An acute example of me expressing my opinion of an educational environment occurred on a Sea Semester trip I experienced. The Sea semester excursion was advertised, and my perception of it, was that it was to be an incredibly fun, alive, “cruise-like” experience. This was not the case, showing me, quite bluntly and painfully, the necessity of verifying the reality of perceptions. Instead of this grand cruise-like experience it was more like a slave ship. We were forced to live in cramped 5-foot by 3-foot “cubbies” which would act as a makeshift storage for all of our belongings for six weeks and as a makeshift bed. It was only a “makeshift” storage device because we had to sleep with and on top of our belongings because of the limited space, its pathetically small size for having 6 weeks worth of survival gear, the fact that you couldn’t fully extend your body (having walls on each side), and only having a small drape separating your ship from the outside world made the situation very “slave-like”. To enhance the slave-like affect, we had to wear shackle-like “harnesses” that covered our hips, torso, and shoulders, and while these chain-like harnesses were made out of nylon, the three to four connecting buckles made these so-called protective devices seem like clinking and clanking shackles that Jacob Marley from the X-mas carol, or real slaves being transported to America wore. It was a remarkably distorting experience because I have these real visions of students marching in single file, all wearing their shackles, up this ladder to go up and swab the deck. I couldn’t handle this.
The Guatemalan state bird – Quetzal – is a symbol of freedom and wealth. Wealth, because its feathers and jade were the most sought after trade commodities, and freedom because it would simply die in captivity – it couldn’t be contained. I am not saying that I am a symbol of this Guatemalan national bird (I certainly don’t have expensive feathers decorating my body), but I am saying that I certainly can relate to its fervent reluctance that is more of an incapacity (it doesn’t have a choice, freedom or death in captivity, essentially, suicide) to be contained when I was on the that ship. It wasn’t as though I was remember the series of Social Studies reading I had learned in grade school about the slaves, and was making a message for them, or something, I actually felt treated like a slave. We could only eat meals at certain times and couldn’t get food anytime else. We could only sleep at certain times, too. I know in the Korean P.O.W camps, Koreans tortured the prisoners in a mind-controlling game of torment to get them to confess their knowledge by allowing them to sleep 4 hours a night, stand the other 20 hours, and constantly interrupt their savory 4-hour bout of sleep. I felt their pain after surviving a mere 4 weeks from that slave ship. We actually had 4-hour sleep shifts which could fall anywhere throughout the day, mid-afternoon, early morning, dusk, so our minds and biorhythms (my melatonin was going crazy) were being mutilated. Forced to do manual labor (hoisting sail lines), sleep in cubby-sized squashed spaces, wear shackles, and eat and sleep on a predefined system, it wasn’t as though I was losing my identity, I felt like my humanity was being shattered, something far more severe – I felt as though I was becoming, because I had been treated like one, an animalistic, barbaric slave that had done something wrong. There weren’t demerits or some kind of punishment system, but the cruise was anything but savory.
I had originally went on board because I loved the ocean, and there I was, shackled, under constant physical surveillance and control (even though there were three entrances and exits to the cabin, we could only use one of them), and such insane regimen, I thought I would implode with the conforming intolerant, totalitarian-like control around. Even the little things, like deciding when you can eat, made me realize how much liberation is involved in such a simple, seemingly, innocent and pointless choice. After a week and half, I craved the immense freedom it seemed to decide when and where you would eat dinner. When I had to eat when everyone else did, or risk going hungry, I felt even more like a machine that was being force-fed “fuel”, manufacturing seafaring output to work towards removing the cogs in the mechanized nautical vessel.
In the first few days many people became nauseas and sea-sick, they said because of the movement of the boat (the one natural experience that wasn’t controlled or regimented on the vessel) but it had to be, primarily, because of the insanely prisoner-like regimen of captivity, when we thought we were going to be out on the water. I couldn’t’ believe how Hellish that experience was ( especially for a person who swims, runs, gets exercise, writes, and eats food on my own schedule) because the structure wasn’t helping me get things done, which I do normally. Being incredibly prolific on my own, but somewhat stymied around other people, aside, of course, from becoming more aware of how I react with other people, I couldn’t handle this regimen, which was all moving towards the habilitating of the ship, because it felt like a dictatorship. Even though it had a purpose – to ensure the ship functioned – the methods in which such manufacturing of crew energy was immensely manipulative. The setting and striking of the sails, with no wind, and the seemingly absence of movement in the ship, had become absurd. It seemed like we were setting the sails (which never seemed to blow in the right direction) just for the sake of exercise. I felt like the crew was a bunch of monkeys dancing and hopping around, doodling on maps, and cranking the steering wheel occasionally, but the majority of the time leaving the wheel “guide the boat” rotating and gyrating back and forth, providing no direction whatsoever. Ironically, I had studied spider monkeys from land, while they frolicked up in trees, in Mexico the earlier summer for a month. It seemed that now, I had endeavored a new experience, simply living and attempting to survive with a group of “crew-monkeys” on the ship. I don’t have anything against monkeys, and am not putting myself up on a pedestal, but I am just saying that I couldn’t believe how randomly imprecise the crew members were.
