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Maxim: Wet & Wild, a cruise ship article



 
 
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Old December 29th, 2009, 02:30 PM posted to rec.travel.cruises
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Default Maxim: Wet & Wild, a cruise ship article

Wet & Wild

Posted Tuesday 11/10/2009 2:30 PM in Stupid Fun by Maxim Staff

Filed under: vacation, cruise ships, wet and wild

It’s always happy hour in the Crew Bar. Cashiers selling $1 beers and
$2 packs of Marlboro Lights are swamped from the moment they open
their metal shutters at 8 p.m. till they close them at 1 a.m. Darts
pierce the wall next to an ignored television, wall-mounted speakers
pound away at a lusty tangle of bodies on the dance floor, and
everywhere a thick haze of cigarette smoke is fed by the collective
breath of British dancers, Indonesian room stewards, Balkan restaurant
managers, Filipino galley cooks, and East Bloc engineers. The starched
uniforms worn upstairs are replaced here by sweatpants, shorts, T-
shirts, and engine room monkey suits—anything that can be sacrificed
to smoke and spilled booze.
The door creeps open with unusual caution and in walk two girls—
clutching purses, teetering on heels, smacking their lips. They
timidly work their way through the cluttered tables and chairs,
leaving a trail of toppled empties and calling for some guy named
Chad*. 
Pent-up engine room mechanics lick their chops, catty chorus
girls sharpen their claws, and somewhere in the corner Chad—a ship
musician new to the scene—senses he has made a very big mistake.
“Never invite animals to Crew Bar,” whispers Evan the Illusionist.
“Animals?” asks Chad.
“Passengers,” says Evan.
Chad jumps up and leads the girls out the door and up the stairwell
they never should have seen. But he knows he’s on the surveillance
camera with them now, and tomorrow there will be punishment. This is
his first contract on a cruise ship, but soon he too will start
calling the passengers “animals,” and he will never again fool himself
into thinking any of them could ever blend into the world of the crew.
Welcome to the other side of the pleasure cruise, the place where the
red carpet and teal wallpaper end and the smiles in uniform either
drop to frowns or curl up into sinful grins. It begins behind every
door marked crew only, and it’s a world unknown to everyone but those
running the ship. That is, until we gained entry—spending seven days
on a boat with the people whose cruise never ends.

DAY 1: SHIP TIME 17:00, SUN DECK
It’s embarkation day at the Port of Los Angeles, and the sun deck is
packed with passengers sipping the first of many rum specials, oohing
and aahing at the first of six Pacific sunsets. We’re setting out for
the Mexican Riviera aboard a 92,000-ton marriage of German engineering
and Middle American luxury. The 1,120 staterooms are booked to
capacity with well over 2,000 passengers. Longer than a football
field, it makes the Titanic look like a tugboat.
Each year 12 million Americans file onto cruise ships in port cities
such as Miami, L.A., New York, and Seattle, bound for places like the
Caribbean, the Mexican Riviera, and Alaska. Some will miss their
departure time and have to chase their luggage by boat or plane, at
their own expense, until they can catch the ship at the next port of
call. Some will be the victims of crimes in the murky jurisdiction of
international waters, and some will be the perpetrators. A handful
will die on board, and a handful will go missing overboard. A few
thousand will get the stomach flu, but the vast majority will get
exactly the dream vacation they were looking for; because on average,
for about every 2,000 passengers aboard a ship, there are roughly
1,000 crew there to make sure of this.
They are the lifeblood of the nearly $25 billion-a-year North American
cruise ship industry—from the dishwasher working 72 hours a week for
$400 a month to the magician working two hours a week for $10,000 a
month.

