Help, I've begun to write pirate-themed poetry.

“Be brave, take chances, accept the unexpected.”

I am reporting to you, my dears, from a ship in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.  I looked-up from the stern of the ship tonight to see more stars than I have seen in years—probably about twenty stars.  Even in the dark, the ocean is distinguishably darker than the sky.  We saw another ship passing us in the night.  The temptation to signal, somehow, anyhow, was overwhelming.  But we stayed silent.

I have been aboard the MV Explorer since late morning of the 27th of August.  I am stationed in a cabin that is much like a normal dorm room, except significantly smaller and bearing a tendency to rock and roll.  To those of you who haven’t figured it out by now, my name is Celeste.  My roommate’s name is Megan.  We get along well.  Our cabin steward’s name is Edwin; every morning he makes our beds, just for us to unmake them again.

This is the beginning of my semester at sea.

Sea-legs are spread widely and move in a cumbersome way.  Shifting one’s weight heavily from one side to the other is the only way to maintain balance on a heavy vessel doing the same.  Walking down the stairs or in the hallways, when a particularly dramatic lurch comes about, everyone is suspended in time for a second: some with legs in mid-air, others standing awkwardly, as if poised to attack.

Maintaining hydration, breathing deeply and keeping one’s stomach about half full prevent seasickness.  And yes, half full, not half empty.  One of the main agitators of seasickness is homesickness.

The first day, I was sick, but just barely on the right side of the threshold that kept me out of bed and out of the bathroom.  All of yesterday and today I have been fine, with the exception of a bit of nausea before breakfast (no, I am not pregnant) and similar feelings, now, that I am taking a moment to be homesick, to miss my beautiful friends and wonderful family.

Familiarity has never “bred” contempt for me, in regards to the city I live in, the circles I choose to be in.  But I think that even the people who claim to hate their families and all of the people around them are probably missing their own beds—although the rocking of the ship does make most of us sleep like those notorious treetop babies, are probably missing their typical food choices—although the kitchen staff has been doing an incredible job so far (Mom—when I get home, there’s this great eggplant and zucchini dish we need to add to the repertoire.), miss their own friends—although so many students here are wonderful, and probably even miss their own “not-so-favorite people”—even though there are easily at least two of every major personality flaw strutting about the decks.  The sense of lacking ownership is a scary one: we are living on someone else’s property, working on someone else’s time.  We are becoming part of other peoples’ families and trying to be friends with other peoples’ friends.  The only thing I own here is myself, and I need to make certain that I do not lose sight of that.

I am on Dionysus Deck—not as rambunctious as it sounds, in the Caribbean Sea, also not as spunky as it sounds.  These are just organizational titles, like how in middle school we had “teams” like the “schooners” and the “sharks” and “red group” and “blue group.”  Speaking of my dolphin heritage (shout-out to ESMS!): there was a group of dolphins hopping along behind the ship earlier.  I assume that the stream of bubbles and foam left behind is a lot like a giant Jacuzzi for them.

I had my first class today, Higher Education in the Global Economy.  The professor is Dr. David Breneman.  He’s pretty esteemed, works with OECD, worked at Harvard, has been a college president… this that and the other.  I am excited for the class, and I do not mind at all that there are really only a few students in it.  One of them is named Leo; he goes to school in Hawai’i, but he’s originally from the New Haven area.  He’s 29-years-old, and he helped me carry one of my super heavy suitcases into the hostel I stayed in while in Halifax.  Actually, he carried it all by himself.  He also has the same shoes as me—Vibram Five Fingers, classics, black—wicked!  The fact that he is an intelligent human being is also comforting.  These things are familiar to me, having been a community college student I am used to having older students around me.  Familiarity breeds content (this sentence is grammatically incorrect, but I am trying to be poetic, okay?).

Another student I am a good friend with, Jeanette, is 26.  She is originally from Illinois, but goes to school in Minnesota.  Her school is about 10-percent American Indian, which is a phenomenal amount.  She studied the Dakota language for a year, her favorite hobby is mock trial; she is one of the strangest people I have ever met, which makes her seem very normal.