We had to do this routine check of the engine room where we measured the fluids, took temperature readings of the turbines, and other various fuel and oil level checks, but I was shocked at how imprecise everything was. Comparing the idea of a floatable piece of word, being pushed across the surface of the water by the random and wavering and direction and unpredictable speed of the wind, with the precision, accuracy and computerized connection to an airplane was a stark and frightening contrast. After having seen the videos on shore (with the intention of teaching us fire on ship, sinking ship, and man-overboard drills) that showed Live footage (real actual videotape) of a ship running aground an ship sinking because two people were attached to it (do to some harness and wires), I felt tremendously safe on board the ship for a number of reasons. First, the chances of running aground were dramatically increased by the monkey-see monkey-do imprecision of the navigation, the fact that we were using a map from 1995 – an 8-year old map – and only one – when there should have been four – depth-sounders to measure and navigate the sea bottom. We learned on shore, during the oceanography component (which, essentially, the ship was designed for, it was science ship with the agenda of oceanography; a wind-driven ship sailing around the Caribbean with the purpose of conducting oceanographic experiments) that islands can well-up via geological “hot spots” in a few years, so the map, which was supposed to show water depth, could be haphazardly outdated, jeopardizing the entire safety of the boat. The harness, in addition to being an incredible physical and emotionally depleting burden of control and domination, was dangerous because of the live footage of the ship running aground when two people died because they couldn’t disconnect themselves with the boat, and went down with it. The idea of being harnessed, strapped in, to a 137-foot sinking 2-masted schooner is tragically frightening. Because of these very plausible reasons, I felt remarkably unsafe on the boat, but hesitated, before telling anyone my concerns.
This period of hesitation was hastily and brusquely ruptured a week and a-half into the sail when 3 students, the third mate, and myself were set striking and furling a sail. We were out on the bowsprit – the front most point of the boat, a projection that projects outward and has not actual “boat”, woodwork and whatnot underneath it – dangling in this precarious situation, with harnesses on, trying to furl (tie down) the jib sol’ (sail). In this precarious situation this one student couldn’t tie her knot – a slipper reef knot – and because she was the closest to the boat, she was thwarting our reentrance to the boat, jeopardizing our safety. After trying to remind her how to retie it, eventually, the third mate reached over and said, “God, I can’t watch this anymore”, retied the knot for her, so we all could reenter the boat.
For some psychological reason, that phrase, coupled with the high tensions out on the bowsprit made me realize I can’t watch this boat continue floating and traveling on the ocean in such a haphazard, dangerous fashion – I became instantaneously committed to and genuinely practicing authentic communication. This shows you the powerful psychological, emotional, and physiological impact of language on person’s entire disposition – hearing those words, “God, I can’t take this anymore” from an authority figure (the third mate) empowered me to not only express my concerns but become appalled at how long I had hesitated to express them. The very program had planted the validity of my seeds of concern, and now, was causing me to examine their harvest. I immediately talked to the captain and said how unsafe I felt on the ship, pointing out, incessantly, the 8-year old map and the single depth sounder, and the dangerous (even though their intention was safety) harnesses. After discussing this approach more carefully, I realized that maybe I had unintentionally questioned his authority because he immediately ordered me to not discuss the incident on deck, but down below in the sealed-off captains quarters. In other words, it immediately became an “adult” conversation.
I discussed how, sure, the map was adjusted for variation (true north) after the 8-year span, but nothing could compensate the inaccurate “depth markings”. I was relentless because I had not other option – to call parents, leave the boat — a change had to be produced. I was shocked at how imprecisely we measured our speed (with a log that dangled behind the boat) as our primary source of total traveled distance. I had been an A+ nautical science student on show, too, the Captain new this, and I knew it – my thinking made perfect sense to me, and probably, frighteningly enough for him, had some validity in his eyes, despite the traditions he had followed all of his seafaring days. And tradition and heritage is what we talked about for the next 5 hours!
