5 Reasons Your First Job Should Be Aboard A Small Cruise Ship

Greetings, Class of 2023 and early career job seekers! As you scour LinkedIn and today’s ultra-competitive marketplace with that pit in your stomach, fear not, you can always close your browser and head out to sea. Seriously. It could be the best decision you ever make.

I’m not saying to board The Love Boat and forget about life for a while. This is your time to get ahead. But it’s worth thinking broadly about the skills that can propel you in the long run. Consider the path I stumbled upon when I didn’t know what else to do: US-flagged small cruise ships or expedition ships with fewer than 300 passengers. You didn’t go to college to become a deckhand, steward or excursion manager? Only 27% of college graduates take a first job related to their major anyway. However, aboard these ships, you gain skills to excel in any career while also getting up close with the world’s most inspiring places.

1.    Become a Customer Service Master

Active listening, empathy, conflict resolution—the skills learned through working in customer service are valuable in every corner of the business world (and beyond). On small ships, there’s no press-send-and-pray way of dealing with your passengers. You live with these people, interact with them multiple times a day, every day. You’ll see the benefit of working to surpass their expectations. And you’ll feel the pain of dismissing even the smallest complaints (always a tell for greater needs). Learn customer service aboard a small ship and your newfound interpersonal skills will take you far.

2.    Adapt to Changing Environments

Small ships typically operate on flexible schedules. Destinations may vary week to week. While this makes life more interesting, it also invites complexity. Depending on your function, you may have to adjust your schedule and tasks depending on the port, the region, the weather—everything. The more change you adapt to, the more muscle you build for such situations when you return to land. Managers reward employees who adapt to fit the business’s needs.

3.    Understand Group Dynamics

Great work is almost always the result of a team effort. When you live with, work with and socialize with your shipmates, you learn how people can come together to achieve great things (and what may push them apart). Add to it pressure situations, changing environments and you are living in a group dynamics masterclass. Those who thrive learn to let petty grievances go. They lift others up, empathize with different personality types, and lead by example. A side benefit—the bonds formed by sharing such a unique experience are stronger than any where people go home at the end of the day. Coworkers may come and go, but shipmates are forever.

4.    Power Through the 9-to-5

When I look back at the 12- to 14-hour days for weeks and months at a time, I wonder how I ever did it. But those days at sea have made me so grateful for the time that I have now. 9 to 5, 8 to 6? And my office doesn’t rock with the waves? Bring it on! Everyone has the same 24 hours in a day. Successful people learn how to maximize each one—even if it’s time let loose. Time put in aboard a ship will reward you in ways unmatched in any other profession.

5.    A Penny Saved

Now for a bit of practicality. The pay isn’t great. I never made less than I did while working aboard a small ship. But I still saved money when my friends ashore were barely breaking even. Room and food are covered! Besides the odd meal in port and any souvenirs you might want to pick up, you’re crushing costs. When I eventually decided to return to land, my savings helped me get established in a new city with a cushion I otherwise never would have had (and turns out, desperately needed). Before you go for the gig with the higher salary, weigh the costs of living as well.

BONUS!

Actually, there are hundreds of bonuses—seeing the world from the deck of a small ship, making friends for life, and meeting thousands of incredible people--but let's focus: it’s a job! The small ship cruise industry (and cruise industry in general) is growing at an unprecedented rate. Eighteen new 60- to 350-passenger ships are slated to be in service by 2020 in the expedition/small ship market alone. Companies are hiring. Listen to the call of the wild(ish). Start your career at sea. You’ll be glad you did.

Marc Cappelletti is a former cruise director, expedition developer, and currently a travel industry marketing and product development consultant living in Philadelphia.

Resources:

http://www.cruisejobfinder.com/

https://www.cruiselinesjobs.com/current-jobs/

www.expeditions.com

www.uncruise.com

www.alaskandreamcruises.com

www.seabourn.com

www.silversea.com

www.quark.com

Note: Companies have varying employee citizenship and work visa requirements.