DAY 3: SHIP TIME 13:00, PARADISE BAY POOL, DECK 12
Lounging on an upper tier of the sunbathing decks by the pool, Evan
the Illusionist is appraising this week’s new batch of women. His
tanned and toned physique covers the fact that, at 35, he’s older than
most of the other entertainers on board. In a pile on Evan’s chest are
the weekly newspaper clippings his father sends to his Port of Los
Angeles P.O. box. He says reading these makes him feel like a kid off
at summer camp instead of a man without a home.
“I did some TV work last year,” says Evan. “I’ve got an agent in L.A.
But then I got offered another ship contract, and I couldn’t afford
not to take it.”
Evan is at the top of the crew ladder. He lives in an officers’ cabin,
has passenger privileges, and earns top dollar for his two hours of
work a week. He spends most of his days by the pool sending drinks to
young women across the plastic adult play set of faux palm trees and
curly slides. A waiter well familiar with this routine carries over
the offerings and points back at Evan. The ladies shoot big smiles,
recognizing the shock of wavy black hair from last night’s headline
act at the Starz Theater—where Evan the Illusionist pulled a few dozen
Ping-Pong balls out of his mouth, turned them into balloons, and then
bisected a pretty young dancer with a piece of sheet metal.
Lying on the chaise next to Evan and sharing the magician’s bucket of
Coronas is Ray, a 30-year-old pothead surfer turned comedian. Ray
criticizes Evan’s game while he thumbs a stripe of sunscreen onto his
nose. “Have some balls, man. Just go over there,” chides Ray, brash
and confident on the surface, but at the end of the day just a cougar
hawk with a good line of talk. Evan, on the other hand, is all
chivalry and shyness off-stage, but it’s he and not Ray who’s the
center of several ship rumors of backstage threesomes and illicit
affairs. As they debate their philosophies of seduction, a poolside
cover band from Trinidad plays “Red Red Wine” for the 1,000th time
since we set sail.
Both Ray and Evan have used their countless hours at sea to become
professionals at the pickup. Whereas their land-based counterparts
might spend a couple of nights a week at this pursuit, for these men
it’s a full-time job. They come on board thinking they’ll write the
next hot screenplay, read the classics, teach themselves to play guitar
—all those things a guy with time on his hands will set out to do
before he takes women and booze into consideration. So then they end
up doing this seven days a week and God knows how many hours a day—
forever working on the tan, the buzz, and the perfect approach.
“You do your job and then have 20 hours of free time a day,” says
Daniel Thibault, CEO of Proship Entertainment, a Montreal-based cruise
ship talent agency. “Some people can use it really well as a stepping
stone to another level in their careers. Other people just get lost
there, start drinking till oblivion, and do the same routine over and
over again, and all of a sudden it’s all they can do.”
Evan throws his ID charge card down for another round of drinks, and
Ray leans over the railing to watch a fortysomething woman sunning on
her stomach, reach behind her back to undo her bikini top against the
threat of tan lines.
“Naughty girl,” whispers Ray.
“In the ’80s, maybe,” says Evan.
“That’s a sexy woman, man. I don’t care how old she is,” says Ray.
“That’s a naughty girl,” says Evan, pointing to a young woman coming
down the slide. “She looks over 18, right?”
Ray shrugs. Evan flags down the waiter to send over a drink.

DAY 5: SHIP TIME 20:00, STARZ THEATER, DECK 12
The 1,000-seat theater is packed to capacity for the adults-only ’70s
song-and-dance show. The Jamaican cruise director sashays around the
stage in a Gucci suit, three buttons of his shirt undone, warming up
the crowd with an endless rendition of the ’60s bubblegum-rock hit
“Hey! Baby.” Oozing charisma from every pore, he embodies a cruise
ship’s rags-to-riches fairy tale of working your way up from the bottom
—in his case, from room steward to cruise director. When he’s not
wooing widows or talking weather with family men, he’s been known to
strut his stuff in the crew bar in a pink crop-top. At the back of the
theater, Captain Hans sits in his private loge like Caesar at the
Colosseum, his gold epaulets and Papa Hemingway beard glowing in the
house lights. On the ship he is the final rule of law; if there is a
fight in a bar it’s he who decides who gets locked in the brig. If
there’s a disturbance among the crew, Captain Hans decides who should
be fired. Whenever anyone in the crew mentions Hans–-men and women
alike—they say his name the way a schoolgirl speaks the name of her
crush.
Finally darkness falls on about 1,000 gray heads, and a few bars of
Queen’s “We Will Rock You” rumble through the room. As the beat
reaches a crescendo, the stage lights come up to reveal 20 fit and
attractive young singers and dancers holding sultry poses in fog-
machine mist. Their mesh and leopard-print attire borders on indecent.
Housewives squeal as male dancers taunt them with sweaty biceps and
roving hands—fooling every one of them into thinking it’s women who
interest them and not the other male dancers in their troupe.
The girl-next-door lead singer has a penchant for threesomes, and left
a job playing a main character at Euro Disney to work on the ship. Her
handsome male counterpart ran away from Off-Broadway obscurity to be a
star at sea; on port days he can be found sprawled out by the pools of
portside resorts wearing nothing but nipple rings and a Burberry
Speedo. The background dancer, 25, has been on ships since she was 19
and doesn’t have much of a life back 
home anymore. Because, explains
cruise ship entertainment director Thibault, “If you stay on ships too
long, no one back on land remembers you.”

