25 December. 42°16'59"N, 087°57'11"W. At home.
Merry Christmas.
It’s been 12 days since the MV Explorer pulled into San Diego harbor, and I’m starting to get my land legs back. When I stand still—waiting in line to board an airplane, for example—the room still rolls a little, but the “swells” are getting smaller and will, I’m sure, soon be gone. That’s when I’ll know I’m home.
In addition to the near-record 50-foot walls of water that rolled onto the North Shore of Oahu and held us in Hawaii for a couple of days, I’ve also encountered “The Blizzard of ’09” that hit the East Coast last weekend and shut down everything from Roanoke to Boston, including Haley’s first concert with the Navy Band. Still, we had a nice weekend together, catching up on the final few days of my voyage and her 8 weeks at Navy basic training. I had it far better than she did.
I’ve now been home for almost 5 days, re-acclimating to the Chicago winter and readjusting to the idea that the people I meet in stores or on streets speak the same language and use the same currency that I do. I’ve also begun processing what I’ve experienced over the past 4+ months. I’m sure I’ll continue processing—to use a bit of psychobabble—for a long time to come, perhaps for the rest of my life. But I need to put down a few thoughts while they’re still fresh . . . unprocessed. I suppose this is a fitting way to end the blog.
So here goes: a few thoughts on SAS, the students, and the world.
ISE—the Institute for Shipboard Education—oversees SAS, which truly is a life-changing experience for voyagers: students, faculty, staff, lifelong learners, everybody on the boat. And considering the daunting challenge of owning and operating a 25,000-ton ship, and taking that ship, with 600 to 700 post-pubescent, high-hormonal, mostly affluent students to a dozen-or-so countries over a 15-week period, the people who run the organization do an incredible job.
The University of Virginia adds an academic panache for ISE that, from what I understand, was missing in the previous associations with Pitt, Colorado, and the earlier partners. Semester at Sea had become known as “the booze cruise.” While there’s certainly plenty of boozing that takes place for some students while in port, the ship itself is fairly dry. I don’t know if that’s because of the academic environment UVA has created or because of the more stringent rules that ISE has laid down regarding alcohol use onboard, but whatever the case, the “cruise” part is rather light on the “booze” part these days.
That partnership between UVA and ISE, however, is a peculiar alliance. Virginia is one of the best, most demanding, most selective universities in the country. And its academic standards match its academic standing. Our syllabi had to pass muster with corresponding departments at the university, and many faculty members were asked to add requirements to our syllabi in order to meet Virginia’s stringent standards.
ISE, on the other hand, is a business. While the organization has minimum requirements for admission to SAS—2.75 gpa at an accredited college or university, good “academic and judicial standing,” demonstrated writing skills, etc—its first priority is to fill the boat. The fall ’09 voyage was certainly an economic challenge, with only 550+ of the 700+-student capacity on board. As a result, some students were admitted who, in other years might not have been. One of my students, for example, had just finished high school and won’t enroll at an undergraduate institution until the coming spring semester (ISE calls this a “gap-year” admission). Another had been accepted at an undergraduate institution but had completed only one year of community college. And, based on the writing I saw—and from what I heard from students themselves—many on board hadn’t taken a writing course since early in their high-school years. Clearly, these—and many others—would and do struggle with standards set by a highly selective university.
This tension between maintaining the high standards demanded by UVA and accommodating the academic capabilities of students who didn’t graduate from top-tier high schools, who didn’t score 1500 on the SAT, or who aren’t attending Stanford, Dartmouth, Michigan, or UVA itself—while still challenging the students who are!—is, to my mind, the toughest job of the onboard faculty. I certainly wasn’t always happy with the way I did it.
The students: so much to say, so little space. I mentioned the academic diversity already. The economic diversity was equally broad, perhaps broader.
A significant segment of the students were of a class I referred to as “the Kobe beef of the millennial generation.” These boys and girls, most but not all coming from very affluent families, have been fed the finest food, housed in the finest homes, massaged, curried, pampered, and told “you are the best” until they believe it. Their goal seemed to be to survive the academics while at sea in order to indulge themselves in port.
Some would reboard at each port carting thousands of dollars in goods. (Reputedly, one girl spent $8,000 on clothes alone in Spain.) Several rented villas—villas!—in resort areas along the beaches of Spain, Morocco, and Mauritius. Many went skydiving several times in South Africa and Hawaii at $125 a jump plus another $150 for an accompanying videographer. Many proudly displayed dad’s or mom’s American Express card, joking, “Dad/mom probably won’t be happy when he/she gets the bill next month.” And all went on the most expensive land experiences: camel excursions in the Sahara, luxury safaris in South Africa, flights to see the Taj Mahal and Varanasi in India, 5-day excursions to Beijing and the Great Wall. I’m sure several students had gone through $50,000 or more, including the cost of the voyage itself, by the time they stepped off the ship in San Diego. Like the Kobe beef, they’re overpriced for what you get. One parent’s sign on the dock in San Diego said it all: “Princess.”
A small but noisy segment of the student body—both affluent and not so affluent—hit the closest bar or club almost as soon as Rita announced “the ship is cleared” over the intercom. I’m sure these students saw some sights and participated in some activities that didn’t include alcohol, but to hear them recount their time in port, one would think these experiences were merely brief diversions. At the same time, alcohol sales on board during the 3-hour period each evening when students could buy drinks—maximum of 3 a night—were weak. In fact, the captain shut down alcohol sales on the 7th deck for the final few weeks of the voyage because the slow sales didn’t justify the staffing expense. “Social drinking” isn’t the objective for these kids; it’s binge drinking—drinking to get drunk. When one of my faculty colleagues asked a student why drinking into oblivion is so appealing, the student replied, “We’ve been told over and over that we’ll be the first American generation to live worse than our parents. Why shouldn’t we just go out and get drunk?” Is this the beginning of a new “lost generation”?
Then there were the students who were on scholarship or had scraped and saved—or whose parents had scraped and saved—to put themselves onboard. In most ports, these kids stayed close to the ship, participating in low-cost service visits to schools, villages, orphanages (and having wonderful cross-cultural experiences) but seeing few of the exotic sights their wealthier brethren were enjoying. One girl I had dinner with told me that she rationed herself to one “neat trip” on the voyage (she chose the Great Wall), but, to afford that trip, she stayed in Cape Town, Chennai, and other ports, watching her shipmates return with stash gathered from Marrakech, the Taj, and a Kruger Park safari lodge. There’s no remedy for this inequity, but I suppose there’s a life lesson for students: some are more equal than others.
