West of Guinea-Bissau, Enroute to Ghana

4 October 2012

When I open the sliding door to my small balcony, thick, warm, tropical air now rushes into my cabin. The first and second nights out of Santa Cruz, I slept with the balcony door open. The night air was cool, only slightly moist, and the sounds of the ocean splashing against the Explorer’s bow was the same sound I’ve heard many times sleeping on or near beaches: the rhythmic, soft explosion of waves washing onto sand.

But last night, the air was too heavy; I closed the balcony door and turned the a/c back on.

We’re rounding the fat belly of Africa, where it turns east to Cameroon before turning south again all the way to the Cape of Good Hope. We’ve been following the coast the last three days, not close enough to see the land during the day or city lights—what there are of them in this part of the continent—at night. But we know we’re close to shore. Occasional plastic bottles go floating by, often accompanied by pieces of cloth, paper, or other jetsam. And today, a veritable fleet of small fishing boats—one-person affairs, no more than 12 feet long, looking like elongated, narrow rowboats—went by, each driven by a small outboard motor and a single fisherman enroute to favorite waters. How do they know where they are or where they’re going? These days, in those rickety craft, they probably carry GPS and fish-finding sonar.

Animals have reappeared in the water; we haven’t seen many since the second day out of Halifax. This morning I watched flying fish skimming along the top of the water as the bow of the ship cut through their schools and launched them into the air. At first, flying fish look like tiny birds soaring along the waves looking for food. But birds dart and turn; flying fish follow straight-line courses until their flimsy wings, which seem to fidget as furiously as a hummingbird’s, run out of steam, and the fish disappear back into the water. When they launch in schools, as they often do, 15 or 20 fly in perfect parallel courses, leaving tiny trails in the water from their wakes. Then they all splash together, safely away from the ship.

And pods of porpoises appear every now and then, rising and falling together in predictable patterns, always seeming to be going in the opposite direction from the ship. Around noon, we may have seen our first whales in African waters—they were several hundred yards away, so it was hard to tell if they were porpoises or whales. But their size and the slower rhythm of their breeches seemed evidence of the larger mammals. I even saw a turtle, just a few feet out from my balcony railing, diving quickly away as the Explorer passed by.

Today, the ocean is as calm as it’s been since leaving Halifax harbor. We still see swells, of course—the ocean is rarely totally calm—but the crests are glass-like: very smooth, like desert dunes, rather than the craggy wave tops we see when the seas are roughed up by the weather. These are the days I remember from three years ago, when staring at the ocean can distract me for many, many minutes. It’s hypnotic. Only when an animal appears and breaks the spell, or when I remember I have papers to grade and lessons to fine-tune, do I walk back inside to my cabin cocoon.

I’m spending more time in that cocoon this voyage than the last. Part of the reason is because I have some Internet connectivity in the cabin, so I have less reason to go up to the 7^th-deck faculty/staff lounge during the day. Up there, the internet connection is always strong, but the chairs and tables are made for drinking and snacking, not getting any serious grading and writing done. Besides, it’s cold up there. In my 5th-deck cabin, where I am now, the temperature is comfortable, and the desk is just the right height for my laptop keyboard.

But staying in the cabin also keeps me from connecting with my fellow faculty members as frequently as I did three years ago. So I try to compensate by never missing a happy hour on the 7^th deck. Five to six pm, the bar is open, staffed by Mandy, a 14-year SAS veteran from the Philippines and the world’s greatest bartender, who knows everyone’s name, can recite all our cabin numbers, and anticipates our orders before even we know what liquid sounds good. On this voyage, Mandy is ably assisted by Jerry, a younger but eager apprentice from Jamaica, who can’t match Manny’s computer-like memory (Jerry has to ask for cabin numbers when he’s ringing up our drink and snack orders; Mandy never does). But Jerry is learning well the ways of good bartending. Mandy, Jerry, and the faculty, staff, and life-long learners make 5 to 6, indeed, the happiest hour of the day.

All of the crew—from Captain Roman to the deckhands—are from countries outside the Americas. Most of the officers come from Eastern Europe and Australia. The Captain is Bosnian, the chief engineer is from Serbia, the chief of security is Russian. Most of the crew are from Africa and, by far the largest segment, the Philippines. All of the crew are extraordinarily friendly and extraordinarily helpful. And they never stop cleaning the ship. I rarely use a stairwell without passing a crewmember polishing the brass railing or cleaning the carpet. The outside decks on 5, 6, and 7 are constantly being swabbed or polished or varnished. And when we’re in port, crew members can be seen any day hanging on scaffolds suspended from upper decks either washing or painting—painting!—the ship’s exterior. The MV Explorer is treated better than Kobe beef.

We’re definitely back into the school mode, and the mood is noticeably different on board. Students are far more serious, faculty are more relaxed (we actually have time to prep and grade between ports), everyone seems back into the “voyage” mode. Yes, it feels a little more like “work.” But the rhythm of the experience is returning, and I think we’re all saying “Whew!”

In two days, the students face their first exam in the mandatory “Global Studies” course. But first, tomorrow is a study day, a wonderful break in the daily class schedule when we can catch up. I have papers to grade, so I know how I’ll be spending my “day off.”

Tonight, we’ll be watching a replay of last night’s first debate between Obama and Romney—an important 90 minutes and, of course, a touch of home. The entire ship will be tuned in.