Backwards, to Victory! (Exploring the Schuylkill River Rowing Scene)

“Where are my eyes?” Vince calls out to our quad scull.

It’s 7:00am on a gray, Sunday morning in early November. The Schuylkill River is calm. I am not. Neither is Vince, the other first-timer in the boat. He twists in his seat as veteran rowers Bill and Gary steer us clear of the docks at Boathouse Row. Like Vince, the awkwardness of blindly moving backwards is hitting me, but I don’t have to ask where to look.

I’ve wanted to row on the Schuylkill River since I can remember. And thanks to a high school friend who saw my plea for a rowing connection on Instagram, I’m in a boat with her husband, Bill, a member of Bachelors Barge Club. I’m finally taking it all in, laser focused on the skyline, the Museum of Art, the new Comcast Technology Center rising above it all. I’m so taken by the view that I hear only the tail end of Bill’s first instruction.

“…with your wrists. Got it?”

A former Drexel rower, Bill is measured and encouraging. He quickly instills enough confidence in us to do quarter strokes; our legs extend, pushing our butts along the runner as the oars dig into the water. Another stroke and we pick up speed. Another and the water ripples away from us. I feel the first tease of wind at my back. I chide myself for letting so many years pass, shrugging off the sport as reserved for the special and the Spandexed. I see meditative mornings ahead of me, maybe medaling in a regatta.

Thwap! The fat end of my oar catches the surface, the handle spins out of my hand. “Marc’s catching crabs!” Bill says. We’re stopped dead. “Remember that hand position.” he says.

I take hold of the oars again and vow to listen better. Even though I’m stuck in a space no wider than my hips, there’s a whole world to explore here.

Philly’s Official Sport

Long before the Sixers were trusting the process, before the Phillies were the Phillies or football even existed, the biggest sports ticket in town was to the grassy banks of the Schuylkill River. The first rowing regatta took place on April 14th, 1835 between two social clubs—the Blue Devils and the Imps Barge Club. This race (and the entire Philadelphia rowing scene) would have been for naught had it not been for the construction of the Fairmount Dam in 1822 and further engineering near East Falls, which submerged a series of rapids. The result is the world-class, slack-water section of the river that we recognize today.

By the mid-1800s, rowing was all the rage on the Schuylkill. Around the city, clubs formed. Races grew to attract thousands. It wasn’t long before the clubs grew tired of transporting boats or leaving them out in the elements, so they built storage sheds and docks along the river. From those humble beginnings, Boathouse Row was born.

The Clubs

“This is the trophy room,” Bill says at Bachelors Barge Club that morning. We’re in boathouse #6 (of 15), a Mediterranean style building constructed in 1894 and known for its tan brick arches and blue and red double doors. Stepping inside is stepping into a time machine. The club was founded in 1853 by members of Phoenix Engine Company (a volunteer fire fighting organization), and remains the oldest continuously operated rowing operation in the world. True to its name, the founders were also all bachelors.

Dozens of clubs, public and private schools, and rowing groups utilize these boathouses, but Bachelors is just one of 12 belonging to the Schuylkill Navy. Founded in 1858, the rowing association stands as the oldest amateur athletic governing body in the United States. Why did it form? Because those spectators in the mid 1800s were doing a lot more than cheering on their favorite club. Betting was big business and race fixing threatened to upend the “gentlemanly nature” of the sport.

Speaking of gentlemanly, it would take 100 years from the first race in 1835 for the first women to row on the Schuylkill (16 female Penn students in a newly offered class). Three years later, in 1938, the Philadelphia Girls Rowing Club (PGRC) was founded by the wives of other club members. The PGRC remains the oldest all-female rowing club in the world and occupies house #14. Built in 1860, it stands as the oldest house on the river.