After that the captain looked severely stressed out, which, maybe through some schadenfreude (German for laughing at misfortune), but more likely because it showed he was thinking stuff out. When he looked calm and collected, I was eerily unsure about what kind of conclusion he had arranged – whatever it was, the decision had not involved my choice, he had decided, like some inanimate object — something I certainly am not, especially when I realize I shouldn’t hesitate in communicating myself on board the ship – had covertly crafted a plan for me. Eventually, the talks subsided, I was told to stay down below after my 40 hour bout of no sleep (which was due to simultaneously feeling concerned about my safety on the boat, and the excitement from what seemed like being on a gigantic surfboard with 24 intellectual, talented, extremely cool students) and two days later, this impromptu, unplanned stop in the Bahamas was announced. All of us were excited because we would get the opportunity to explore and experience new soil – which was, according to the Maritime studies component, the purpose of travel – to share with others who didn’t have the opportunity to travel, experiences and interpretations from the other lands. Of course, the best method of relating to a new, unknown environment, is actually stepping out, traveling there, and making your own interpretations, instead of having to interpret and translate some one else’s perception – which, to you, is, essentially, a second-hand, as opposed to a primary, source. But it held true that many of the things I pointed out – the poor navigational depth sounding and the quickness of new islands welling up, and the purpose of travel – I had learned from the SEA program itself and protested when they began to remarkably contradict themselves. After landing in the Bahamas, our anticipation to get off the cramped, slave boat, and explore a new country – step on the terrain of a new world – was brusquely severed when the captain said, “Okay, no one else is getting off the boat. John, this is your ticket back to Chicago”. And he pretty much forced me to get off the boat and wait in the airport for seven hours!
Now, I was in shock with a heterogeneous mixture of grasping and liberation at the idea of having to leave such an awesome “gigantic surfboard” and 24 of the coolest, most talented, and profoundly intellectual students I had ever seen, but simultaneously being freed of the policy-driven shackles, physical shackles, and chains of the brutally slave-like regimen of the Corwith Cramer. Because of this, there was no way I was going to wait in the airport for that long, so I left my bags, and the chief scientist, who was waiting with me, and started walking towards the ocean. The chief scientist caught up with me in a cab, and rolled with me saying that we needed to go back to the airport, but I put my hands in a “prayer” position (to not have my thinking be derailed) and, determined to get to the ocean, kept marching forward. Eventually, the 30-year chief scientist was out and about walking with we, and we couldn’t decide to go to the ocean (my choice) or back to the airport (her choice), so I suggested walking around in circles. And there I was, walking around in physical and psychological circles of indecision with a 30-year old chief scientist on the side of a Bahamian highway! Eventually, we conciliated to get in a cab-van go to the ocean, then return to the airport. One thing I noticed once we hit land, was how much remarkably older the chief scientist looked ,with her purse, clothes, and make-up (on the boat, I had felt, everyone (especially the chief scientist) looked and acted much younger – around 14 or 15 years old, sometimes 12. But on land, the image took over and everything and every person seemed more daunting and elderly. Maybe this was because of my age-old relationship with the historical sea, which has experienced so many violent storms, tossed waves, calm smooth-as-glass winds, bloody naval battles, and starry, moonless nights, that made me feel more rooted, older, and stronger. But the contrast was shocking on shore. Eventually we drove around with the intention to drive to the ocean, but stopped at this office building for about 30 minutes to speak (and I wasn’t sure what the hold up was, but was talking about how surfing was more important than eating) then headed in the direction of the ocean, but stopped at the hospital. I protested, “What the heck is going on here! I thought we were going to the ocean”. The thirty-year old chief scientist told me, “John, we are going to the hospital because you have been acting irrational”. Now, I had no idea what could happen in the medical corridors of the hospital with a “chain of command” procedure. Even though there is usually some kind of diagnosis and questioning, I feared the chief scientist would use her authority to pass me off to a doctor who would pass me off to a nurse, who would pass me off to a security guard, who, at that time, would just be following orders to bind me in a straight jacket and pump me full of drugs or something! So we both raised our voices, I said, “No I am not going in there!” She said, “Yes, you are!” Then I had to physically remove her hand from the lock, slide open the door, and bolted out of the van and was running around the Bahamas for the next 3-4 hours. During that time I met a director, after going away from the civilized part of the Bahamas (where the famous Atlantis hotel, with a waterslide was, which I had actually visited, but certainly didn’t recognize, when I was a kid. I asked a person when I had gotten into a very industrial shipping area with metalwork being done on boats, which way to the docks, and she pointed back towards the hotel area and said almost as an omen, to “go back that way, that is better for me”. But the journey was awesome.
