Because of this fact, before the Sullivan leaves any port our crew has an extensive meeting with new passengers about emergency procedures: what to do if a fire breaks out on deck, if someone fell overboard, or if (knock on wood) it became necessary to abandon ship. And each person aboard is given a job in the event of those emergencies: man the hoses, toss ring buoys to the MOB, grab Ditch Kit 3 and head for Life Raft 1. Recent advances in shipping technology still only take us so far.  Fires flare up in galleys, ships still sink, and once in a long while, someone is lost in the waves. 

 

Understandably, crews aboard ships are militant about safety. Most of the Sullivan rules are “small” in nature: always face the stairs while climbing the companionways, never leave belongings strewn across the deck, latch all the doors closed during and after using them. Despite their larger, beneficial impacts, in being small, the rules take a while to master. So the question then becomes: how do you teach proper ship safety to new passengers in the quickest way possible? 

 

Ah, the ancient art of public humiliation. 

 

The other day I went for a run in Green Bay, WI. The humidity had broken, there was a slight breeze, the dawn sky was cloudless and I felt like I could run forever through the cool air. It was Sunday, the final festival day at Green Bay, and I was glad to see the wind die down a bit. I ran back through the empty festival grounds and stopped by the Sullivan for a change of clothes before heading to the showers, only to discover my bunk light was missing.  

 

I had left it on. 

 

I knew instantly that Tiff, our captain, had confiscated it. I pictured the tiny bulb in the left pocket of her tan Carharts. Crap. 

 

Heat in my body lit through my limbs like wildfire: the penalty for leaving a bunk light on aboard the Sullivan is singing for the entire crew at evening muster. Like most other folks, I’m a loud-n-proud tune-belting agent on the interstate, in the house even, but I do not sing for crowds. Ever.  

 

Much to my relief, one of the volunteers from Discovery World aboard this week, Stacy Mills (a.k.a. Saving Grace), offered to sing along with me. And at least I had the day to prepare. I checked my watch. Evening muster was, by my estimation, still ten hours away. 

 

 

Stacy and I selected John Masefield’s poem, “Sea Fever” (included in the welcome manual for the Sullivan) and paired the three stanzas with a classic sea shanty melody.   At any slow point in the Green Village tent on that festival Sunday, we could be heard practicing our verses (albeit somewhat out of key), tripping up over the outdated phrasing, hammering out the harder bars of melody.   Wander-throughs stopped and stared. As the afternoon progressed and our tune went from terrible to sufficient, we earned a few hesitant claps. 

 

 

That dusk the Sullivan crew got a good laugh out our adaption of Masefield’s “Sea Fever”.   And yes, they were laughing at us, but that was all right with me and Stacy, because it was worth it to see the smiles break after a long day’s work on Lake Michigan. That—and I was also laughing at myself.  

 

You bet I got my bulb back.