Finally, the largest segment—at least so I’d like to think—were those who adapted to the dual life demanded by an SAS voyage: student at sea, explorer in port. During days on the ship, I’d see them in the dining-room/study-hall or the piano-bar/study-hall or the small library or computer lab. From what I could tell, they spent these times doing what they’d be doing if they were on their home campuses: studying, discussing coursework with fellow students, or meeting with faculty. Of course, they’d also be internet surfing or Facebook cruising—at least those would who could afford the cost of exceeding their allotted 150 free internet minutes—but for the most part, the ship was exactly what I describe to those who ask: a floating university.
In port, most of these kids would head down the gangplank with a large backpack hanging from their shoulders heading off to independent-travel experiences. They took local busses to Ghana’s Cape Coast, trains to Fez and Marrakech, safaris in South Africa that they had arranged through the internet, overnight train trips in India, a bus to Simitai, China, where they hiked and camped out on the Great Wall. They’d come back to the ship with tales of late trains, missed busses, cross-cultural misunderstandings, and in-transit plan changes, but they all made it back. These are the experiences that most of the students will remember. Not to say that the student/voyagers didn’t also know how to party at the clubs, but partying wasn’t the reason they spent the $25,000-and-more to take the voyage.
I hope that this segment—and they included kids who came from money and those who didn’t—is the most representative of the generation. They certainly represent what a Semester at Sea voyage is supposed to be about.
The world has changed a lot in the 42 years since I boarded a Denver-bound flight in May, 1967, and joined the rest of the Michigan Men’s Glee Club on our 8-week voyage westbound around the world. On that trip, we were departing from and returning to a country that was the envy of the globe. We were the richest, most powerful nation, with a standard of living that, for most other nations’ citizens, was almost unimaginable. That experience was a watershed for all of us and I think gave us—certainly gave me—an appreciation for what we have in the U.S.
Since ’67, I’ve traveled outside the U.S. many times, including a second trip around the world, this one on business in 1998. In these travels, my focus was on the work that I was doing. I saw change in the countries I visited, of course, but most of the time I was distracted by thoughts of the next meeting or the training class I’d just completed. Fall ‘09 was different, and this time I noticed how different the world is from the one I saw in ’67. It’s fair to say that much of the world has caught up with us.
When someone asks me “what was your favorite country?” I say “the United States.” This is still the greatest country. But it’s no longer the only country. Japan is cleaner and more modern—much more modern. China’s wealth is exploding, the Chinese are able to get big things done much more quickly than we are, and their cities offer every consumer good available on U.S. store shelves. The Vietnamese, our former enemies, are friendlier. The Ghanaians, despite their deep poverty and horrible infrastructure, seem happier. I could live in Hong Kong, Cadiz, Cape Town, or Yokohama—especially Yokohama. I wouldn’t have said that about any place we visited in ’67.
I believe all this could be a good thing for the U.S. The more other countries enjoy improving lifestyles, the less likely they are to covet ours. Terrorists hate us because of what we have. The Vietnamese and Chinese, now enjoying a quality of life that compares favorably with ours, at least in the cities, don’t want to destroy us, they want to be like us, economically if not politically. And perhaps the rising economic power of Asia will be just the kick in the butt we need to inspire us to do what we’ve always been able to do: rise higher.
The other thing many of the countries we visited have is a sense of community. That’s certainly true in Vietnam, China, Japan, Ghana, and among the majority Black population of South Africa. They are succeeding because, whether because of their cultures, their government, or both, they are all rowing in the same direction. Meanwhile, we seem to be at each other’s throats, unable to achieve consensus on almost anything. Moreover, we honor those who inflame the differences and disdain those who seem to be trying to bring us together. Continuing on that path is a sure way to becoming a second-class power.
Would I do it again? Sure! But not for a while—a couple of years, at least. And if I do, it’s hard to imagine that the people I share the experience with then could match in quality and congeniality the people—especially the faculty—I shared the past 4 months with. Bob Chapel was right when he told me last summer, “you’ll make new friends you’ll want to keep in close touch with long after December.” He says his greatest strength as a director is casting, and he proved it with the faculty “cast.” As wonderful as are my memories of the ports we visited, the people I shared it with made the voyage.
That’s it. Fin. Happy 2010.
28 December 2009
18 December 2009
Day 117--Flying to Washington
18 December. En Route (by plane) from Las Vegas to Washington DC.
After 4 days with daughters, son, and grandchildren, I’m heading to DC on the last leg of my re-entry voyage before returning home to Libertyville on the 20th. Waiting in Washington is Haley, who will be performing Saturday and Sunday as the newest member of the U.S. Navy Band in their annual holiday concert at Constitution Hall. Should be a very exciting—and proud—couple of days. And they should be a nice way to mark the end of the 4-month (almost to the date) voyage.
The sea portion of the voyage ended, as expected, precisely at 0800 Monday the 14th when the MV Explorer’s crew tossed the guidelines to the stevedores on the San Diego Pier. Meanwhile, a couple hundred parents waved balloons, streamers, and hand-painted “welcome-home” signs from the dock, the harbor restaurant nearby, and the balconies of several hotels sitting opposite the San Diego waterfront. The 7th-deck and upper railings were packed with students, faculty, and staff watching the elated parents jumping and clapping on the shore. It was quite the festive arrival.
The convocation on Sunday was a bit long but appropriately formal and celebratory at the same time. Bob Chapel delivered a short but moving valedictory in his final official function as academic dean. One of the student speakers chose the event to orate on the need for fair trade and for listeners to look for goods made by people earning greater than slave wages—probably not the most appropriate topic for a convocation, but well-delivered. A second student spoke from the heart and to the hearts of us all, focusing on the risks he’d taken, the experiences we’d all shared, and the need, as he said, to “go through life not looking for happiness but with happiness.” Deans Byron and Nick said a few words, a lifelong learner talked about the voyage as a way of breaking out into a new life following the recent death of her husband, graduating seniors and all-A students were recognized, and our small choir, with the Communication Arts Department on tenor, sang a couple of tunes, including a terrific Scott DeVeaux arrangement of “Homeward Bound.” We all—all 500+ in attendance—ended the convocation singing a couple choruses of “Seasons of Love” from Rent, but with voyage-specific lyrics by Karen Barnes (“One hundred fifty-four thousand nine hundred minutes . . . of Fall 2009”). It could have been very schlocky; it was rousing . . . and moving.
The disembarkation was, in a way, emblematic of the logistics we’d seen throughout the voyage: partially remarkable for its efficiency, partially frustrating for the lack of some planning that could have made the process much easier and faster. On Saturday—2 days before arriving in San Diego—we had to have all but essentials packed in boxes and suitcases for the ship’s staff to haul to the 2nd deck, ready to be offloaded. I should clarify that the staff hauled only the faculty’s and staff’s boxes and suitcases; the students had to lug their own luggage to the 2nd deck because, we’ve been told, the crew had been somewhat downsized in response to the somewhat reduced size of the student body—and resulting reduced income.
