Deck Chair Man

The Walkaround Track on Deck 6 is a longtime friend of mine, an ally in the battle for weight control and better health. It runs the length of one side of the ship, crosses over and runs back the length of the other side of the ship, before crossing again and reaching the starting point in a ¼ mile lap. Lately I’m doing about 12 laps.

It looks like the classic public deck of a cruise ship, about eleven feet wide, with the railing and ocean on the right, while on the left is the wall with entrances to the interior. Also on the left is over 160 deck chairs, neatly lined up and facing the out to the sea. These deck chairs invite loads of people to mill about in a very unhurried way, so it’s frequently impossible to do any brisk walking in the afternoon, and the best exercise walk can be done early evening.

Due to my rather late 9PM gig start, I’ve gotten into a 7 to 8PM walking habit. It works out great because all of the passengers are inside dining at this time. Nobody slowing me down. At this particular week and latitude it’s dark by 7PM, so the walk takes on a nice meditative quality, looking out over the railing at the pitch black, all alone, except for……

…….the Deck Chair Man. Apparently the deck chair cushions have to be put away at night, and this young filipino presently has the gig. But to hear this guy sing, you’d think he’s got another gig with a filipino punk band.

You can see his Ipod earplug, as he listens to god-knows-what music. But he really wails it out to the open sea, night after night between 7 and 8PM, with no one to bother.

Every 4 minutes or so I walk by him, as he removes cushions from the deck chairs, piles them onto a big cart, and hauls them over to storage bins at the far end. His movement seems slow and deliberate, as if to milk as much time as possible from this job out in the fresh open air.

I’ve never said hello or even made eye contact with the Deck Chair Man. He clearly doesn’t want eye contact or hello. In a 12-hour workday chock full of Good Morning Sir and Can I Help You Sir, this is his hour-long reprieve, where he can sing his ass off without being a bother to passengers or fellow crew, here on this tightly-packed floating hotel.

Around 8PM the ambience changes. Passengers start coming out to Deck 6 for after-dinner cigarettes, looking over the railing. By this time the Deck Chair Man is winding up his work, singing his last tune of the night, while my pace and meditative groove are stopped by old couples out for a romantic after-dinner stroll. The nerve of them.

OK OK I know I don’t own Deck 6, and all is well. I’ve had my quiet hour, and the Deck Chair Man has had his noisy hour. We’ll both be back tomorrow night at 7PM, blissfully ignoring each other.