Measuring time
When you're at sea for long enough, the days start to run together. Sea time is expensive, so we don't waste time by taking breaks - or weekends. There are operations going on 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, until you get back to port. So how in the world is a scientist at sea supposed to keep track of the time? Make marks on the walls? Etch tallies into the deck of the ship? Keep a calendar like normal people?
Ah, my friends, none of these extreme measures are necessary. To keep track of how much time you have spent at sea, all you have to do is look at the food being served in the galley. A long-haul cruise goes through very specific stages, marked by the appearance - or rather disappearance - of certain foods.
First, there's No Nutella Day. It doesn't matter how much Nutella the steward stocks for the cruise, it is always the first thing to disappear. It usually only takes a few days. At this point, you probably haven't even reached the first station, and you don't even know who to be angry at, because you haven't met everyone on board yet. The worst part is knowing that it's all gone, and you will have to survive the next x-number of hard working days without your favorite comfort food. No Nutella Day sucks.
Next comes Banana Bread Day. Since bananas tend to get overripe pretty quickly, banana bread appears in the galley early in the cruise - maybe after a week or so. Just about the time when you've settled into a routine and gotten a few good samples, those bad brown bananas get turned into bread. Of course, you'd love to smear some Nutella on your banana bread, but that's not going to happen.
Next there's Frozen Fruit Day. We actually reached this one recently, after about 2 weeks at sea. Enough time has passed that the fresh fruit is going bad, so the steward starts pulling out frozen alternatives. By this point, there have been successful samples, and there have been unsuccessful samples. Maybe there's even been a scare or two. You've been offended by someone on board, but you've also become good friends with several others. You're starting to notice a clique forming, but you don't let it bother you - there's too much work to do.
Tomato Soup Day happens right before the tomatoes go bad, after about a month at sea. At this point, your box of samples is filling. You'd worry about how long it will take to process all of them back on land, but honestly, land is beginning to feel like a distant memory. You have several close friends on board, but there are also a few people you'd prefer to avoid. You find it impossible to ever be alone on the ship. There are people everywhere, especially when you're exhausted and all you want to do is be alone with your Netflix. Then you remember there's no Netflix at sea either, and the world begins to seem like a dark, cruel place.
Shortly following the appearance of tomato soup is No Lettuce Day. Now, granted, I've never actually reached this day, but I've come hair-raising, nail-bitingly close. No Lettuce Day is a scary day, because it means you've been at sea for over a month with no breaks. By this point, you've forgotten that land exists. The people on board are your best friends and your worst enemies, and every interaction seems more dramatic as a result of your complete and utter exhaustion. You start to wonder if there's been an apocalypse on land, if your country exists anymore, if your mother remembers your name. You have a hard time believing that anyone else in the world exists besides your ship, your samples, and the frozen vegetables they're serving in the galley.
I don't know what happens after No Lettuce Day. I've never made it that far; it's uncharted territory, and frankly, I'm a bit scared to find out. The steward has already warned us that No Lettuce Day is coming for the Thompson, so I will soon find out what lies on the other side. Godspeed, my friends.
Ah, my friends, none of these extreme measures are necessary. To keep track of how much time you have spent at sea, all you have to do is look at the food being served in the galley. A long-haul cruise goes through very specific stages, marked by the appearance - or rather disappearance - of certain foods.
First, there's No Nutella Day. It doesn't matter how much Nutella the steward stocks for the cruise, it is always the first thing to disappear. It usually only takes a few days. At this point, you probably haven't even reached the first station, and you don't even know who to be angry at, because you haven't met everyone on board yet. The worst part is knowing that it's all gone, and you will have to survive the next x-number of hard working days without your favorite comfort food. No Nutella Day sucks.
Next comes Banana Bread Day. Since bananas tend to get overripe pretty quickly, banana bread appears in the galley early in the cruise - maybe after a week or so. Just about the time when you've settled into a routine and gotten a few good samples, those bad brown bananas get turned into bread. Of course, you'd love to smear some Nutella on your banana bread, but that's not going to happen.
Next there's Frozen Fruit Day. We actually reached this one recently, after about 2 weeks at sea. Enough time has passed that the fresh fruit is going bad, so the steward starts pulling out frozen alternatives. By this point, there have been successful samples, and there have been unsuccessful samples. Maybe there's even been a scare or two. You've been offended by someone on board, but you've also become good friends with several others. You're starting to notice a clique forming, but you don't let it bother you - there's too much work to do.
Tomato Soup Day happens right before the tomatoes go bad, after about a month at sea. At this point, your box of samples is filling. You'd worry about how long it will take to process all of them back on land, but honestly, land is beginning to feel like a distant memory. You have several close friends on board, but there are also a few people you'd prefer to avoid. You find it impossible to ever be alone on the ship. There are people everywhere, especially when you're exhausted and all you want to do is be alone with your Netflix. Then you remember there's no Netflix at sea either, and the world begins to seem like a dark, cruel place.
Shortly following the appearance of tomato soup is No Lettuce Day. Now, granted, I've never actually reached this day, but I've come hair-raising, nail-bitingly close. No Lettuce Day is a scary day, because it means you've been at sea for over a month with no breaks. By this point, you've forgotten that land exists. The people on board are your best friends and your worst enemies, and every interaction seems more dramatic as a result of your complete and utter exhaustion. You start to wonder if there's been an apocalypse on land, if your country exists anymore, if your mother remembers your name. You have a hard time believing that anyone else in the world exists besides your ship, your samples, and the frozen vegetables they're serving in the galley.
I don't know what happens after No Lettuce Day. I've never made it that far; it's uncharted territory, and frankly, I'm a bit scared to find out. The steward has already warned us that No Lettuce Day is coming for the Thompson, so I will soon find out what lies on the other side. Godspeed, my friends.
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