An alarm jolted me awake. I struggled to awareness and with it, to answer basic questions like “what is that alarm?” “where am I?” “what ship am I on?” and most importantly, “am I supposed to be on the bridge right now?”
The room was dark but I could tell from the gentle rolling of the ship that we had changed course, and if the rude tones emanating from my cell phone were any indication, the ship was nearing Cape Spencer and with it, the last chance to take advantage of a coveted cell service window.
I got ready for watch, checked the time and with 5 minutes to spare before my presence was required on the bridge, I greedily scrolled through texts from friends and loved ones. As my alarm sounded again, pushing me from my stateroom and toward the bridge, my eye caught the final text from my wife back in Seattle before I had to shut down my cell phone: “Gah!! Where are you?! I have a huge question for you!!” And thus ended our cell window for the next 2 days.
Communications with loved ones has never been so easy. Easy? Yes, easy.
In 1988, on my first ocean-going ship, the clack of the telex was reserved for ship’s business only. Want to ask your parents if they will send you another season of Northern Exposure on VHS? Buy a long distance phone card in port and don’t mess up the time difference.
In 1992, on my first near-coastal passenger ship, guests and crew alike could use the Marine Radio Operator to make a call on the VHF to a phone number in the US, but every other ship within radio range could also put a pin in their boredom and listen in on the shore-based side of the conversation. So, crew rarely wanted to risk the money or ridicule that inevitably came with using the Marine Radio Operator, but I remember one particular passenger - some bigwig from Hollywood - who came up to the bridge while we were underway and said he had to make a very important phone call. After explaining the basics, he looked at me and asked if I could leave the bridge to give him some privacy. Um, no, not while we are underway.
In 1997, the use of satellite-based systems finally became ubiquitous at sea, and with it definitely came better communication, but no internet, and email was only business correspondence from the home office and usually meant more paperwork, checklists, maintenance schedules, Safety Management forms, etc. We dreaded the increased office presence in our daily lives, especially as it was still a rare ship that had personal email available for the crew. Honestly, though, in 1997, most of us didn’t have email addresses; not until the following year, when Tom Hanks listened to the modem squawk-chirp-scream as it connected to the internet so he could flirt with Meg Ryan in an AOL chat room.
On September 11, 2001, I was on a ship in Canada’s Inside Passage and we still did not have real-time internet capability. The sat phone/computer was in the purser’s office, which was closed that early in the morning, so we only learned of the tragedy taking place in the lower 48 when the Chief Mate tried to find a Seattle Mariners game update on the Single Side Band radio.
In 2008, finally, I had personal email at sea. Sometimes. When the ship was on the right course. And the seas weren’t too big. And it wasn’t raining too hard. And the 20 other people onboard weren’t also trying to use one of the 3 computers available.
And now it is 2016. As a Marine Pilot Trainee, I’m not attached to any one ship, so I don’t have access to the ship’s onboard email system. But the array of domes and antennas mounted above the wheelhouse of all but the oldest ships that ply the waters of Southeast Alaska tells me that the crew can likely send as many emails as they wish.
The idea of communicating solely through email and the occasional cell phone text or call must be unimaginable to those of a certain age. But going to sea has never been about living in real time.
Though they can’t always connect regularly with those at home, most sailors are used to the punctuated equilibrium of weekly, or monthly, catch up moments, quickly distilling life’s essential events into 15-minute phone calls. This pretty much guarantees an awkward moment or two upon the return home, not knowing that Stacy and Dave divorced, the Johnsons had another baby, or that your wife decided to buy a house while you were gone. But it is an amazing house, with perfect light, surrounded by green and great neighbors and the entire connected world, which is easily converted from electrons in the wires that run along the rooftops into the bits and bytes that stare brightly at me from my screen.