South Pacifist

A productive day on the ship means I have done my writing, exercised, folded my laundry, and spotted some sea life. Be this one’s definition of extreme reality or absolute surrealism, I don’t really care. I’m content as heck.

“Woke up, gotta outta bed, dragged a comb across my head.”

I walk up two flights of stairs and grab a cup of coffee before class. I walk in circles; I walk up and down the stairs. I’m feeling like the gerbil in the exercise ball.

Just when I think I’ve had enough, I start to enjoy myself.

I doodle more fat humpback whales instead of study my zoology.


A boy took off his shoes in class. This is not a cruise, God Damint!

I looked around for the source of the smell and that’s when I found his bare feet. He stretched and leaned back and his hair swept my computer screen. Please don’t do that, Christ.

I can’t believe this is school.

I wish I had those sketcher skate shoes to get from point a to point b. I'd be the fastest person on the ship. I'd be famous!! Like Wilma Rudolph or a cheetah or something..

My seasickness is under control, no thanks to the sea patches that dilated my pupils the size of Hershey kisses. I could go for a Hershey kiss right about now.

Sometimes I’m sick and tired of traveling, and now I’m complaining, “I’m sick and tired of traveling.” But more than not, I’m feeling grateful, so very grateful for these adventures and opportunities.

Every day a steward cleans my room. How sweet. I’m going to miss feeling entitled.

I’m a bum in my coffee-stained boxers and terrycloth hotel slippers and wrinkled t-shirt. If I’m tired I go grab some caffeine. If I’m awake I take a dip in the pool.

I’m hit in the head with a ping-pong ball 4 or 5 times while waiting in line for a Coke on Deck 7.

When the wind blows, I change out of boxers and graduate onto, that’s right, sweatpants— quite the artfully chic ensemble… er.

Everyone is addicted to solitaire, the computer game.

We eat dinner at six sharp, and tiptoe around the kind Filipino man who polishes the banister and the other kind Filipino man who vacuums the spotless ceiling and dusts the clean carpet.

We fantasize about foreign food but I’m always down with waffles.

Oh man. Waffles.

I sneak food out of the dining room in my green bag. I’m going to miss dinners. We sure can stretch out a dinner. We sure know how to laugh.


I’ve familiarized myself with Martha’s Simon and Garfunkle collection:

“Cecilia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence daily
Oh, Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please to come home.”

Hey, we don’t throw our time away sitting still.


We pushed our beds together and we lie on top of one another like some sunning sea lions. We bark , braid hair and scratch backs.


The sun sets like a Cecil Rice painting. Everyone eats dinner outside, propping cameras, clapping their hands when it sets as if it’s Jesus Christ’s final performance at the Bellagio.

I stare at the “ocean of noise” until everything on the ship is out of focus; until I’m learning to drive out of focus everything in view; until I’m realizing what unfolds is supposed to; until I’m losing face.

I’m going to miss those things that are very far away. I’m going to miss missing things. I’m going to miss doing things there’s no reason in doing.

As I’m writing these squibs on the beach in Hawaii, I’m becoming more and more nostalgic for the moments that haven’t even happened yet. I surf Waikiki, I drink gin and juice, I throw bottles into the Pacific, and I go with the flow. I feel what Palahniuk wrote in “Invisible Monsters” is true: Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everybody I've ever known. Yes, it’s hell to write while traveling, but I can’t help but not write. Sitting on this beach is the most bittersweet feeling. And it’s a new feeling, but in some weird way, it also feels deep-rooted.

My concern with coming back to America is twofold. First of all, the states pose little to no challenges compared to other countries— or at least challenges I find stimulating. Everyone in Hawaii speaks English and a miscommunication in English is a big deal because if you can’t clearly express your needs, wants and desires to another person who speaks the same language, well then, you’re lost.

“Listen buddy, if you can’t tell me where the nearest Taco Bell is, well then,… we have a beef.”

I almost feel indignant being an American in America. Finding the Taco Bell was hard enough.

I’m in America, and I expect everything to be well-located, and if it’s not convenient then I don’t know if I believe in the American way anymore.

Secondly, being back in the “United States” (I put this in quotes because I refuse to think Hawaii is actually a state) means I am that much closer to being home.

I’m not ready for that.