I arrive at the Seamen's Church center at 9:00 am, grab the day's ship list, and assess the situation: a mere 2 container ships, 2 car ships, an orange juice ship, and a cement ship. By all appearances, a slow day in port. Marge and I, the only 2 chaplains on duty, construct a game plan: I'll tend to the car ships, she'll visit the containers, and we'll rendez-vous for lunch on the Orange Wave (all the orange juice ships are like the spoiled children of Seamen's Church - we love them like our own, and they return the favor by lavishing food and orange juice upon us). The cement ship, which had a crew of 21 visa-less, non-English-speaking Chinese men, was to be our afternoon project.
Needless to say, things did not go according to plan. The resultant confusion was, no doubt, exacerbated by the fact that I have been very newly released into the world of solo ship visiting, and had never actually driven to and from the car terminals. I've said it before, and I'll probably keep saying it all year: the port is a navigational nightmare. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
I find my way to the first berth without any problems, climb the gangway of the car ship, and promptly ingratiate myself with the crew, who hail from the Philippines, Bangladesh, Myanmar, India, and China (an unusually international mix for one ship). None of them have shore passes (also unusual, though definitely not unheard of), and are thus cooped up on their ship for a month at a time whenever they complete the Eastern US portion of their route. Quite understandably, they're suffering from severe cabin fever and are somewhat alarmingly excited to have a visitor. Discovery #1 of the day: going ship visiting alone, as a young women, is a very different experience from going with another chaplain. Not only am I closer in age to many of the seafarers but, well...it's often been a long time since they've seen a woman and they can be rather flirtatious. Not anywhere near enough to inspire fear, but definitely enough to guarantee me a delicious meal, or at the very least a snack, on just about every ship I board. In this respect, I am happy to serve.
After about an hour of delightful conversation with the crew, I disentangle myself from the chief cook, who is literally begging me to stay for lunch (which isn't for an hour), and listing off the delicacies that are, as we speak, simmering away in the galley. It's a difficult endeavour on many levels, but alas - the second car ship beckons. I hop back in the van and drive over to the Pyxis Leader, car ship #2.
A very different experience from the start. This time, the crew is Indian and, although they all have US visas, they have no time to go ashore. They're sailing directly for Japan - a 3.5 week journey - in the afternoon. Cabin fever all over again. These fellows aren't as immediately receptive to having a young, female ship visitor, but with patience I do indeed succeed at bonding with them and - surprise, surprise - get myself invited to lunch. Score. The main course turns out to be tuna steaks in an indescribably delicious sauce. Even bigger score. While contentedly consuming a plateful of Indian delicacies, I successfully revive my dormant Hindi enough to have an entire conversation with a crew member, which makes me very happy. Buoyed by the morning's various successes, I bid farewell to the crew, promise to come back next time, climb back into the van, and start heading back to the center.
The first thing I notice is that my gas tank is almost completely empty. I call my coworker to consult. Not to worry, she says - there's a gas station on the way to the seamen's center. I keep going, confident that I know where I'm going...and then, somehow, everything turns into pure chaos. I miss the turn to get back into the main part of the port, and suddenly find myself...on the interstate. Please bear in mind that I know nothing, nothing at all about greater New Jersey geography. I've never driven outside the port. I have no idea what any of the highway numbers are, or what destinations they correspond to. But there I am, with 2 lanes of traffic on either side of me, and 5 exit choices in front of me, so I do what anyone would have done in my place: I panic.
I pick a random lane and hope to God it provides an opportunity to pull over soon. It doesn't. I have inadvertently chosen the highway that goes to the airport. I utter several choice words and figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do next. The gas light on the dashboard starts blinking. I swear some more, at increased volume. After taking several more random forks, and losing any inkling of where on earth I might be, I finally make it to an exit by an airline cargo garage, pull over, and call Marge. "You're WHERE!?" she shrieks. If I hadn't clearly been on the verge of tears, she probably would have laughed. Instead, she directs me to a gas station which, by some miracle, I manage to find without too much difficulty. I utter a silent prayer of thanksgiving that it's illegal to pump your own gas in NJ (due to an unfortunate pumping accident at the age of 16, I have a paranoid fear of getting gas), and breathe deeply for a few minutes while the needle on the gas meter totters back towards full.
I call Marge again, and ask her to direct me back to port. Unfortunately, Marge is standing in the middle of the straddle field in one of the container terminals, trying to sort out a seafarer transportation dilemma, and can neither hear nor concentrate very well. Due to a tragic communication error, I miss the turn that would get me back to port, and wind up on the interstate...again. Only this time there are lots of signs saying "NEW YORK: Holland Tunnel. Express Only." And now I really panic. The thought of going through the Holland Tunnel and winding up in Manhattan rush hour traffic on a Friday, of all days, is enough to make my heart stop with dread. Ignoring Marge's voice in my ear, I swerve across 4 lanes of traffic to the only other available exit, hoping the fact that I'm driving a church van will miraculously preserve me from getting squashed by a semi. Anything but the Holland Tunnel.
Of course, in my moment of sheer terror, I forget to note which exit I took, and wind up more completely lost than ever. At this point, even Marge, who's a native New Jerseyan, is getting out of her geographical comfort zone and is having trouble providing directions. It's another 10 minutes before I see an exit, but believe you me, I take it gratefully. I pull over into a White Castle parking lot, and assess my surroundings. I appear to be in a seedy exurb. Other than that, I have absolutely no idea where I am. I cruise around some more, reading off street names to the now very bewildered Marge, until she recognizes something. When she finally does, I get so excited that I promptly turn the wrong way on a one way street. Shit. As I scramble to rectify my mistake, Marge informs me that I've landed myself some 8 miles west of Port Newark, in the none too desirable town of Irvington, NJ. Wonderful. Just wonderful.
By some stroke of mind-boggling luck, I manage to find a place to get back on I-78, the right way this time. Although I'm convinced the luck will run out at any moment, and the terrifying, video game-like race will recommence (resulting in my imminent death, no doubt), I manage to successfully carry out Marge's directions, until I hear her most welcome proclamation: "...and, now, if you look on your right, you should see the gantry crains at Maher terminal."
"YAYYYYYYYY!" I shriek, and accidentally toss the phone across the van in my outburst of joyous relief. Never, ever have I been so glad to be back in port. I stagger back to the center, collapse into a chair, and will my heart to stop pounding, as it has been doing for the past hour and a half. Once I've regained the ability to utter intelligent human speech, I totter dazedly out to the front desk and recount my story to Janet, the receptionist.
"You were WHERE!?" she echoes increduously. "Wait, wait, let's map this out." We pull up google maps and, between the two of us, we reconstruct my course. With each reconstructed panic-inspired turn, we laugh harder and harder. I somehow managed to drive almost a complete loop around the greater Newark metro area. I was on almost every interstate, highway, and expressway around - except for the dreaded NJ turnpike which, whether by the grace of God or my own fortuitous stupidity, I managed to avoid. "How on earth did you manage to do this?" Janet inquires. "Everyone gets lost in New Jersey, but this? This is downright masterful!"
Just my luck - I would be masterful at getting lost, of all things. I may never drive again.
For the visually inclined: a vague map of where I started and where I finally ended up (though not, by any means, how I got from point A to point B). It appears as though you need to click 'view larger map' to actually see it. Due to the traumatic nature of the situation, I cannot fill in any more details. But you get the idea :)
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