Biographical article from SCI's communication director!

The communications director of SCI recently interviewed me to write an article for the website, and here's his take on my life! Not that you don't get enough of it from me, but it's always nice to have a second opinion. And frankly, I thought he did a really marvelous job. Enjoy!

A New Encounter Every Time

Episcopal Service Corps intern unites with the unpredictable life of a seafarer

November 24, 2009

In August 2008, Milwaukee, WI native Kristin Saylor moved to New York to begin an internship placement with the Episcopal Service Corps, working for a year at the Seamen’s Church Institute’s International Seafarers’ Center in Port Newark. After graduating from the University of Wisconsin-Madison, Saylor said she wanted “to go out and do something practical,” so is she getting the experience she wanted?

Saylor’s daily routine consists of interacting with seafarers. Saylor gained her sea legs in August shadowing SCI Chaplains in Port Newark. Now, she visits ships daily in the busy international port. Saylor’s responsibilities also include supporting SCI’s comprehensive services for mariners, working with merchant marine veterans, the Christmas at Sea volunteer knitting program, and attorneys in the Center for Seafarers’ Rights.

Saylor enthuses about her work. She says she enjoys learning about the world, and interacting with people. Raised bilingual, Saylor brings knowledge of several languages to her work. The Rev. David M. Rider, SCI’s President and Executive Director, reports, “She speaks fluent German to ship captains, surprising and delighting them in the process.”

In addition to encountering different cultures, Saylor describes the port itself as a different culture. “Everything is enormous, industrial, and regulated, and it can be a tough reality to face.” In her work, she likes to add a friendly, smiling human face to their stay in the port and offer the opportunity to talk.

When asked about her routine of ship visiting, she explained that her secret is to start each encounter with enthusiasm no matter what has happened elsewhere. Saylor adds that most people (like longshoreman or agents) climb a ship’s gangway to conduct the perfunctory and occupational drudgery of fast-paced maritime commerce. “It’s rare,” she says, “to have someone board who’s enthusiastic about seeing them. I like being that person.”

Saylor believes the elements of the unexpected she faces in her daily work equip her for challenges beyond this internship. Although still discovering what the future holds, she sees this hands-on experience as preparation for the types of things she sees doing. “I feel like I’m really communicating with people,” Saylor discloses. From counseling to going shopping to joining seafarers in meals, she delights in her very ‘practical’ job.

About the Episcopal Service Corps

The Episcopal Service Corps is a national federation of young adult service programs in the United States. Independently managed programs vary, but all Episcopal Church-based programs provide opportunities for young adults to explore working for social justice, practice spiritual awareness and discern vocations, train to develop leadership skills, and live a simple, sustainable lifestyle (in most programs lived in intentional community). For more information, visit http://www.episcopalservicecorps.org/

On humanity, in all its glorious strangeness

If I were still operating under the delusion that there is a quota for the number of extraordinarily bizarre conversations one can have in a certain amount of time, I'd pronounce myself done for at least a month after just today. 

The first moment of utter perplexity arrived when I clambered aboard a car carrier with Filipino crew, Bulgarian officers. I was set up in the ship's office, selling phone cards to whoever stopped by. At some point, a Filipino seafarer came in, sat down next to me and, without preamble asked: "Madam, what religion are you?"

As I've said before, I very rarely talk about religion aboard ships, and when I do it's usually as part of a long, serious conversation. Slightly taken aback by his bluntness, I braced myself for the much hated task of describing the Episcopal Church to someone whose command of the English language was less than excellent. "Anglican...Church of England," I replied.

He looked highly displeased. "Oh," he grunted. "I am Roman Catholic." As though that explained everything.

"I see," I said. "Well, there are many similarities between the two...." While I abhor it when people try to equate the Anglican Communion and the Church of Rome, it is, imho, fair to say that Anglicans have more in common with Catholics than do, say, Baptists. Evidently, the Very Catholic seafarer was not of the same mind. 

"No!" He replied, aghast. "You do not recognize the authority of the Pope!" I conceded that this was true. We sat in silence for a while. After a while, he seemed to have collected his thoughts enough to move on to the next absurdly bold question: "Who is your God?" That was just about the last thing I expected him to say, and my confusion must have been quite apparent, because he followed his first question with another, highly dubious one: "You don't believe in...Jesus Christ?" 

