enough expendable income for professional pet counseling. I’m not judging, but rather reminding that American attitudes towards animals are puzzling to the majority of the world. American pets are part of the family, receiving the same affection and accommodations as our children (certainly mine, anyway!). But many people around the world coexist with animals in a way I can scarcely conceive. I saw some of it on Conquest.
We were docked in Montego Bay. The sun shot through the clouds in bold shafts, I remember, and the air was heavy with moisture. Those of us in the Lido restaurant denied shore leave were consoled by the nearby presence of damp green tree tops, mottled with shadows yet lively with colorful birds hopping to and fro. It was a quiet afternoon of dazzling beauty. Apparently we were not the only ones dazzled. A solitary bird, perhaps lured by the scent of food, had flown into the restaurant.
He was a small, gaily-colored little bird. The poor guy fluttered about, unable to find the exit, confused by the overhanging mezzanine that refused to act like a jungle canopy. He zig-zagged through the dining room, zipping this way and that, growing more and more agitated by the minute. We gleefully kept the doors open and tried to herd him towards freedom. There was much laughter, but we were ultimately unsuccessful. After a while, now flapping in pure desperation, the bird disappeared deeper into the galley. Suddenly we realized the little burst of joy that gave us a much-needed break in an otherwise rigid, exhausting routine had probably done so at the expense of his life. It was a sad moment.
“I’ll get him,” said a waiter confidently. He was from Indonesia. His name was Bambang.
“If he couldn’t figure out how to escape through all these open double doors,” I said doubtfully, “How can you expect to herd him through the small doors of the galley and the corridors?”
Bambang just smiled and asked, “May I go after him?”
Like I would say no. But then again, this could easily have been an excuse to sneak a cigarette while on duty. (I’ve had waiters literally claim their mothers’ death just to get an extra smoke). Nary five minutes passed and out from the galley came Bambang. We clustered around him, but he gave us a silent head-shake to keep us at bay. For perched upon his finger, tiny chest heaving, was the bird. Bambang strode to the nearest exterior doors, whispering softly to his new companion. He even caressed it with gentle strokes of the back of his fingers. Once outside, the bird flew off to its native Jamaica.
“I’m from a small village in the jungle,” Bambang explained simply before returning to soiled plates and silverware. I was awestruck. Could I have made the transition Bambang had? Before ships he had not only been one with nature, but likely lived entirely defined by its caprice. How utterly different his life must have been, before this one of tight metal walls, recycled air, and artificial light. I was reminded that each crew member, regardless of duties or labels, was indeed an individual treasure. And it gave me hope that I could maybe, just maybe, hope to someday control my cats.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
Win a free autographed paperback of my newest cruise book, Unsinkable Mister Brown!
Details at www.BrianDavidBruns.com

I’m talking about a man of a different sort. A bird whisperer. The Bird Man of Conquest. I prefer the latter name because it evokes the cramped, sparse living conditions of Alcatraz. That’s closer to a crew’s experience than, say, comfy suburbanites with enough expendable income for professional pet counseling. I’m not judging, but rather reminding that American attitudes towards animals are puzzling to the majority of the world. American pets are part of the family, receiving the same affection and accommodations as our children (certainly mine, anyway!). But many people around the world coexist with animals in a way I can scarcely conceive. I saw some of it on Conquest.
We were docked in Montego Bay. The sun shot through the clouds in bold shafts, I remember, and the air was heavy with moisture. Those of us in the Lido restaurant denied shore leave were consoled by the nearby presence of damp green tree tops, mottled with shadows yet lively with colorful birds hopping to and fro. It was a quiet afternoon of dazzling beauty. Apparently we were not the only ones dazzled. A solitary bird, perhaps lured by the scent of food, had flown into the restaurant.
He was a small, gaily-colored little bird. The poor guy fluttered about, unable to find the exit, confused by the overhanging mezzanine that refused to act like a jungle canopy. He zig-zagged through the dining room, zipping this way and that, growing more and more agitated by the minute. We gleefully kept the doors open and tried to herd him towards freedom. There was much laughter, but we were ultimately unsuccessful. After a while, now flapping in pure desperation, the bird disappeared deeper into the galley. Suddenly we realized the little burst of joy that gave us a much-needed break in an otherwise rigid, exhausting routine had probably done so at the expense of his life. It was a sad moment.
“I’ll get him,” said a waiter confidently. He was from Indonesia. His name was Bambang.
“If he couldn’t figure out how to escape through all these open double doors,” I said doubtfully, “How can you expect to herd him through the small doors of the galley and the corridors?”
Bambang just smiled and asked, “May I go after him?”
Like I would say no. But then again, this could easily have been an excuse to sneak a cigarette while on duty. (I’ve had waiters literally claim their mothers’ death just to get an extra smoke). Nary five minutes passed and out from the galley came Bambang. We clustered around him, but he gave us a silent head-shake to keep us at bay. For perched upon his finger, tiny chest heaving, was the bird. Bambang strode to the nearest exterior doors, whispering softly to his new companion. He even caressed it with gentle strokes of the back of his fingers. Once outside, the bird flew off to its native Jamaica.