Throughout the years, clubs have been formed by a variety of groups. Penn students formed the College Boat Club of the University of Pennsylvania in 1872. The Fairmount Rowing Association was formed in 1877 by a small group of workingmen from the Fairmount neighborhood. Malta Barge Club was founded in 1865 by members of the Minnehaha Lodge of the Sons of Malta. The Penn Athletic Club Rowing Association (Penn AC) was by all accounts an average club until rowing legend John B. Kelly Sr. joined in 1920 following a fallout with Vesper Club. John was the father of actress Grace Kelly and winner of 126 straight races. Penn AC has been known as a hub for elite rowers and US National Team rowers ever since.

This association with excellence was a big reason I didn’t look into rowing earlier. I take to most sports well, but rowing is another beast. Especially here. So many trophies. A few houses down, The Pennsylvania Barge Club represented the US in rowing at the 1920, 1924, 1928 and 1932 Olympic Games. Vesper Club is the only club in America to have taken home three Gold Medals in super 8 competition. But this is by no means the entire scene, and certainly no reason to put off the sport. Just because I’m not Usain Bolt doesn’t mean I can’t go for a jog after work.

Memberships & Lessons

Bill lets me know that people can interact with rowing clubs and boathouses in a variety of ways. While some clubs like the Fairmount Rowing Association and Penn Athletic Club Rowing Association (Penn AC) are tryout-only for elite or master rowers, a few like Bachelors and Crescent Barge Club are open to new members. You can’t just hop in a scull and hit the river though. Boat proficiency and the ability to swim is a requirement at all clubs in order to utilize the boats. (Don’t worry, they don’t make you swim in the Schuylkill.) Also, like country clubs, most clubs require an applicant to be sponsored by one or two existing members.

Membership typically includes access to the club boats and dock, social events, and the ability to reserve the club for private functions. Houses also have ergometers (erg machines) and some have gym equipment as well. For adults, dues begin on average around $500 per year, although lessons are an additional fee.

Youth rowing programs are also very popular at certain clubs. Offerings vary from novice lessons and camps for middle schoolers on up, to sculling development for high school rowers, to under 23-year-old intermediate training for college grads seeking to compete. For the more committed rowers, clubs offer a variety of one-week and three-week camps, in addition to private lessons.

Because not everyone can afford the club offerings and lessons, the Philadelphia Parks & Recreation Department offers rowing summer camps out of Lloyd Hall for youth ages 13-17. For Philadelphia public school and charter school students, Philadelphia City Rowing, a non-profit dedicated to rowing education, offers free lessons and rowing opportunities.

Backwards, to Victory!

Bill and Gary have navigated us all the way to East Falls. They remain encouraging, despite the potful of crabs Vince and I have caught along the way. We’re enjoying each other’s company, joking about competing in a regatta. My knuckles are red from repeatedly mashing them together at the top of my stroke—a badge of honor, I say. All the what ifs and fears about rowing are gone. I’m in it, focused on the minutia of my movements, finding the freedom that comes when fully engaged.

We take on sets of ten full strokes to bring us back to the boathouse. I’m thinking about lessons, maybe applying for a membership. But my relaxed, romantic view of the river is gone. I want to see how fast I can go.

Thwap!

No medals today. Just the enjoyment of rowing on the Schuylkill, an experience worth its weight in gold.

_______________________________________________________________________

FOR MORE INFORMATION on rowing lessons, check out: https://boathouserow.org/adult-learn-to-row/

And if you want to join the tradition and take in a regatta, check out: https://boathouserow.org/events/

Membership

Crescent Rowing Club

Pennsylvania Barge Club

Bachelors Barge Club

Mr. Saturday Night - My First Day As An Assistant Cruise Director

The follow is an excerpt from my memoir, Will My Cane Float? (Voyages into Adulthood and the Adventurous Retirees Who Showed Me the Way). 

...From the bow of the Yorktown Clipper, I looked out on Juneau and watched as bald eagles soared high above the Sitka spruce and hemlocks. The late afternoon skies were still steely gray. Clouds clung to the mountain tops. Fishing boats loaded down with the day’s catch chugged by, crewed by swarthy men in flannel shirts and hip waiters who paced the decks and plucked ribbons of kelp from tidied nets. I happily took it all in with deep, exaggerated breaths. This is just so Alaska, I thought. Until I caught my reflection in the ship’s windows; a navy pinstripe suit that my mom bought for me in a Men’s Warehouse 2-for-1 sale. The shirt had a sailboat embroidered at the bottom seam, which we took as a sign.