But it’s not just a bunch of students and a few professors, here.  Two of the most interesting people I have met so far are in neither category.  As we were setting sail, I went out to the deck to wave goodbye to the Americas and feel the wind in my hair.  An older woman was standing beside me on the rail and decided to strike-up a conversation.  She went on Semester at Sea when she was my age and has been plotting how to get back on ever since.  Her in?  She’s the ship-doctor’s wife.  There are always benefits to marrying a doctor—remember this!  This morning at breakfast, I sat down alone, partially because I was afraid that my nausea might not be cured instantly and could have worsened, and partially because I have come to find that sitting down alone becomes an adventure in meeting people, due to limited seating.  One of the totally random people who decided to join me was a fellow named Greg.  He’s not a student, he’s not a professor, he’s actually not doing any work on the ship whatsoever… as far as the program is concerned.  He’s in commercial real estate and trying to work via e-mail.  But he decided that it would be good to bring his wife and his five kids, ages 8, 10, 12, 14 and 16, who he has been homeschooling, on this voyage.  Why can’t Greg be everybody’s dad?

Between long talks with people from everywhere, long stares out into what seems like nowhere and enormous games of Apples-to-Apples, it has been a good few days.

I miss my mother.  I miss my brother.  I miss the family dog.  I miss my friends.  I miss our wonderful stationary home.  I miss being able to Google anything and everything at any time and every time.  I miss the sureness of self that I have on solid ground, in Connecticut, even in Korea and Ecuador.  I miss knowing that where I am is exactly where I need to be.  But I am so fortunate, and not just for this opportunity.  For all of those things I miss.  And for who I am.

On our first day, we were asked to visualize something.  I’ll walk you through it, but you can’t read with your eyes shut no matter how many Dr. Seuss books you’ve read, so just try to imagine it with your eyes open.

You are stepping off of a ship, or a plane, or even out of a car.  It is hot in a way you have never fathomed heat.  It smells like a million things, some good, some bad, some familiar, some totally unidentifiable.  There are hordes of people who look unlike you, bustling around, noisily.  You find a clearing with a bench and you sit for a minute to catch your bearings.  A small child approaches, dressed in faded clothing, holding her hand to her mouth.  Not long after, a group of seven children approach from the other side, some smiling, but most holding their hands to their mouths.

We were asked how we felt in this situation and what we would do.

I do not understand why classmates of mine who have come from substantially better-off upbringings should feel helpless in this situation, should feel like there is nothing they can do other than to “be with” the children and make them laugh.

There’s nothing wrong with being with others or making them laugh—I could use some of that right now, myself.

My initial response was to find an ice-cream vendor.  Remember, this is a very hot imagined scenario—ice cream seems like a smart choice.  As I thought more about it, I figured that I should try and see if the children had any common understanding of a language: English, French, Spanish.  Then I could talk to them about the situation.  If they had no parents, I could find them an orphanage.  If they had poor, starving parents, I could find a way for their parents to participate in a microfinance project, such as the ones sponsored by the Grameen Bank, or a livestock program, such as Heifer International.

While I may be saddened, I can't imagine feeling entirely helpless.  Every single person who wants to help can help, and every single person who wants to help can help on his or her own terms.  Nobody has to be uncomfortable, although I highly recommend it from time to time.

Sorry for the enormousness of my blog-rant, but this is where I am at right now.  I am holding on to the idea that I know how capable I am, I know how strong I am, I know how forward I am.  I know that I am what people cannot buy or sell.  I am someone who owns her own life.

Even if I do not have my family, my friends, my house, my daily routine, my stuffed elephant and my stuffed platypus all in close proximity, I have myself as close as I can possibly be kept.  I have my life, I have my values, I have my goals, I have my achievements, I have my spark, I have my wit, I have my laughter, I have my own tears, I have my memories and I have my love.  But I also have the love that waits for me back home.  And that's what makes days like these—long, dreary, uneventful—something I can handle.

Much love to you all.