I told him yes, I did. He looked up at me with great surprise. "And do you also believe in...God the Father?" Once again, I replied in the affirmative. At this point, he was beginning to look truly scandalized. "But you do not also believe in the Holy Spirit!?" It was almost a plea. It was as though his worldview couldn't expand enough to include the reality that there might be non-Catholic Christians in the world. As gently as I could (considering that I was walking a very fine line between bursting out laughing and being completely enraged at the Catholic Church's ability to brainwash its members), I told him that yes, Anglicans do indeed believe in all three persons of the Trinity. At this most disheartening news, he plunged back into contemplation.

Just when I was getting really scared that he was going to bust out with some ridiculously complex theological question about Trinitarian doctrine, he changed tactics. With mingled desperation and smugness, he asked: "But you don't pray the rosary? You don't pray to the Holy Mother?" I scrambled mentally to try to arrive at an answer that would represent the amazingly wide spectrum of Anglican thought on this issue without being too confusing. Sadly for the state of Anglican-Catholic dialogue, I was too slow. Taking my silence for an admission of defeat he said, triumphantly, "I thought so!"

Later, as he was escorting me back to the gangway deck in the elevator, he asked, very patronizingly: "And what do you want to be when you grow up?"

What was I to say? "A priest," I told him.

You should have seen the look on his face. "But....how can you? You are only sixteen, and besides - you are a woman!"

Well-spotted, Mr. Seafarer, well-spotted.

---

Incredibly bizarre encounter number 2 arrived on my second car ship of the day. There I was in the crew's mess, making small talk with a group of Filipino engineers, and being grateful that the visit was proceeding quite normally. I was grateful too soon. During a lull in the conversation, an earnest looking man in his mid-thirties looked up at me and said (I kid you not): "Ma'am? Maybe you would like to marry me?"

I'll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that he was at least partially joking, but still! Could he have picked a more awkward question to ask? Needless to say, I turned him down with what I hoped was the right mixture of humor and seriousness. Apparently my tactic failed, because next thing I knew his comrade had proposed to me as well. Again, I refused the offer, now more bewildered than ever. 

"So ma'am," the rejected would-be husband said, "You have boyfriend?" I responded enthusiastically in the affirmative, hoping that the new direction of conversation would lend itself better to normality. Alas, no. "How many?" he asked.

What!? "Uh...one?" 

"But ma'am!" he replied, looking throughly disappointed. "I thought Americans were supposed to be so liberated!"

---

The third and (for the sake of keeping this blog post from getting totally out of control) final moment of true conversational strangeness came from yet another Filipino man, who was strangely fascinated by American racial dynamics. I had told him that I came from Wisconsin and he, having located it on a map, had determined that it was far enough away from any major port cities to be totally rural. He was, therefore, quite fascinated by me. "So, where you live, there are no black people, right?" Without giving me time to respond he said, wistfully, "That must be nice..." 

I honestly had no idea what to say to him, other than to correct the obvious mistake and tell him that there are actually many African-Americans living in my home state. I tried to redirect his comment and tell him that Wisconsin is indeed a nice place, because of, not in spite of its racial diversity, but I doubt I communicated the sentiment very well. It was a pretty frightening reminder of how far we still have to go...

---

I think I'm going to stop calling myself a port chaplain and start referring to myself as a myth-buster instead. First hard-core Catholics, then ultra-radical polygamists, and finally racists. Whatever will be next?

Back to normal

This morning, as my coworker and I headed into the Seamen's Center, we were greeted by a gruff, rather vexed, Eastern European seafarer. We had barely walked in the door, when he demanded: 

"Where can I find a crossbow?"

"A...what!?" Surely, we thought, we had misheard, but no. This man was hell-bent on finding a crossbow in the most expeditious manner possible. 5 minutes later, our trusty receptionist was busily phoning every sporting goods store within a half hour's driving distance, starting every conversation (as one does...) with a jaunty: "Good morning! Do you carry crossbows?" While she inquired away, the rest of us huddled together in the chaplains' office, trying not to laugh too audibly and racking our brains for what on earth  he could want it for. We had finally come to the conclusion that his ship must sail through pirate-ridden waters, and that conventional anti-piracy measures weren't enough for this dude, when Janet (on the fourth try) finally located a crossbow-carrying store. 

As we walked him outside to the cab that would take him to his much-desired weapon, my coworker finally had the nerve to ask him what he wanted it for. He shot us a contemptuous scowl, replied: "Hunting," slammed the cab door, and drove away. 

And that is how one starts the day with a bang. 

So, about this church I live in...

