July: The Shipyard
These next 2 sections were hard to write. Emotion affects my memories, and the witnesses have not survived.
Oh they still live, as far as I know. What I mean to say is, we don’t talk anymore.
[PART 5]
Bound for JFK, en route to Yellowstone, I got a surprise phone call from my boss.
“Emily, I booked you a flight to Vancouver; we need you en-route to Alaska in a few days.”
I protested, alarmed,
“But I don’t have my passport! I don’t have warm clothes. I’m headed now to the desert, with a tiny backpack: only a tennis skirt and t-shirt inside!”
“Make it work”, he told me.
And with the quick and heroic aid of Xindi, Jason, Kate, Dustin and Grace- we did.
So July began on a ship in Alaska.
I met some good people on that crew. There was Sean, who made room for me on his team with patient and generous friendship. He gave me kind advice, and included me in his world, no questions asked. And there was Clyde, who encouraged me to be brave, to own my work, and keep writing.
At the port of Seward, I chanced to meet 3 generations of missionaries, all glowing with health. They brought me to a house built for welcome, overgrown with flowers, smelling like cinnamon and serenity.
“Do you like French-pressed coffee?”
An athletic young woman placed a pretty mug in my hands. Eyes smiling with compassion, she gushed,“We love caring for you seafarers.”
I sat across from an older woman named Cathy. Every Spring, she left her home in the lower 49 to live here in Seward. She served this house, summers, while the ships were in season. Between bites of tender banana bread, we exchanged the good reports of God’s soul-stirring work on the deep.
I was touched by how these ministers shared my burden for the crews. Though they had never lived the experience, they understood just as I did, how the seafarers were far from home, laboring fiercely. So many had not heard, much less spoken the name of Jesus! Yet, to our eyes, it was crystal clear they were protected, chosen, called.
“Jesus stopped and called them. “What do you want me to do for you?”
They said to Him, “Lord, we want our eyes to be opened.”
Moved with compassion, Jesus touched their eyes, and all at once they received their sight and followed Him.”
“For God’s gifts and his call are irrevocable.”
The day-in, day-out devotion of the mission volunteers filled me with awe. As long as there was a ship in port, they stayed ready: baking cookies, steeping tea, organizing rides to stores. Bookshelves were full, and wifi in good order. Guitars were tuned, and basketballs ready at the nets. Their doors were open as a simple, refreshing home away from home. In their practical, faithful ministry, God’s love shone resplendent as the glaciers, mountains and wilderness all around.
At last, I received my travel arrangements from Anchorage to base camp in Louisiana. Walking past racks of rhinestone-studded football garb at Louis Armstrong Airport, I felt my heart lured by the austere romance of fleurs de lis.
“I think I’m a Saints fan now”, I texted friends with wonder.
Outside under wrenching clouds, three Lyfts declined to bring me home, an hour southwest into the swamplands. Maria finally opened her doors, but when the road disappeared, and the storm didn’t relent, we knew we needed to pull over. English and Spanish prayers both inaudible against the din of rain, we stayed still, thanking God for our safety. When the sky cleared, we continued on. I fell asleep with my head on my duffel bag, and blinked awake only when I felt the car slow to a stop outside the Courtyard by Marriott hotel.
Still in the hold of sleep, I dragged my luggage clumsily from the backseat, tossing it behind me to the curb. When I turned round, I was barreled over by the formidable strength of Erin and Jill*.
Their lips were already pouring story into my ears. They wanted me to know everything- all their concerns, all the substance of the days I’d missed during my Alaskan detour. I must expect them, and Bobby, too, at my room after dinner- they were calling a meeting.
Their intensity startled me. They were significantly older than me. On paper, they were equally, or perhaps more experienced. My higher-ups had wanted to hire people like them: people who were too qualified. People who wanted the job I had been hired for. People who would “make me look good”.
(Those were the words of Art, the HGM, and Sal, the hiring manager. I had my own opinions, which I had voiced, but the vision of the higher-ups guided the process with a firm hand.)