“Are you excited?” Jennifer asked. “Buses are coming any minute.”

I turned towards the good-looking, blonde cruise director as a jaw-stretching yawn came on.

“Yeah. Just trying to wrap my head around all of this.”

She laughed. “Good luck with that!”

Jennifer had been a cruise director for three years on this ship and the company’s smaller ship on the east coast. She stood something like five-foot-four, which, at six-foot-two, made me feel like a giant next to her. Her short-cropped hair fell just below her ears and her smile came with the vision of cheerleaders entertaining a crowd of thousands.

“Look.” Jennifer placed her hand on my arm. “I flew here from New Hampshire and didn’t know what to expect. But I love being in front of people and seeing them happy and I’m sure that’s why you’re here, too. So, just go with it, and remember: without these passengers, you’d be in some office and tomorrow…well, tomorrow we’re going to see a glacier!”

The thoughtful sentiment took me by surprise.

“Are they always so…old?”

Jennifer checked a paper on her clip board and spoke without looking up. “We have the best passengers in the world. That’s all you need to know.”

I felt ashamed that I’d asked. “I get it. I just wasn’t expecting—”

She looked up from the clip board and smiled. “Let’s get you to the hospitality desk!”

Jennifer lead me a glorified office desk in the hallway next to the lounge and told me to wait there until the passengers came, when I’d collect passports and trip tickets. She left me to sit in silence, become lost in thought, as a deckhand pulled wet pant signs from the freshly painted doorway that led to the gangway. 

Like a director yelling, “Action!”, someone said, "Busses incoming!" over the radios and the once-quiet ship sprang to life. Stewards in crisp white button-down shirts, black bowties and black skirts (pants for the guys) shot out of the doorway to the crew deck and sprinted towards the lounge. The last ones were still tucking in their shirts as the first group of passengers walked up the gangway. The passengers, a grey-haired group like the one that had disembarked in the morning--regaled me with tales of lost luggage, flight delays, and hopes for adventure. I shook hands, collected trip tickets and passports and tried to be hospitable, as advertised. But my responses rarely went beyond, “I’m sorry, this is my first day. Let me ask Jennifer about that.” Stewards showed the passengers to their cabins with polished grace. The ship's officers appeared in their formal uniforms. I looked down the hallway to see Jennifer mingling with the poise of a politician hot on the campaign trail.

The more I spoke to the passengers the less I knew what to make of them. At first glance, they were my grandparents. Name tags read “Ruth”, “Esther”, “Seymour”, and “Milton.” But Seymour was a retired NASA physicist who worked on the Apollo missions. Esther said she had been to Antarctica twice.

“What made you go twice?” I asked.

“You’ll know when you go once.”

A college alumni group celebrating its 50th anniversary asked me to take pictures of them on the bow as they sang their school’s alma mater. “You’re young,” a man said. “What are you, twelve?”

Ah, twelve. By the time I was twelve, I carried the sting of my one and only stage performance, Casey at the Bat, when I stuttered out “Then he, he, he…he torethecoverofftheball!” as if I’d suffered a tiny stroke. At twelve, I remember crying in my dad’s truck after a loss in Little League. He shared a story he told often, about a young Spartan boy who stole a fox and hid it in his cloak. The boy remained silent, stoic, despite being bitten by the fox as people asked if he’d seen it. By twelve, I was determined to become a Spartan in pinstripes.

Nearly eleven years later, I looked out over a cruise ship lounge as passengers noshed on smoked salmon, assorted cheese cubes and crudité. A young couple (late 60’s) clinked glasses as they looked through broad windows at the flickering lights of Juneau. Others jostled at the bar for their orders. Jennifer motioned me to the front of the room where I stood next to the captain, a gray-haired Bostonian; polished, confident, a charmer hiding his imperious oversight behind a casual smile. He had to sense my fear. No competent person would sweat so much in such a cold environment.