On Monday, then, immediately after docking in San Diego, the local stevedores began unloading the more-than-2000 pieces of luggage—boxes, duffels, suitcases, golf clubs—and placing them in an adjacent warehouse for reclaiming. To identify our pieces, and to facilitate locating them in the warehouse, we were given colored tags to affix to each piece, with each group—faculty, lifelong earners, the various student “seas”—identified by a different color. The stevedores, then, were instructed to keep all similarly-tagged items together.
The first three groups off the ship were select students (all-A’s and a few others), tagged beige; the Andaman Sea students, winners of the Sea Olympics, tagged white; and faculty, staff, and lifelong learners, all tagged gray. Of course, the stevedores couldn’t tell the difference among the white, beige, and gray tags. So when we entered the warehouse to reclaim boxes and luggage and transport them to waiting shipping services, all bags for the first 3 groups off the ship were scattered throughout the two large rooms of the warehouse. Following 30 minutes of searching, I located my 2 book boxes in one corner, my larger miscellaneous box in another corner, my golf clubs in yet another corner, and my duffle bag in an entirely different room, all intermingled among items bearing white, beige, and gray tags.
A stevedore told us that the Carnival Cruise ship parked at the adjacent dock had disgorged 3,000 passengers and bags within 2 hours because they had used a number system to group luggage rather than colored tags—a lesson for SAS from the 100th voyage.
By 1100, I had reclaimed my boxes, duffle, and clubs, waited in line for 30 minutes for a porter to help haul them to the UPS truck parked outside the warehouse, turned them over to UPS, and jumped in a taxi for the 15-minute ride to the airport. I managed to get on an earlier flight to Las Vegas, and, by 4pm, I was surrounded by grandkids.
Flight’s landing. I’ll have to finish this final entry over the weekend. It just occurred to me that, landing at Dulles, I’m now about as far east as Norfolk, the port from which we embarked 4 months ago.
I’ve traveled around the world.
After 4 days with daughters, son, and grandchildren, I’m heading to DC on the last leg of my re-entry voyage before returning home to Libertyville on the 20th. Waiting in Washington is Haley, who will be performing Saturday and Sunday as the newest member of the U.S. Navy Band in their annual holiday concert at Constitution Hall. Should be a very exciting—and proud—couple of days. And they should be a nice way to mark the end of the 4-month (almost to the date) voyage.
The sea portion of the voyage ended, as expected, precisely at 0800 Monday the 14th when the MV Explorer’s crew tossed the guidelines to the stevedores on the San Diego Pier. Meanwhile, a couple hundred parents waved balloons, streamers, and hand-painted “welcome-home” signs from the dock, the harbor restaurant nearby, and the balconies of several hotels sitting opposite the San Diego waterfront. The 7th-deck and upper railings were packed with students, faculty, and staff watching the elated parents jumping and clapping on the shore. It was quite the festive arrival.
The convocation on Sunday was a bit long but appropriately formal and celebratory at the same time. Bob Chapel delivered a short but moving valedictory in his final official function as academic dean. One of the student speakers chose the event to orate on the need for fair trade and for listeners to look for goods made by people earning greater than slave wages—probably not the most appropriate topic for a convocation, but well-delivered. A second student spoke from the heart and to the hearts of us all, focusing on the risks he’d taken, the experiences we’d all shared, and the need, as he said, to “go through life not looking for happiness but with happiness.” Deans Byron and Nick said a few words, a lifelong learner talked about the voyage as a way of breaking out into a new life following the recent death of her husband, graduating seniors and all-A students were recognized, and our small choir, with the Communication Arts Department on tenor, sang a couple of tunes, including a terrific Scott DeVeaux arrangement of “Homeward Bound.” We all—all 500+ in attendance—ended the convocation singing a couple choruses of “Seasons of Love” from Rent, but with voyage-specific lyrics by Karen Barnes (“One hundred fifty-four thousand nine hundred minutes . . . of Fall 2009”). It could have been very schlocky; it was rousing . . . and moving.
The disembarkation was, in a way, emblematic of the logistics we’d seen throughout the voyage: partially remarkable for its efficiency, partially frustrating for the lack of some planning that could have made the process much easier and faster. On Saturday—2 days before arriving in San Diego—we had to have all but essentials packed in boxes and suitcases for the ship’s staff to haul to the 2nd deck, ready to be offloaded. I should clarify that the staff hauled only the faculty’s and staff’s boxes and suitcases; the students had to lug their own luggage to the 2nd deck because, we’ve been told, the crew had been somewhat downsized in response to the somewhat reduced size of the student body—and resulting reduced income.
On Monday, then, immediately after docking in San Diego, the local stevedores began unloading the more-than-2000 pieces of luggage—boxes, duffels, suitcases, golf clubs—and placing them in an adjacent warehouse for reclaiming. To identify our pieces, and to facilitate locating them in the warehouse, we were given colored tags to affix to each piece, with each group—faculty, lifelong earners, the various student “seas”—identified by a different color. The stevedores, then, were instructed to keep all similarly-tagged items together.
The first three groups off the ship were select students (all-A’s and a few others), tagged beige; the Andaman Sea students, winners of the Sea Olympics, tagged white; and faculty, staff, and lifelong learners, all tagged gray. Of course, the stevedores couldn’t tell the difference among the white, beige, and gray tags. So when we entered the warehouse to reclaim boxes and luggage and transport them to waiting shipping services, all bags for the first 3 groups off the ship were scattered throughout the two large rooms of the warehouse. Following 30 minutes of searching, I located my 2 book boxes in one corner, my larger miscellaneous box in another corner, my golf clubs in yet another corner, and my duffle bag in an entirely different room, all intermingled among items bearing white, beige, and gray tags.
A stevedore told us that the Carnival Cruise ship parked at the adjacent dock had disgorged 3,000 passengers and bags within 2 hours because they had used a number system to group luggage rather than colored tags—a lesson for SAS from the 100th voyage.
By 1100, I had reclaimed my boxes, duffle, and clubs, waited in line for 30 minutes for a porter to help haul them to the UPS truck parked outside the warehouse, turned them over to UPS, and jumped in a taxi for the 15-minute ride to the airport. I managed to get on an earlier flight to Las Vegas, and, by 4pm, I was surrounded by grandkids.
Flight’s landing. I’ll have to finish this final entry over the weekend. It just occurred to me that, landing at Dulles, I’m now about as far east as Norfolk, the port from which we embarked 4 months ago.