SHIP TIME 23:00, CALYPSO BAR, DECK 12
The show’s performers are now sipping appletinis at Manhattan’s
Martini Bar—an alcove off the Calypso Bar that looks like a three-
walled sample room at Ikea. They’re staying off the serious drinking
for now, because tomorrow is Acapulco Night, the port where they’re
all allowed enough shore leave for things to get messy.
Before long it’s curfew hour for the performers. They’re dressed like
passengers—if a bit more stylish—but they still have to wear their
name tags in passenger areas, and at midnight they find their way to
the crew only doors that lead them down to the bowels of the ship. The
curfew is just a taste of the big brother presence of authority felt
among the crew. The ubiquitous surveillance cameras serve as an around-
the-clock warning to would-be rule breakers. Crew infractions aboard
this ship range from the comical to the criminal. In a Deck 2 laundry
room, a group of female dancers left six dryers filled with their
clothes and returned 45 minutes later to find that their underwear had
been stolen.
News travels fast on a ship, and the dancers quickly discovered that a
group of men had auctioned them off within the crew. The men were all
fired. In another incident, security was called to the lower decks
when eight men were caught cooking a whole pig’s head in their cabin
on a hot plate—here again, all were fired. An entire shift of
engineers was reprimanded after treating a particularly surly superior
to a week without plumbing or air-conditioning in his stateroom. But
then there are the darker stories: a singer who was roofied by a
juggler, a dancer who was twice sexually assaulted by other crew
members. Many of the crew are paid in cash, which leaves them
particularly vulnerable to theft.
The issue with crimes at sea isn’t that people are at greater risk on
a ship than they are on land; the on-board crime rate is lower than
most national averages, and the crew’s rules are strict and
punishments harsh and final. The problem is that once a crime is
committed, a conflict of interest arises. “The cruise lines don’t want
their passengers or their crew members to be crime victims,” says
Charles Lipcon, author of Unsafe on the High Seas and perhaps the
world’s most successful prosecutor of cruise lines. “But if it
happens, they become the adversary of the victims; they work against
them because they’re afraid they’ll have a financial liability.” Added
to that threat is bad press if someone is convicted of a crime aboard
one of their ships.
In recent years a series of high-profile disappearances, unprosecuted
rapes, and other unsolved mysteries at sea has brought increased
scrutiny to the cruise industry. The FBI opened 184 cases of crimes on
cruise ships between October 2001 and February 2007, including 101
sexual assaults, 12 missing persons, and 13 deaths. According to
another source, 131 people have gone missing or overboard since 1995.
“The FBI numbers are low,” says Lipcon. “The cruise lines only have to
report crimes involving Americans to the FBI, and even those are
underreported.”
Most of the time the high-tech eye of authority and the threat of
strict punishment keep the tension of life at sea in check. But the
tension is always there, and it’s easy to see when the booze starts
flowing down in the Crew Bar. On this ship there is a .08 blood
alcohol limit for the crew at all times, and though it isn’t all that
uncommon for people to be fired for intoxication, the rule seems to go
entirely ignored on Acapulco Night.