Jennifer tapped the top of the microphone and smiled at me before facing the group.

“Welcome ladies and gentlemen! We are so excited to have you here! Are you excited to be in Alaska?” They cheered as Jennifer paced the floor, a tiny Tony Robbins in heels.

“We have an incredible week planned for you. We’re going to search for humpback whales and orcas, see spectacular fjords and go on beautiful hikes through old growth forest! If you noticed the inflatable boats on the top deck, we’re going to take those out to explore more. And our chefs and hospitality staff are going to spoil you rotten, believe me! We’re here to serve you, so if there’s anything you need, please let us know!”

The crowd hung on her every word, laughing, smiling, eager, even when she lost her train of thought. “I’m just so excited you’re here!” she’d say. The group would smile back and she’d return to the trip details and all of the fun we’d be having.

Meanwhile, I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I noticed that they were folded in front of my crotch and wondered, is this weird? Are they drawing attention to my crotch? I moved them behind my back like a Marine being addressed by his commanding officer. Too formal. I put them in my pockets, then clasped together in front of my stomach, then let them hang by my side—Ken Doll, cruise edition. Jennifer waxed poetic about wilderness and walking in the footsteps of John Muir. I could do no more than fight with my own appendages. 

“And now…” Jennifer paused for dramatic effect, “a few words from our new assistant cruise director, Marc!”

The seconds clicked away on the clock in the back of the room. Cocktail forks rattled on appetizer plates. I looked down at the microphone, heavy in my hand, and thumbed at the On/Off button. I searched for the words as Jennifer smiled with hopeful eyes. The captain cast a blank stare. Out of nothing but sheer mimicry, I drew the mic to my lips, took a deep breath and feigned a confident smile.

“Hello…I’m Marc Cappelletti…I’m from Philadelphia…Pennsylvania. And, yeah, I, uh, I know what you’re thinking. I’m not twelve years old. I just graduated from George Washington University and I’m legally allowed to be your assistant cruise director. Thank you. Jennifer?”

A woman to the side laughed out loud as I handed the microphone to Jennifer. The rest just stared. Legally allowed to be here? What does that even mean? It had to be the dumbest thing anyone had ever said on that ship. Or any ship. Anywhere at sea. The captain raised his eyebrows but remained otherwise stone-faced. Jennifer’s body stiffened. In her cardboard smile, I heard, “What are you doing?” But it was too late. I was exposed, a fraud. And I wanted nothing more than to be home and testing the limits of human hibernation.

A Lesson from the Worst Drummer in Belize

The following is an excerpt from my soon-to-be finished story about my year as a small ship cruise director traveling with and learning from my retired passengers.  

...The idea of “so what” appeared again the following week in Belize, as Mr. Gallagher danced with his wife to the sounds of a Garifuna band on deck. The women dazzled in colorful, flowing, African-inspired dresses set off by the ship's deck lights and striking against the dark night. The men donned similarly colorful shirts and matching pants. Each had dance moves like few on board had ever seen. 

“You think I might get a whirl on the drums?” a sweaty Mr. Gallagher asked. The upper buttons on his Hawaiian shirt were undone, revealing a tuft of wiry, white hair. “I don’t know how to play, but I’ve always wanted to try.”

I bobbed my head to the beat. “Um, sure. I’ll see what they say.”

The band played on. Rum punches flowed. I mingled (refining that cruise director charm I'd struggled to find for so long), and helped the chefs bring the containers of melting ice cream from the sundae bar on deck down to the galley. Fresh drink in hand, I forgot about Mr. Gallagher until I returned to the sun deck and the band packing up their instruments.

“Did they say I can play?” Mr. Gallagher asked.

Shit. “I’m so sorry. I forgot to ask.”

His shoulders sank. “Do you think you can? I really wanted to play.”

“Sure. Of course. Would you just excuse me for one second?”

He nodded and I rushed to the ship's office where my assistant, Tim, sat typing an email.

“Party still going out there?” he asked.