I’ve traveled around the world.
14 December 2009
Day 112-- Last Day Before San Diego
13 December. 30°52’N, 123°43’W. Speed= 23 knots. Course= 070
“The storm of the century” never appeared. We’re now a little less than 15 hours before our scheduled arrival in Sand Diego harbor, and, other than a few gently rolling swells north of Oahu, the past 4 days have been smooth and relatively sunny. In fact, Thursday was a picture-perfect day on the Pacific: the sea looking like a massive, blue comforter, rising and falling in smooth waves; skies absolutely clear; temperatures in the mid 70s. It was as if SAS had negotiated with the gods of the sea and sky to engineer one final, perfect day on the water.
We sailed out of Honolulu harbor right at 1600 Wednesday the 9th, turned east, cruised about 2 miles offshore, passing downtown Honolulu, the beaches of Waikiki with the high-rise towers of Radissons and Outriggers dwarfing the beautiful, diminutive, pink grace of the Royal Hawaiian. Between us and the beach, a single boat towing two Japanese (no doubt) tourists suspended beneath a red-and-white parachute, both waving at the beautiful MV Explorer as we passed by. As we rounded Diamond Head, as if on cue, a couple of humpbacks breeched and blew water salutes from their blowholes. Then we turned northeast and paralleled the eastern shore of Oahu until, finally, it disappeared off the port stern. We’ve made, now, what seems like countless departures from some memorable ports, but the sail away from Honolulu will, undoubtedly, be the one I remember long after we step off the gangplank tomorrow.
The last three days—through this morning, in fact—have been harried and hectic, far moreso than I expected. I dug into some long-ago-turned-in journals on their Vietnam visit from my business communication students. I don’t know that the level of thought has improved much, but either their writing is getting clearer, or I’m developing a new ability to understand the Millennial language: like, ya know, like, it’s about the, like, the tunnels that were, like, ya know, narrow and I kinda, ya know, like got stuck.
Makes sense to me.
Then, by the deadline Friday morning, I had received all of the intercultural comm. take-home final exams. So beginning that afternoon and continuing well into yesterday afternoon, I was reading and grading 28 final exams. The was open-book, but challenging—many students will opt for a “traditional” final, knowing that “open-book” usually means “you’ll spend a long time digging through all the course materials to find the buried answer to this arcane question.” Most of the students did pretty well, finding the correct answers to the objective questions, and making decent connections on the questions that required more than regurgitation.
Yesterday afternoon, then, I started calculating final course grades, which was easy for the 7 students in my public speaking class : 3 A’s, 3 B’s, and a very generous “C.” More difficult for the 24 business comm. and 28 intercultural comm. students. In the end, I awarded more “A’s,” proportionately, than I did even in my most beneficent semesters at the Academy, and far fewer “C’s.” Nothing below a “C,” though I had several students who will carry away from their courses little more than vague memories of me seen through glazed eyes.
Last night was the alumni ball or ambassador’s ball. They can’t seem to decide what to call it, but it’s the ship’s version of a graduation dance. We began with dinner served in the dining room. I was invited to sit at the Captain’s table by Dianne Baker, who had outbid all other comers at the ship’s auction for the privilege of sitting across from Captain Jeremy Kingston and his wife, Apple. Dianne, in fact, had been the big winner, if that’s the right term, at the auction, outbidding all others for such prizes as a week in a studio apartment overlooking Central Park; a week in a Summit County, Colorado, cabin; 10 minutes of steering the ship on the bridge; the right to blow the ship’s horn as we sail into San Diego harbor tomorrow morning; and—the most prized of the prizes—two backstage passes to watch a Saturday Nite Live dress rehearsal. For that, I believe she paid over $2,000. Dianne made the auction a great night for SAS.
The Chapels, Jim and Shamim, and a few others were also at the table. All in all, it was a pleasant evening of shrimp, onion soup, not-quite-filet-mignon, and a decent wine that took us to about 10pm, when the students adjourned to the union for the dance, and I went back to my cabin to enjoy the remainder of a quiet evening and think abut today’s packing.
After submitting grades into the UVA system this morning, I packed what I could into the two book boxes I had picked up from the assistant dean’s office and the one large box I bought at the UPS store in downtown Honoulu. Between the three boxes, my large duffle bag, and, of course, my golf clubs, I’m sending most of my stuff home via UPS. I’m hoping the rest—some clothes and odds & ends—fits into my rollaboard and backpack. We’ll see.
So tomorrow morning at 0800, it all ends. We dock at 8, US customs starts clearing the ship immediately, the first passengers—3 students who came out on top at casino night, followed by the all-“A’s (is it just me, or are the priorities a little confused?), followed by the winning “sea” in the Explorer Olympics—should disembark around 1000. The faculty and staff follow, probably clearing around 1100. Then I locate my boxes and bags from among the 2,000 pieces that will be collected in a dockside warehouse, I schlep them to the UPS representative, hand them over, and depart for the San Diego airport.
I expect to spend the next couple of weeks decompressing and digesting. The decompression will take place mostly on my couch, watching TV, reading the newspaper, enjoying home. The digesting will be another matter, drawing together all of the experiences from the past 4 months and coming up with something to take away from it all. I have new feelings about the world, very different, in both good ways and not-so-good ways, from my feelings before August 21st. I have strong opinions about SAS, who provides an incredibly rich experience for all of us: students, faculty, staff, lifelong learners, families. And I have strong opinions about the students, a very select slice of American 18- to 22-year-olds.
But I need to think about all that. Meanwhile, tonight we have convocation, the final event of the voyage. And I should get ready.
“The storm of the century” never appeared. We’re now a little less than 15 hours before our scheduled arrival in Sand Diego harbor, and, other than a few gently rolling swells north of Oahu, the past 4 days have been smooth and relatively sunny. In fact, Thursday was a picture-perfect day on the Pacific: the sea looking like a massive, blue comforter, rising and falling in smooth waves; skies absolutely clear; temperatures in the mid 70s. It was as if SAS had negotiated with the gods of the sea and sky to engineer one final, perfect day on the water.
We sailed out of Honolulu harbor right at 1600 Wednesday the 9th, turned east, cruised about 2 miles offshore, passing downtown Honolulu, the beaches of Waikiki with the high-rise towers of Radissons and Outriggers dwarfing the beautiful, diminutive, pink grace of the Royal Hawaiian. Between us and the beach, a single boat towing two Japanese (no doubt) tourists suspended beneath a red-and-white parachute, both waving at the beautiful MV Explorer as we passed by. As we rounded Diamond Head, as if on cue, a couple of humpbacks breeched and blew water salutes from their blowholes. Then we turned northeast and paralleled the eastern shore of Oahu until, finally, it disappeared off the port stern. We’ve made, now, what seems like countless departures from some memorable ports, but the sail away from Honolulu will, undoubtedly, be the one I remember long after we step off the gangplank tomorrow.