I accepted what must be God’s sovereign design. These were to be my people. I resolved to embrace them, and to love them.
That night, I listened to them tell me all their troubles. They poured out all their complaints, all their resentment, all their fears, and all their dissatisfaction.
I realized, I had at least one thing they didn’t: peace.
“Be anxious about nothing, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.”
With pen in hand, I heard them out. I let the pages of my notebook drink their anxiety. Where I could assuage fears, I did. Where I could encourage, I did. And where I could correct attitudes and assumptions that served none of us, I did. Well, I sure tried.
But I needed to catch up, too. After all, I had just arrived on the scene. I had no intel my team didn’t have. My bosses had plenty to be preoccupied with, and my department wasn’t their priority.
The situation was this:
The shipbuilders had missed their deadline, a time or two. The workers belonged to a union. They had reached their contracted hours, and now they required rest time. This was their first time undertaking a project like this: they didn’t know how to execute the design, and certainly not with any efficiency. Slow progress stalled and stopped.
But the hospitality staff had been hired, and put on payroll. The cruises had been advertised and sold- sold out, in fact! We had to make it happen.
We could not live on the ship, because it was unlivable. So we would sleep each night in this pleasant hotel, twenty minutes down the road. Each day, with a small fleet of minvans, we would shuttle the crew back and forth over lackadaisical drawbridges, rough gravel and a minefield of tire-shredding nails. My team, being more brains & beauty than brawn, became the shuttle drivers. Their fellows strained beneath the weight of furniture and supplies, loaded onto the ship, on their literal shoulders, by the truckload. Tensions climbed.
I set off on a fact-finding mission, trying to pin down the answers to my team’s lingering questions. I chased down each of the senior leaders, playing a frenzy of catchup.
Art, the HGM told me: “Don’t overthink it.”
Nick, the AHGM told me: “For now, there’s nothing you can do. Why not focus on crew wellness? You can celebrate birthdays and organize movie nights. Keep the team in good spirits, and help us get through this.”
Amidst our reckoning of where we were supposed to be, versus where we were, Ian, the Shore Ex Manager confessed: “I’m scared.”
Astrid, the Ship Launch Manager told me with honest, bulging eyes, “I’m very stressed.”
I could feel the ugly, uncaring weight of brand image heavy on our shoulders. How great would be our shame if we didn’t meet our obligation- if we didn’t fulfill the promises that had been made by someone else?
Jay, the Hotel Purser was feeling it too. I could hear the edge in his voice. I could see how all my colleagues were being pressed, to the point of being crushed. But they weren’t screaming. Not out loud, anyway.
I listened to their fears, too.
In private conversations, I counseled them, We must not carry all that!
We are not the owners of the company. We are not the captains of the ship. We are not God.
Yes, we were being paid well, but money couldn’t turn us into something more than human. I charged my colleagues: Let’s do what we can do.
To Jay, who became my good friend, I gave the encouragement: “You’re the man for the job!”
This became our rallying cry: I’d say it to him, or he’d give me it’s twin response: “You’re the girl for the job!”
“Do you not know that you will judge angels? So you should surely be able to resolve the ordinary disputes in this life!”
“Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom.”
Covid struck us, in her latest strain. Care of the isolated crew fell to me. With arms loaded with water bottles, oranges, and styrofoam boxes, I raced the halls of the hotel, morning, noon and night. I made wellness calls by phone, delivering special items whenever they were requested. Most of the isolated crew were so humble, and so good-natured about their forced captivity, but I felt awful for them. I made them get-well cards, and prayed for them. When their release days came, I celebrated and welcomed them back to the land of the free with all my might.
Near the end of July, the hotel kicked us out. A sports convention was coming. There were no rooms for us. Though the ship remained a working construction site, we had no choice but to move on board.
*From this point in our story, every character (save for me) has received one free alias.
The story continues: Part 6: August: The Shipwreck
Part 4: Aprilmayjune: A Time for Love