“The band is packing up but I need them to play one more song.”

Without a word, Tim reached for a coffee mug on the shelf.

We called the mug the “slush jar.” As cruise directors, Jennifer, Abby, Steve and I had the job down. As accountants, we were doomed. Nothing ever added up. On any given week, we could be short $50 or over by $250 or more, depending on who was counting. We used the mug to store balance sheet overages and took from it when we were under. No matter the problem, the solution was always in the slush jar.

With my deep appreciation for their talent and the aid of a $20 handshake, the band leader obliged us one more song.

“And would you mind if my friend over there sat in on one of the drums?" I asked. "I think he’ll be really good.”

The band leader looked at Mr. Gallagher and laughed to himself. “Dat man?”

I nodded. “Dat man.”

“Ok den. Bring him up. Eel play dat small drum.”

The encore started with a bang as the band’s main drummer set the beat. The guitarist jumped in. The women sang in full voice. Like before, the rhythm had people moving. But this time, one musician stood out among the rest. If a rock song is 120 beats per minute, Mr. Gallagher was at 5,000. Buddy Rich would have told him to "tone it down." He beamed at his fellow passengers as he beat the hell out of the small drum, smacking it with both hands, one hand on top, one on the side, every way it could be hit while his wife snapped photos. At one point, he stopped drumming to give her a thumbs up. Sweat poured down his face. The singers stared. The band leader laughed. Out of nowhere, Mr. Gallagher worked up to a crescendo—totally out of place for the song—throwing his hands in the air before beating the drum again with an impressionist's version of the beat.

The song ended crisply. Mr. Gallagher stopped a few beats later. While our group cheered for the performers, Mr. Gallagher shook each of the band member's hands vigorously and thanked them before rejoining us and embracing his wife. The band clapped for him, smiling and shaking their heads in disbelief.

After the passengers retired to their cabins and the ship was quiet, I did my usual walk around to make sure that everything was clean and ready for the next day. I was passing the sun deck when I saw Mr. Gallagher laying in a lounge chair and staring at the star-filled sky.

“How did you like that drum?” I asked.

He smiled. “I’ve wanted to play the drums since I was a kid but I never did. Something about this trip and seeing that band tonight told me that I couldn’t wait any longer.”

With the ship's lights now dimmed, I couldn’t see his crow’s feet and wrinkles, only a pair of piercing blue eyes and his white teeth through a wide, ageless smile.

“You didn’t care that you didn’t know how to play before you went up there?”

“So what! You got to start somewhere." He looked up at the stars again. “Marc, don’t wait seventy five years to do something. Whatever it is, anything, if you really want to do it, just do it.”

“Maybe you should take lessons and start a band?” I suggested.

He clapped his hands together and pointed at me. “Now there’s an idea!”

I left him to enjoy a quiet moment on deck, certain that he already had his bandmates picked out.

Travel is Medicine. Literally.

After reading my 6 Ways to Find Happiness on the Horizon download, a friend from way back contacted me about her experience with the power of travel.  She practices as a physician assistant in orthopedic surgery in Oregon and her story fascinated me.  She's seen first-hand the effects of travel on her patients, even when the trips are only in their imagination. Here you go: 

"Working in orthopedic surgery, I tend to see a largely older population. I also give a fair number of injections. I’ve taken to telling patients they have just been given an all-expense-paid vacation to anywhere in the world as I draw up their injections. Before I do the injection, I have them start telling me about their dream trip. I’ve come to find that patients fall into three distinct groups. The first group smiles and delves right into a detailed description of their dream trip. Their injections don’t bother them much. The second group contemplates for a bit and usually decides to stay home and spend time doing a hobby for their dream vacation. These folks do ok, but usually aren’t as animated with their descriptions. Finally, there is a group who just says they can’t go on a dream trip. Spouse’s health, worries with children/grandchildren, and their own health are cited as the reasons. Almost always these patients report the most discomfort with injections and report the most pain.