The last three days—through this morning, in fact—have been harried and hectic, far moreso than I expected. I dug into some long-ago-turned-in journals on their Vietnam visit from my business communication students. I don’t know that the level of thought has improved much, but either their writing is getting clearer, or I’m developing a new ability to understand the Millennial language: like, ya know, like, it’s about the, like, the tunnels that were, like, ya know, narrow and I kinda, ya know, like got stuck.
Makes sense to me.
Then, by the deadline Friday morning, I had received all of the intercultural comm. take-home final exams. So beginning that afternoon and continuing well into yesterday afternoon, I was reading and grading 28 final exams. The was open-book, but challenging—many students will opt for a “traditional” final, knowing that “open-book” usually means “you’ll spend a long time digging through all the course materials to find the buried answer to this arcane question.” Most of the students did pretty well, finding the correct answers to the objective questions, and making decent connections on the questions that required more than regurgitation.
Yesterday afternoon, then, I started calculating final course grades, which was easy for the 7 students in my public speaking class : 3 A’s, 3 B’s, and a very generous “C.” More difficult for the 24 business comm. and 28 intercultural comm. students. In the end, I awarded more “A’s,” proportionately, than I did even in my most beneficent semesters at the Academy, and far fewer “C’s.” Nothing below a “C,” though I had several students who will carry away from their courses little more than vague memories of me seen through glazed eyes.
Last night was the alumni ball or ambassador’s ball. They can’t seem to decide what to call it, but it’s the ship’s version of a graduation dance. We began with dinner served in the dining room. I was invited to sit at the Captain’s table by Dianne Baker, who had outbid all other comers at the ship’s auction for the privilege of sitting across from Captain Jeremy Kingston and his wife, Apple. Dianne, in fact, had been the big winner, if that’s the right term, at the auction, outbidding all others for such prizes as a week in a studio apartment overlooking Central Park; a week in a Summit County, Colorado, cabin; 10 minutes of steering the ship on the bridge; the right to blow the ship’s horn as we sail into San Diego harbor tomorrow morning; and—the most prized of the prizes—two backstage passes to watch a Saturday Nite Live dress rehearsal. For that, I believe she paid over $2,000. Dianne made the auction a great night for SAS.
The Chapels, Jim and Shamim, and a few others were also at the table. All in all, it was a pleasant evening of shrimp, onion soup, not-quite-filet-mignon, and a decent wine that took us to about 10pm, when the students adjourned to the union for the dance, and I went back to my cabin to enjoy the remainder of a quiet evening and think abut today’s packing.
After submitting grades into the UVA system this morning, I packed what I could into the two book boxes I had picked up from the assistant dean’s office and the one large box I bought at the UPS store in downtown Honoulu. Between the three boxes, my large duffle bag, and, of course, my golf clubs, I’m sending most of my stuff home via UPS. I’m hoping the rest—some clothes and odds & ends—fits into my rollaboard and backpack. We’ll see.
So tomorrow morning at 0800, it all ends. We dock at 8, US customs starts clearing the ship immediately, the first passengers—3 students who came out on top at casino night, followed by the all-“A’s (is it just me, or are the priorities a little confused?), followed by the winning “sea” in the Explorer Olympics—should disembark around 1000. The faculty and staff follow, probably clearing around 1100. Then I locate my boxes and bags from among the 2,000 pieces that will be collected in a dockside warehouse, I schlep them to the UPS representative, hand them over, and depart for the San Diego airport.
I expect to spend the next couple of weeks decompressing and digesting. The decompression will take place mostly on my couch, watching TV, reading the newspaper, enjoying home. The digesting will be another matter, drawing together all of the experiences from the past 4 months and coming up with something to take away from it all. I have new feelings about the world, very different, in both good ways and not-so-good ways, from my feelings before August 21st. I have strong opinions about SAS, who provides an incredibly rich experience for all of us: students, faculty, staff, lifelong learners, families. And I have strong opinions about the students, a very select slice of American 18- to 22-year-olds.
But I need to think about all that. Meanwhile, tonight we have convocation, the final event of the voyage. And I should get ready.
09 December 2009
Day 107--In port, Honolulu HI
9 December. In port, Honolulu.
We’re now in the middle of our 6th full day in paradise, “stuck,” you might say, waiting for the giant swells in the North Pacific to settle down before we depart on the last leg of our nearly-4-month voyage. We arrived on time Friday morning, 4 December, just beating the storm, if that’s what it was. And the local newspapers were forecasting the biggest waves in years on the North Shore of Oahu, reputedly one of the best surfing beaches in the world. High surf (forecast in excess of 50-foot walls) are great news for the surfer dudes and dudettes; they’re bad news for a 500-foot ship loaded with desks, chairs, books, students, and irritable faculty. So Captain Jeremy Kingston is keeping us in Honolulu until the swells unswell a little. Latest word is that we'll sail this afternoon.
It’s about 2,500 statute miles from Honolulu to San Diego, and, at top speed, the MV Explorer can do about 30 knots, which is a little under 40 mph. So we could leave here as late as Friday morning and still pull into San Diego on time at 0800 Monday the 14th. But I’m afraid we’ll be on the open water before then. Parking in Honolulu is very expensive. We may be in for a rough few days as we finish up this great adventure.
We arrived in Honolulu while the sun was just starting to rise, pulling into dock 10 at the base of the Aloha Tower at 6am Friday. US Immigration insisted on face-to-face clearance of each passenger, so we all paraded through the faculty lounge to be welcomed back to the US individually. The ship cleared by 9am, and at 9:30, I was leaving with Jim and Shamim to pick up our rental car.
Stepping back onto US soil was exhilarating! Hawaii certainly has its own culture, distinct from almost anywhere else in the country and certainly different than Chicago’s. But I felt like I was home. I could read the signs, I could understand the security guards—and they could understand me—I knew how to use my cash , I knew how to ask for directions, I knew which side of the sidewalk was mine. It’s not the big things that I’ve missed over the past 4 months; it’s all these wonderful little things.
Although the storm was moving in—clouds were building over the Pali cliffs faster than typical—Bob, Jim, and I headed to Luana Hills Country Club on the windward side about 11:30, plenty early to arrive and hit a few balls before our 12:30pm tee time. We hadn’t counted on confusing directions and 3 navigators, however, so, after a 90-minute unscheduled tour back and forth between Diamond Head and Kaneohe, we arrived at Luana Hills—right at the base of the Pali, a place we passed 20 minutes after leaving the ship—at 12:15pm. Fortunately, with weather threatening, the course wasn’t crowded, so we were able to warm up and even get a bite to eat before heading to the first tee.