During this mini-Odyssey on the new soil, while all my friends were back on the ship, I, an Odysseus just having escaped the wicked cave of the Cyclops, found an island that bore two surfboards in the distance. I crossed this bridge and saw two people aiming cameras at the surfboards, which were propped up against an RV. When I asked them what they were doing, they said this was a “hot set“ and were shooting a surfing movie. I saw people layering the ground with leaves, to help create the mood of the scene, while, as I was told, the actor drove around the mini-island. Eventually the director showed up, a big talkative, controlling and gregarious fellow, showed up angered. He said you can’t be here (I had, unintentionally snuck in around the fence in an attempt to get to the ocean) and I protested that my captain (whom I now dubbed “Bin Laden” instead of “Binh Lee” because of his tyrannical torts and methods) had just kicked me off the ship and you’re kicking me off the island. Where should I go?” I said, “Can’t I just borrow a surfboard, you’re a surfer, you know how awesome it is!” He said no and called for security to pick me up.
A very burly, Neanderthal-like African American security guard glided up and asked me with much intimidation and anger in his face: “You don’t want trouble do you?” I immediately said, “No” and was soon forced into a van (feeling like I was now being kidnapped after just being enslaved) and was driven to the perimeter of the “hot set” back on the main island with a resounding slam of a chain-linked gate fence in front of me. It felt like I was in prison, peering through the chinks in the fence. But aside from being denied the ability to use the surfboards, I was shocked at the timing of such prohibition. Right when I found the ideal place (with beautifully breaking waves of a crystal clear beach break) with boards, on a private island, opposition arose. It seems like if you pause and ponder that something is too good to be true, sometimes you are prevented from experiencing that entity and it, in actuality, truly becomes too good to be true. I ended up finding my way back to the boat, after stopping at a man doing carpentry on an abandoned looking building. I shouted up to him, because he was on the second floor, “What are you working on?!”
He informed me that he was working on building and starting a restaurant and I told him if I stuck around (in a very “Holden Caulfield-like” way) that I would definitely apply for work. I knew people from the other boat (the Tahitian cruise track) were planning to wait tables after their cruise was over, and, even though my cruise had ended unexpectedly early, the idea of working in the Bahamas was captivating and intriguing. So instead of dodging and burying the idea I investigated some French restaurants, asking about employee requirements and experience necessities, and eventually found my way back to the boat. Surprisingly , I was greeted by a gentleman in a golf cart, who referred to me as “Big John” to escort me back to the boat. It was as though I had been exiled and chased out like a rebellious, lunatic crook and was now being readmitted to the docks as though I was a VIP guest of honor! It was the weirdest thing back on the boat because everyone simply ate their dinner (at the normal time, of course), acted completely normal, and being 1 foot away from new soil, an entirely new country, had never left the boat. They kept doing lookout and watch outs – completely meaningless now that we were docked – as though they were marionette minions (like the team mind-controlled under in the move, “Fight Club”) with know will — or awareness of the surroundings – of their own.
I ended up flying back to Chicago the next day, after delaying the cruise a day, causing an unplanned stop in the Bahamas, walking around in circles with a 30-year old woman scientist, meeting a surf-video director, being shackled and enslaved, and having a riveting and viciously charged conversation with the captain of my ship! IT was an adventurous like no other, and I such splendid travel, with suspense, personal intrigue, personal danger, fear, liberation, and finally, joy, could never be replicated in anything other than a magnificent story of tragedy, freedom, authority, and truth. Telling this as a fictitious story would simply be too risky because of its outrageous circumstances. The difference between my sea semester experience and such a potent story is that it took place in reality – with more tragic authority, freedom, and truth that could ever be imagined by any storyteller!
*****
After that Sea Semester I was charged up, here is the beginning of a letter I planned to write to the Dean of my school (someone I would never consider talking to before the sea semester experience because of sheer intimidation!):
Dear Ms. Mcleod,
I wanted to inform you of some of the events that occurred on board the S191-Cramer cruise around the Caribbean. Basically, in a nutshell, I was very simply concerned for my safety on board the ship. I felt that I was put in dangerous situations and circumstances the jeopardized my safety on boat the sailing vessel.
On board the Cramer I was put under section “Safety” section of “Vessel Operations”.
I am not criticizing the methods, procedures, nor guidelines that were used to conduct life on board the Cramer, nor the crews’ (captain, 1st, 2nd, and 3rd mate, etc) application of these guidelines, but I am simply stating some facts and reactions, which I thought to be rational, to some of the events regarding the boat life of the Corwith Cramer, S191.