DAY 6: SHIP TIME 23:00, CREW BAR, ACAPULCO NIGHT
The Crew Bar peace has been shattered by the 12-hour furlough in
Acapulco, where even the lowest echelons of the staff are allowed a
few hours of shore leave to squander their meager incomes at beach
clubs with bungee-jumping cranes, cage-dancing sorority girls, and
bare-bellied Mexican barmaids hawking shots of cheap tequila. The
scrum at the bar are waving their charge cards, while six-packs of
Amstel Light and Smirnoff Ice are floated overhead like crowd surfers
in a mosh pit. The floor is sticky, and the air is choked with smoke,
the smell of sweat, and the aggression of drunken men who’ve gone too
long without touching a woman. “You have these people working all the
time, cooped up. They don’t have a chance to have a relationship and
they get drunk and this is what happens,” says Lipcon.
A scene erupts by the door as a Caribbean woman slams her boyfriend
against a wall. “’Dis happen ev’ry Acapulco Night!” she yells, in a
frenzied patois. “Why you do this to me?” she screams before letting
go of him and stomping back to the dance floor to join the sweaty mob
that spawned the drama in the first place.
In the gay corner, Pacific Islanders who are “gay at sea” but have
families back home stare down a ballroom dancer and a “would’ve been,
could’ve been” Broadway singer. On a vinyl banquette, a Bavarian
receptionist bawls into the arms of a man who wants to sleep with her.
One by one slender chorus girls succumb to a day of hot sun and a
night of hard drinking and are escorted away from the wolfish stares
of the dishwashers and mechanics by uninterested male dance partners—
back to their tiny cabins to throw up, pass out, or both.
The night has begun to topple over toward dawn and the threat of work
in the morning. Soon the hallways outside will fill with crew members
stumbling back to cramped bunks below the water line—six to a cabin
without a bathroom—and dancers headed to the semi-privacy of their one-
roommate abodes. Officers and headline acts will retire to private
cabins, and a mixture of them all will wander around knocking on
familiar doors for one last shot at some action.
Upstairs the all-night buffet is operating as usual, dishing out soft-
serve ice cream, fish ’n’ chips, and pizza to a graveyard shift of
elderly travel-point collectors, middle-aged Parrotheads, and their
hyperactive, sunburned children. The Calypso Bar’s dance floor is
hopping with stiff-backed men sweating through their Tommy Bahama
shirts and divorcées with rum-blushed cheeks singing along to Bon
Jovi’s “Livin’ on a Prayer.” They’re a happy lot. They’ve shared hot
tubs with strangers, gotten drunk at breakfast, and eaten three
lunches in one day. This is their ship for the week, and the staff has
helped them believe that their week is the best that’s ever been and
that everyone working on the ship is thrilled to be here to enjoy it
with them.
Soon they will all be asleep in their staterooms, dreaming of the
morning maid service, the breakfast buffet, and a tour of some town
whose name they can’t pronounce from the safety of an air-conditioned
van. None will sense the downstairs madness or that tonight’s sick and
stumbling dancers are tomorrow’s headline entertainment.
They don’t need to know about the lives of the crew any more than they
need to know that on last week’s cruise, this ship struck and killed a
sleeping gray whale and had to divert to Mazatlan, Mexico so the
propeller pods could be unclogged and the blades replaced. They don’t
need to know the rumors among staff that when one of them dies, the
body is stored in a walk-in freezer. They don’t need to know that the
food they leave on their plates is fed to the fish—down to 
the
chocolate, the salad greens, and the curly fries. They don’t need to
know that when they flush their toilets, the remains of their
Promenade Grille hamburgers and their surf ’n’ turf dinners at
Bogart’s Steakhouse are trapped in a tank, where they are solidified
and stored for months.
They don’t need to know any of these things, and they never will, just
as long as they don’t stay here long enough to notice that all is not
as it seems.

http://www.maxim.com/humor/stupid-fun/85028/wet.html

--

MOST RECENT COMMENTS
Posted by Maria Virginio on 11/13/2009 10:09 AM report abuse
A friend told me about this article because I worked on cruise ships
for 4 years, and he wanted to know if this was true. I do have to say
you did a good job and got a lot covered. I was the lead dancer on
English ships, and while there are a lot of similarities, so much more
actually happens. We didn't have the same itinerary, so things got
very interesting- overnights in Russia, Buenos Aires, Rio, Spain,
Sydney. We try and explain ship life to land people, and nobody seems
to really understand. I just wanted to say that there is even more
going on than even your article says.
 




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