Luana Hills is a spectacularly beautiful course carved into the base of the Pali cliffs. It’s very hilly, very lush—rain-foresty, in fact—very narrow, and very unforgiving. In addition, because the island had received considerable rain over the previous few days, the course was “cart paths only,” meaning we couldn’t leave the paved paths that lined each fairway. As a result, the round took almost 5 hours to complete despite the fact we were the only ones playing. Worse, the walking up and down slippery hills and ravines wreaked havoc with my right knee—the original equipment. The upshot was that I decided not to play again on Saturday and give the knee a chance to rest before we tackled Mauna Kea on Sunday.
Friday nite, I dropped Jim and Bob off at the ship, and I drove to the Hale Koa Hotel, where I had reserved a room for the night. The Hale Koa sits on Fort DeRussy, located between the Hilton Hawaiian Village and the Outrigger Hotels, and beachfront on Waikiki. It opened in the early ‘70s exclusively for military active and retired members and families, one of the great benefits of those 20 years I spent in the Air Force. While it may not rival a Four Seasons or Ritz, the Hale Koa is a 4-star hotel by any standards. Plus, it houses services one can typically find only on a military base—a base exchange, for instance. And the mai-tais are excellent.
That night I took a short walk down the beach before sitting at a bar for a couple drinks and dinner. I was in my room for the night by 10pm, lying in bed watching the news, and was asleep by 10:30.
Saturday, after taking the car to the golfers, I had breakfast at the Hale Koa then stayed in the room ‘til noon checkout catching up on e-mail and enjoying the fast internet connection. As I said, it’s the little things. At noon, I took a bus back to the ship, dropped off my suitcase, then went to the next-door mall and sat at the bar of the Cantina Bikini, where I watched most of the Florida-Alabama game (#1 vs. #2), and had a couple of Boddingtons. Al Hunt joined me, and we had a great time talking to others, commenting on the game and the fortunes of our teams (his is Texas, so he had far more to talk about), and just enjoying a fall football Saturday, my first and last of the season. If I do this again, it’ll be in the spring. There’s just too much going on in the fall that I enjoy.
When the boys got back from golf, I took the car back to the rental agency after a stop by the Ala Moana mall to pick up some golf balls. Back on the ship by 1800 (6pm), and we sailed for Hilo at 1930.
Hilo is on the northeast side of Hawaii, the Big Island. The Big Island, one of my favorite spots, is a remarkable place. It’s the youngest of the islands, formed by 5 volcanoes, 3 of which—Hualalai, Mauna Loa, and Kilauea—are still active. Kilauea is the one that gets the most press because it’s constantly in eruption, sometimes violently. The resulting lava flows from the volcanoes has formed the island into a series of gently sloping cones rising from sea level all the way up to over 14,000’ at the summit of Mauna Kea. Because of these mountains an valleys, the Big Island is a patchwork of mini climates: tropical on the sunny (south and western) sides at sea level; rainy and jungle on the windward (north and eastern) sides; dry and arid in the saddle between Hulalai and Mauna Kea, where the Parker cattle ranch spreads over thousands of acres; temperate at the intermediate levels between the ocean and 4,000 to 5,000 feet; cold at the summit of the mountains. Besides the US’s highest observatory, the summit of Mauna Kea also has a small ski area.
We arrived at Hilo at 0800 Sunday, and the ship cleared the local authorities by 0830. Jim, Shamim, and I taxied to the Hilo airport to pick up rental cars—Shamim wanted her own so she could explore the Kona side of the island without having to worry about chauffering the golfers around—and we headed to the western, sunny shore. At least, it’s usually sunny. Sunday was an unusually cloudy, drizzly day all over the island. In fact, Mauna Kea resort had had so much rain over the previous 24 hours that the course was closed to carts when we arrived at 1100 for our 1300 (1pm) tee time. The starter told us, though, that if the rains held off, he’d reopen the course by 1. So Jim and I adjourned to the dining room, where I had an excellent mahi mahi sandwich on a ciabatta complemented by a $7 glass if iced tea.
The rains held off, the sun came out for a few minutes, and the course was open for our 1pm tee time. The next 4 ½ hours were alternately wonderful and woeful. The Mauna Kea course is reputedly the best in Hawaii. It sits along the lava-formed coast, with spectacular views, splashing surf, and the obligatory par-3 with a shot over a blue-water cove. The front nine was fun, and my game wasn’t too bad. But as we made the turn, the rains started again—mostly mist but occasional real drops—and by 12, we were soaked and, worse, the course was slippery and slow. Again, maneuvering up and down hills, trying to find my footing, was hell on my knee, and by 16, I wasn’t having fun anymore. My golf was terrible, not a good memory to take away from what, on another day, would surely rank as one of the most beautiful, challenging courses I’ve seen or played. Some day I’ll go back and try again.
Sunday night, the 3 of us stayed at the sister property next to the Mauna Kea: the Hapuna Beach Prince resort. We had the place almost entirely to ourselves (memo to self: the weeks before Xmas are nice and quiet in Hawaii), which helps explain the excellent room rate we got. And the hotel is simply beautiful: several layers of open-air rooms, restaurants, lounges, pools, and lanais stairstepping down to an excellent, very large beach. After a post-golf shower, I went immediately to the open-air lounge overlooking the pool and ocean, ordered a couple of G&Ts, and watched the sun set as I waited for Jim and Shamim to join me for dinner. Life at the high end!
The next morning, Monday, Jim and I left the Hapuna Beach at 0800 and drove to Big Island Country Club, where we met Bob, who had stayed on the ship Sunday performing dean duty. Big Island CC is up the slope of Hualalai about 3,000 feet, so it’s a little cooler and, usually, much windier. But Monday was perfect, a big contrast to the rains at Mauna Kea. The Bug Island CC course was, as Jim said, “rougher” than Mauna Kea’s, partly because the recent rains had prevented them from mowing, rolling, and raking, partly because they don’t have the big-buck backing from Japan that the Mauna Kea has. Still, the course is a nice layout with excellent views along the entire coast, challenging holes, and fair. Again, my golf wasn’t especially good, and my knee was hurting. But the day was fun and the weather couldn’t have been better—an excellent final day of golf for the ’09 season.