I never finished it, but this shows how charged up I was about the incident in terms of legal policy (something I usually never choose to interact with). By the emotional and experiential impact was the most life-altering because I had never approached (and reprimanded, unbelievable!) an authority figure like that, but doing so was a necessity for my survival. It became the ultimate example of turning lemons into lemonade and connecting to the source of the experience not as a hardship, but as an incredibly intrepid, trying, and challenging experience.
I have recently realized that I tell people my Seas semester story because when my father picked me up at the airport, he said he hadn’t met this one person (the Dean of the program), and I transcribed that to meet who I really was, so I told him the story of the ship, captain, and depth sounders.
Ever since them I have associated that story with introducing myself to other people, but that is not the case! In fact, the story is incredibly invigorating and alive, full of purpose, but people can certainly get to know me other ways as well. Let’s continue to embrace the power and potential for connecting with other people by continuing to share our experiences, adventures, and travels, but recognize that our enthusiasm or splinter of compassion reveals our true identity of authenticity to people. Embracing the realistic certainty of love allows us to follow our heart because we will be guided by the strongest force imaginable.
Grand Consummation
The people in the woods survival example died because they became caught up in emotions, where the emotions of panic, dear, and doubt, prevented them from taking action and utilizing their surroundings to build a fort, find berries, and do whatever necessary to survive. I removed struggle in the classroom by changing my perception, realizing the importance of communicating my messages (but not needing to influence or persuade people), and the poignancy of not taking things personally. On the ship, I freed myself from the physical, emotional, and psychological bonds of slavery, regimen, conformity, and commands by communicating my emotions. The bottom-line here : the poignancy of emotions coupled with communication. In the classroom, the communication of messages aroused emotions, by communicating with myself to not take it personally, but to distribute the perceptions of compliment and/or insult with the rest of the class relinquished the exhausting shackles of feeling emotionally obligated to prove myself. Also, by communicating my thoughts and emotions, I was doing myself a favor – clearing and digesting my mind – not for the sake of sharing knowledge and insight, I was doing three things: connecting myself to my fellow humans more authentically, clearing my mind, and allowing them an opportunity for real discussion of my thoughts, reactions, and ideas. The ship example is the most lucid: expressing and being authentic with my emotions by communicating them to who should hear them (I normally communicated with my parents) the captain, I quickly caused changes, that, at the time may have seemed unfair or brusque or covert (with the phone calls), but ultimately placed me into an emotionally more adaptive, generative, and comfortable area. This is true for every circumstance, communicating to yourself to not take classroom comments personally fixates you in a welcoming emotional environment instead of a battle, calming your fears, places you in a safer emotional environment if your in the woods, and expressing your emotions in the case of the ship gets you off the boat. Let’s continue to fervently, lucidly, and creatively communicate our emotions – through humor, directness, conviction, and most importantly, authenticity — so that we don’t become subjects of them, but use their energy to impassion and rejuvenate our soul!
Communicating to the Source
It is incredibly important to communicate to the source of our ingenuity and not connect an overly-sophisticated resemblance and expectation to people with authority . For the longest time I looked at authority figures as unapproachable. If I had a problem with an authority figure, I would be forced to talk to someone else about the person in authority because I created an “out of bounds” area where I only felt like I could receive commands from authority figures never question, and certainly never argue with them. This crippled my relationship in the classroom and left me with a myopic uncertainty about how to go about even asking questions to authority figures about assignments, etc. and whatnot. This all changed after the SEA semester where I had no choice but to talk to the captain about my concerns of safety, and this situation proved to be remarkably awakening because of the expedient, direct, and hastily manner in which the thing was resolved. By grounding ourselves to a point of religion to understand certainty of purpose, we can unite our authentic verisimilitudes and understand the necessity of personal comprehension. When we truly completely understand our internal motivations – an incredibly complex concept – we can rejuvenate our soul by carrying out the necessary predilections for things that vitalize our soul. We must understand why we spend hours wasting our life away watching television, eating junk food, and engaging in frustrating loops and embrace the certainty of purpose inherent in our capacity for love. Loving thyself will allow your patterns and vivacious habits to only by authentically rejuvenating because they will synchronize with the verisimilitudes of the soul! By targeting the teacher, the authority figure, the boss, we do ourselves a huge favor because we are honest to ourselves, don’t dwindle in commiseration (whining about stuff) and take the quickest route to producing a change that will remedy the problem that irritates you. It takes courage and confidence, but we must make certain we have authentic outlets for communication or risk going around in meaningless circles: take a deep breath; go to the source and say what you must say after planning it out! Love life to its fullest!