“I’m from a small village in the jungle,” Bambang explained simply before returning to soiled plates and silverware. I was awestruck. Could I have made the transition Bambang had? Before ships he had not only been one with nature, but likely lived entirely defined by its caprice. How utterly different his life must have been, before this one of tight metal walls, recycled air, and artificial light. I was reminded that each crew member, regardless of duties or labels, was indeed an individual treasure. And it gave me hope that I could maybe, just maybe, hope to someday control my cats.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
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Food keeps crew members from fully integrating, perhaps more than any other single thing on the big ships. Access to ‘food from home’ varies dramatically because ‘home’ varies so dramatically. Some cruise lines have more Indian, or eastern European, or Caribbean dishes, depending on the make-up of the crew. International food for crew is the real deal, unlike, say, the food court at the mall, where you get Mexican (Taco Bell), Italian (Sbaro’s), or Chinese (Panda Express), which are utterly Americanized. Ironically, ships do cater to American tastes below the waterline, despite only a handful of us aboard. Even more ironic is that nearly all are entertainers who won’t eat it. But hot dogs and hamburgers are cheap, so mystery solved.
But every day on every ship of every cruise line is Asian day. Massive amounts of steamed white rice are always available, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, bowing to the preponderance of eastern Asian crew. I will never forget my first trip to the crew mess, on Carnival Fantasy. While I heaped a couple strip steaks on my plate (I love you, Carnival!), my colleagues opted for a mound of white rice and a ladleful of fish head soup poured over the top. Perhaps that explained our radical disparity of weight.
Fortunately, I found the different foods from different cultures a benefit (I’m a foodie). Many did not. Considering how hard we all worked, the desire for familiar, comforting food was understandable. Further, most crew came from rural environments with limited diversity and limited interest in it. But the real problem isn’t food, but food habits.
Food is not allowed in crew cabins, though all crew types sooner or later sneak some in. Many keep a ready supply of dry goods, which are sometimes legal. Asians, for example, hoard entire flats of instant noodles, and who’s going to know about a secreted hot plate, enabling a late night snack? But this maritime discipline regarding food was enacted with good reason. Two, actually, because on some ships there are roaches. Even a ship passing a health inspection with flying colors may have pest problems down in the bowels where the crew live. (don’t freak: we all know rats abandon ship first, right?)
But the real reason food is denied in crew cabins is because it invariably ends up in the toilets in a most nonbiological manner. Ship toilets are very, very sensitive. The crew? Not so much.
When working on RCI’s Majesty of the Seas, we had to contend with this latter issue to the extreme. Fish bones backed up the sewage system so often that the entire aft crew deck smelled like feces. Literally. What killed me was that disposing evidence was the only time many flushed the toilets at all! I still shudder at the seeing the overworked zombies brushing their teeth beside toilets filled to the brim, lids wide open. Equally confusing to me was why a crew member flushed a shoe. This resulted in backing up the waste systems for the entire ship, and none other than the hotel director himself was forced to search the cabins. He swore a lot that day.
Despite all this, some of us do have access to room service. That doesn’t mean the crew is happy to provide it, though. One night my order of several sandwiches resulted in bread so deeply impressed by the thumbs of an enraged chef that I could all but see his fingerprints.
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
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Olympic gold medalist Hope Solo has vindicated what I’ve been saying since I wrote Cruise Confidential. Alas, it did not involve meeting the sexy sports legend, but merely her quote. A highly relevant quote.
“There’s a lot of sex going on,” she stated to ESPN in July. "With a once-in-a-lifetime experience, you want to build memories, whether it's sexual, partying, or on the field. I've seen people having sex right out in the open. On the grass, between buildings, people are getting down and dirty."
She was talking about the Olympic Village, but if you inserted ‘crew cabins’ she would have been right on the money. Swimmer Ryan Lochte—another multiple gold medalist—backed Solo up, stating he believes "70 percent to 75 percent of Olympians” hook up behind the scenes, adding slyly, "Hey, sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do."
But these are Olympians, humans who do stuff daily the rest of us would find impossible, right? Enter your cruise ship waiters. They work every day, all day, for up to ten months straight. Sure, the time-clocks say only 80 hours a week, but we all know that doesn’t include time spent guarding your station from roving packs of waiters, hungry for your saucers and side plates. Many of us showed up an hour early before every shift, and most days that’s three shifts. All that’s on top of boat drill: both passenger’s and crew’s.
Yet crew still find plenty of time to hook up, and not necessarily in their cabins, either. I’ve seen crew going at it on open decks (a particularly wild crew party on Carnival Fantasy comes to mind...). At sea the reasons for this wild abandon are very much the same as in Olympic Village. Despite coming from every corner of the globe, everybody is there for the same reason. They’re all far from home, working hard at something nobody back home can possibly relate to. All are generally young, generally attractive, and generally can’t get on board unless proven squeaky-clean.
And ships provide free condoms for the crew.
More than 100,000 condoms were distributed to athletes for the London Olympics, according to Yahoo contributor David C. Cutler. It took only one week for athletes at the Olympic Village at the 2000 Sydney Olympic Games to run out of the 70,000 condoms supplied. See? Similarities between Olympians and crew are rising. Funny how cruise lines won’t reveal just how many condoms they distribute. Those of us who lived below the waterline certainly know.
Working on a cruise ship is a work-hard, play-hard lifestyle. For most of us, it’s only for a short period in our lives, when we’re young and adventurous. Why not make the most of it? You have a world-wide smorgasbord of bodies to choose from, probably for the only time in your life. That’s worth losing a little sleep over. And for those who still don’t believe that crew can party like Olympians and still function in the morning, I offer Hope’s parting words to ESPN:
"When we were done partying, we got out of our nice dresses, got back into our stadium coats and, at 7 a.m. with no sleep, went on the TODAY show drunk."
By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential.
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