We finished the 18 holes by 1:30—again, the course was very uncrowded—and headed back to Hilo, stopping first at a little restaurant in Waimea called “Pau,” where I had a fish sandwich for $6.50 that was better than even the excellent fish sandwich I had paid $18 for at the Mauna Kea on Sunday. When the fish is only a day or two from having been frolicking in the sea, it’s usually pretty good, and this was.
We were back onboard the MV Explorer by 1700 Monday. At 2000 (8pm), the deans called an all-ship meeting to announce that we’d be returning to Honolulu to wait out the big waves. A large cruise ship—the “Pride of America” (owned by Norwegian Caribbean Lines, registered in the Bahamas, sailing with mostly Japanese passengers)—was hold up in Honolulu trying to avoid the swells, and, with passage between Hawaii and Oahu fairly calm, the two ships would trade places. The students went nuts at the news we’d be heading back to Honolulu, especially when they heard they’d be able to get off the ship and not have to return before 9pm Tuesday. The faculty was less than pleased with final exams starting on Wednesday. But, as Bob pointed out, students aren’t locked into their rooms before finals on most other campuses, so they shouldn’t be here. Those who would study anyway, still would; those who wouldn’t, wouldn’t.
So yesterday was a free day in Honolulu. I spent the morning at a nearby Starbucks, drinking coffee, doing online stuff, and watching Honolulu walk by. In the afternoon, I took a bus to Waikiki, where I walked down the beach to the Royal Hawaiian, sat in their Mai Tai Bar enjoying a couple of G&Ts (you have to be in the right mood for a mai tai—a sweet mood), then walked back to the Hale Koa, stopping first along the Fort DeRussey walk to watch the sun set. After dinner at the Hale Koa and 30 minutes of the holiday concert performed by the US Navy Pacific Fleet Band, I taxied back to the ship.
Today was the first day of finals. I listened to one last final speech in my 0800 public speaking course. Since then, I’ve been doing some final grading and, of course, working on this blog. And now, finally, I’m caught up!
Hawaii has been a wonderful transition back to the real world . . . in, I suppose, a very unreal way. It’s felt a little like a hill—not a wall; that would be far too abrupt—separating what will surely feel like the fantasy of the last 3 ½ months from the reality of the coming (very cold!) months. I’m looking forward to getting home and letting this experience soak while sitting on my own couch.
But there’s more to come: 4 days on what I’m guessing will be very rough seas.
We’re now in the middle of our 6th full day in paradise, “stuck,” you might say, waiting for the giant swells in the North Pacific to settle down before we depart on the last leg of our nearly-4-month voyage. We arrived on time Friday morning, 4 December, just beating the storm, if that’s what it was. And the local newspapers were forecasting the biggest waves in years on the North Shore of Oahu, reputedly one of the best surfing beaches in the world. High surf (forecast in excess of 50-foot walls) are great news for the surfer dudes and dudettes; they’re bad news for a 500-foot ship loaded with desks, chairs, books, students, and irritable faculty. So Captain Jeremy Kingston is keeping us in Honolulu until the swells unswell a little. Latest word is that we'll sail this afternoon.
It’s about 2,500 statute miles from Honolulu to San Diego, and, at top speed, the MV Explorer can do about 30 knots, which is a little under 40 mph. So we could leave here as late as Friday morning and still pull into San Diego on time at 0800 Monday the 14th. But I’m afraid we’ll be on the open water before then. Parking in Honolulu is very expensive. We may be in for a rough few days as we finish up this great adventure.
We arrived in Honolulu while the sun was just starting to rise, pulling into dock 10 at the base of the Aloha Tower at 6am Friday. US Immigration insisted on face-to-face clearance of each passenger, so we all paraded through the faculty lounge to be welcomed back to the US individually. The ship cleared by 9am, and at 9:30, I was leaving with Jim and Shamim to pick up our rental car.
Stepping back onto US soil was exhilarating! Hawaii certainly has its own culture, distinct from almost anywhere else in the country and certainly different than Chicago’s. But I felt like I was home. I could read the signs, I could understand the security guards—and they could understand me—I knew how to use my cash , I knew how to ask for directions, I knew which side of the sidewalk was mine. It’s not the big things that I’ve missed over the past 4 months; it’s all these wonderful little things.
Although the storm was moving in—clouds were building over the Pali cliffs faster than typical—Bob, Jim, and I headed to Luana Hills Country Club on the windward side about 11:30, plenty early to arrive and hit a few balls before our 12:30pm tee time. We hadn’t counted on confusing directions and 3 navigators, however, so, after a 90-minute unscheduled tour back and forth between Diamond Head and Kaneohe, we arrived at Luana Hills—right at the base of the Pali, a place we passed 20 minutes after leaving the ship—at 12:15pm. Fortunately, with weather threatening, the course wasn’t crowded, so we were able to warm up and even get a bite to eat before heading to the first tee.
Luana Hills is a spectacularly beautiful course carved into the base of the Pali cliffs. It’s very hilly, very lush—rain-foresty, in fact—very narrow, and very unforgiving. In addition, because the island had received considerable rain over the previous few days, the course was “cart paths only,” meaning we couldn’t leave the paved paths that lined each fairway. As a result, the round took almost 5 hours to complete despite the fact we were the only ones playing. Worse, the walking up and down slippery hills and ravines wreaked havoc with my right knee—the original equipment. The upshot was that I decided not to play again on Saturday and give the knee a chance to rest before we tackled Mauna Kea on Sunday.
Friday nite, I dropped Jim and Bob off at the ship, and I drove to the Hale Koa Hotel, where I had reserved a room for the night. The Hale Koa sits on Fort DeRussy, located between the Hilton Hawaiian Village and the Outrigger Hotels, and beachfront on Waikiki. It opened in the early ‘70s exclusively for military active and retired members and families, one of the great benefits of those 20 years I spent in the Air Force. While it may not rival a Four Seasons or Ritz, the Hale Koa is a 4-star hotel by any standards. Plus, it houses services one can typically find only on a military base—a base exchange, for instance. And the mai-tais are excellent.
That night I took a short walk down the beach before sitting at a bar for a couple drinks and dinner. I was in my room for the night by 10pm, lying in bed watching the news, and was asleep by 10:30.
Saturday, after taking the car to the golfers, I had breakfast at the Hale Koa then stayed in the room ‘til noon checkout catching up on e-mail and enjoying the fast internet connection. As I said, it’s the little things. At noon, I took a bus back to the ship, dropped off my suitcase, then went to the next-door mall and sat at the bar of the Cantina Bikini, where I watched most of the Florida-Alabama game (#1 vs. #2), and had a couple of Boddingtons. Al Hunt joined me, and we had a great time talking to others, commenting on the game and the fortunes of our teams (his is Texas, so he had far more to talk about), and just enjoying a fall football Saturday, my first and last of the season. If I do this again, it’ll be in the spring. There’s just too much going on in the fall that I enjoy.