The medical literature is clear that positive mental health leads to less pain and better outcomes.  So, offering a dream vacation seems to, at least transiently, improve the mental health of 2/3 of my patients. Travel is medicine!"

I hope you enjoyed that anecdote as much as I did.  If you have your own stories of ways a particular trip or travel in general has shaped the person you are today, I'd love to hear about it. 

The Call of Haida Gwaii

I have read two books more than once—Journey to the Center of the Earth by Jules Verne and a double feature of The Call of the Wild and White Fang by Jack London. Both take me to incredible places.  Both make me dream.  For this, my sixth trip to Haida Gwaii, an archipelago some 30 miles west of British Columbia, I packed the Jack London.  It seemed fitting for the long flights across Canada.

What started four years ago as no more than map dots and curiosity has turned into a personal and professional journey.  It’s taken me into the woods where black bears roam, inside ceremonial long houses, onto sprawling beaches, and into the home of a Haida chief and his family, with whom I’ve shared stories, laughs, and tears.  Because of this journey, with a little luck and lots of help, travelers with Lindblad Expeditions and National Geographic can visit these islands on voyages from Seattle or Alaska.  In turn, the people of Haida Gwaii get to meet curious travelers capable of visiting without taking, of transiting without tarnishing their sacred view.  Ensuring that it all works to plan keeps me up at night.

But now it's time to read.  As I do, I am surprised by seemingly new passages, images previously unseen, an eloquence that escaped me, the wheeler dog, Dave, and the sadness I feel when he has to be shot. (“Something was wrong inside, but they could locate no broken bones.”)  I look out the window, distracting myself from the dogs and old fortune seekers.

A blanket of low lying clouds covers the landscape, broken only by the tallest mountain peaks.  The clouds ripple in the distance, shades of blue growing increasingly lighter.  Up here, everything is sun kissed and beautiful. The man in front of me takes pictures out the window.  My thoughts are anchored below the clouds, where two ships are seeking shelter from 40-knot winds and eight foot seas in the Inside Passage.  They are scheduled to arrive to Haida Gwaii in two days with a few stops in between.  They’ve already emailed for advice on alternate plans.

I am there and I am here, at the same time, reading, watching, wondering.

By the time Buck works his way from stolen pampered dog to sled team member to leader of the pack I am reading faster.  My heart picks up pace with the dogs. “There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life,” it reads.

…and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive. This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the artist, caught up and out of himself in a sheet of flame; it comes to the soldier, war-mad on a stricken field and refusing quarter; and it came to Buck, leading the pack, sounding the old wolf cry, straining after the food that was alive and that fled swiftly before him through the moonlight. He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and of the parts of his nature that were deeper than he, going back in to the womb of Time. He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that is was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultant under the stars and over the face of dead matter that did not move.

Most days I do not feel this stir from my work.  I want to feel it.  I dream of it.  At times I feel the light breeze of it.  Most days though I sit at my desk and type away at my computer.  Excel sheets fill the screen, meetings overlap, headaches grow like the weeds in my garden.   I think about the wild places this work has taken me—Alaska, Central America, Newfoundland—and I am grateful.  Still, I torment over details, marketing, sales.  I am tethered to my cell phone.

Returning to Haida Gwaii forces me to feel the surge of life, the tidal wave of being.  All that we have planned could break loose at any moment.  The waves could rise, a passenger could fall ill, a simple yet important email could have gone unnoticed.  Or, the plan could simply turn out to be a bad one.  It terrifies me.

At the same time, there is no better way to be reminded that the work matters.  The work is real.  The work can change people.  I'll be selfish and say that Haida Gwaii has maybe changed me most of all.  The rewards have been greater, more surprising, and longer lasting than any others in my career.  I have to return here to feel whole.

And would you look at that? Out the window the clouds are breaking.  The tiny islands of Haida Gwaii dot the steely gray waters below. Each holds within them all the wild nature one could ever need.  It’s still misty but mist is OK.  The weather should clear enough for safe passage.

I turn back to the book. 

“He did not know why he did these various things. He was impelled to do them, and did not reason about them at all.”