When the boys got back from golf, I took the car back to the rental agency after a stop by the Ala Moana mall to pick up some golf balls. Back on the ship by 1800 (6pm), and we sailed for Hilo at 1930.
Hilo is on the northeast side of Hawaii, the Big Island. The Big Island, one of my favorite spots, is a remarkable place. It’s the youngest of the islands, formed by 5 volcanoes, 3 of which—Hualalai, Mauna Loa, and Kilauea—are still active. Kilauea is the one that gets the most press because it’s constantly in eruption, sometimes violently. The resulting lava flows from the volcanoes has formed the island into a series of gently sloping cones rising from sea level all the way up to over 14,000’ at the summit of Mauna Kea. Because of these mountains an valleys, the Big Island is a patchwork of mini climates: tropical on the sunny (south and western) sides at sea level; rainy and jungle on the windward (north and eastern) sides; dry and arid in the saddle between Hulalai and Mauna Kea, where the Parker cattle ranch spreads over thousands of acres; temperate at the intermediate levels between the ocean and 4,000 to 5,000 feet; cold at the summit of the mountains. Besides the US’s highest observatory, the summit of Mauna Kea also has a small ski area.
We arrived at Hilo at 0800 Sunday, and the ship cleared the local authorities by 0830. Jim, Shamim, and I taxied to the Hilo airport to pick up rental cars—Shamim wanted her own so she could explore the Kona side of the island without having to worry about chauffering the golfers around—and we headed to the western, sunny shore. At least, it’s usually sunny. Sunday was an unusually cloudy, drizzly day all over the island. In fact, Mauna Kea resort had had so much rain over the previous 24 hours that the course was closed to carts when we arrived at 1100 for our 1300 (1pm) tee time. The starter told us, though, that if the rains held off, he’d reopen the course by 1. So Jim and I adjourned to the dining room, where I had an excellent mahi mahi sandwich on a ciabatta complemented by a $7 glass if iced tea.
The rains held off, the sun came out for a few minutes, and the course was open for our 1pm tee time. The next 4 ½ hours were alternately wonderful and woeful. The Mauna Kea course is reputedly the best in Hawaii. It sits along the lava-formed coast, with spectacular views, splashing surf, and the obligatory par-3 with a shot over a blue-water cove. The front nine was fun, and my game wasn’t too bad. But as we made the turn, the rains started again—mostly mist but occasional real drops—and by 12, we were soaked and, worse, the course was slippery and slow. Again, maneuvering up and down hills, trying to find my footing, was hell on my knee, and by 16, I wasn’t having fun anymore. My golf was terrible, not a good memory to take away from what, on another day, would surely rank as one of the most beautiful, challenging courses I’ve seen or played. Some day I’ll go back and try again.
Sunday night, the 3 of us stayed at the sister property next to the Mauna Kea: the Hapuna Beach Prince resort. We had the place almost entirely to ourselves (memo to self: the weeks before Xmas are nice and quiet in Hawaii), which helps explain the excellent room rate we got. And the hotel is simply beautiful: several layers of open-air rooms, restaurants, lounges, pools, and lanais stairstepping down to an excellent, very large beach. After a post-golf shower, I went immediately to the open-air lounge overlooking the pool and ocean, ordered a couple of G&Ts, and watched the sun set as I waited for Jim and Shamim to join me for dinner. Life at the high end!
The next morning, Monday, Jim and I left the Hapuna Beach at 0800 and drove to Big Island Country Club, where we met Bob, who had stayed on the ship Sunday performing dean duty. Big Island CC is up the slope of Hualalai about 3,000 feet, so it’s a little cooler and, usually, much windier. But Monday was perfect, a big contrast to the rains at Mauna Kea. The Bug Island CC course was, as Jim said, “rougher” than Mauna Kea’s, partly because the recent rains had prevented them from mowing, rolling, and raking, partly because they don’t have the big-buck backing from Japan that the Mauna Kea has. Still, the course is a nice layout with excellent views along the entire coast, challenging holes, and fair. Again, my golf wasn’t especially good, and my knee was hurting. But the day was fun and the weather couldn’t have been better—an excellent final day of golf for the ’09 season.
We finished the 18 holes by 1:30—again, the course was very uncrowded—and headed back to Hilo, stopping first at a little restaurant in Waimea called “Pau,” where I had a fish sandwich for $6.50 that was better than even the excellent fish sandwich I had paid $18 for at the Mauna Kea on Sunday. When the fish is only a day or two from having been frolicking in the sea, it’s usually pretty good, and this was.
We were back onboard the MV Explorer by 1700 Monday. At 2000 (8pm), the deans called an all-ship meeting to announce that we’d be returning to Honolulu to wait out the big waves. A large cruise ship—the “Pride of America” (owned by Norwegian Caribbean Lines, registered in the Bahamas, sailing with mostly Japanese passengers)—was hold up in Honolulu trying to avoid the swells, and, with passage between Hawaii and Oahu fairly calm, the two ships would trade places. The students went nuts at the news we’d be heading back to Honolulu, especially when they heard they’d be able to get off the ship and not have to return before 9pm Tuesday. The faculty was less than pleased with final exams starting on Wednesday. But, as Bob pointed out, students aren’t locked into their rooms before finals on most other campuses, so they shouldn’t be here. Those who would study anyway, still would; those who wouldn’t, wouldn’t.
So yesterday was a free day in Honolulu. I spent the morning at a nearby Starbucks, drinking coffee, doing online stuff, and watching Honolulu walk by. In the afternoon, I took a bus to Waikiki, where I walked down the beach to the Royal Hawaiian, sat in their Mai Tai Bar enjoying a couple of G&Ts (you have to be in the right mood for a mai tai—a sweet mood), then walked back to the Hale Koa, stopping first along the Fort DeRussey walk to watch the sun set. After dinner at the Hale Koa and 30 minutes of the holiday concert performed by the US Navy Pacific Fleet Band, I taxied back to the ship.
Today was the first day of finals. I listened to one last final speech in my 0800 public speaking course. Since then, I’ve been doing some final grading and, of course, working on this blog. And now, finally, I’m caught up!
Hawaii has been a wonderful transition back to the real world . . . in, I suppose, a very unreal way. It’s felt a little like a hill—not a wall; that would be far too abrupt—separating what will surely feel like the fantasy of the last 3 ½ months from the reality of the coming (very cold!) months. I’m looking forward to getting home and letting this experience soak while sitting on my own couch.
But there’s more to come: 4 days on what I’m guessing will be very rough seas.
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