You all know by now that I live in a church: St. Mary's Episcopal, in West Harlem. I'm aware that I've blogged very little about this fascinating and, at times, foreign institution that has been my home for the past 2.5 months. Upon further reflection on a rather extraordinary experience I had today, perhaps that's because I myself didn't really begin to understand the full depth and breadth of what this place is until now. 

St. Mary's is unlike any other Episcopal Church I've ever been to. Affectionately known as the "I am not afraid church," it has always been a  den of community activism, communism, pacifism, and a vibrant culture of protesting whatever its congregants perceive as the social ills of the day. Among its current projects are: an ongoing clothing bank, a Monday night food pantry, a free, no-questions-asked medical clinic, street outreach to the homeless, and a residential HIV/AIDS treatment program across the street (where one of my housemates works). Partly because of its commitment to social justice, and partly because it's situated in a highly diverse neighborhood, St. Mary's attracts an interesting mélange of parishioners: Columbia professors, seminarians, disillusioned communists, the 5 of us interns, and, above all, people who are benefitting and have benefitted from its many outreach ministries. 

The church is constantly active, and I mean constantly. I can hardly ever walk from my apartment to the front door without having to plough my way through some kind of meeting, whether it be a choir rehearsal, a feminist/communist Bible study, a campaign to end the death penalty, or a rock concert (currently going on). The problem is, when you live amidst that kind of relentless activity, you have to erect boundaries between yourself and the community just to stay sane. And that is how, despite living above the church, having dinner in the rectory 3 times a week, and semi-regularly participating in the worship and outreach of St. Mary's, I (and I think I can say the same of my 4 housemates) know astonishingly few of the people who make this their spiritual home.

To remedy this sad disconnect, St. Mary's and the New York Intern Program have collaborated on a grant proposal so that these 2 groups can come to know each other better. The end product is a monthly meeting of interns, parishioners, and any community members who want to come called "Peace of Pizza," the idea being to have a meal and discussion for everyone's enrichment. The trial run was today and, I'll admit, I was less than enthusiastic about having yet another item on my weekend agenda. But I was absolutely floored by some of the insights that emerged from our conversation, and truly inspired by the incredible stories that I heard.

Our discussion prompt was deceptively simple: "What brought you to St. Mary's?" My small group insisted that I and the other intern present share first. We both stumbled through a similar story about wanting to get hands-on experience after 4 years of academic study, wanting to broaden our horizons, wanting to actually do something about the injustice in the world, etc, etc. Our group members were unbelievably gracious and supportive, commenting again and again on how hard it must be to be thrust into a totally different way of living, to be confronted with some of the most appalling human conditions in this city. And then, one by one, they proceeded to tell their own stories of how they had come to this church. 

One man came when he was first diagnosed as HIV positive, over 30 years ago. He was deeply into street drugs, and all around in bad shape. St. Mary's was - and has continued to be - the place that gives him meaning in a life built around repeating cycles of addiction and recovery. When he's not in prison or the hospital, he's a loyal member of the St. Mary's Gospel choir. He spoke freely of all that the parish community had taught him, chiefly: not to despair.

Another woman - 23 years old - cited the wishes of a dying family member as her reason for coming to St. Mary's. As she told her story, she revealed that she, too, had spent years both using and selling drugs. She is now clean, in college, and...homeless. After spending a year in school by day and sleeping in the subway at night, she finally had the courage to get herself into a shelter, swallowing her pride in service of a greater good (her words, not mine). She, too, is a devoted choir member, and it was clear by listening to her that the opportunity to "give her voice to the Lord" has made an enormous difference in her life. 

As I sat there, mesmerized by story after incredible story, I became aware of a pattern of receiving and giving back. Everyone present had been touched profoundly by some facet of this worshipping community and had translated that gift into a ministry of their own. It's no coincidence that those who run the Saturday hunger outreach were once the recipients of the bag lunches that we hand out. Who better to know where the homeless hang out than those who were once homeless themselves? St. Mary's is a perfect model of a community committed to helping itself, drawing on its many strengths and its insider's knowledge to reach out to those who are paralyzed by hunger, homelessness, drug addiction, and domestic violence. 

I apologize if I've been preachy in these last couple of blog posts. I can only write about what's on my mind at a given moment, and as I've been in a prolonged reflective mood lately, that's what you get. The experiences of the past week or so, both in the port and at St. Mary's have been both humbling and inspiring. The key, I think, to not becoming bogged down by the tremendous amount of suffering and oppression there is in our world is not just to act, but to act in community. I am incredibly fortunate to be supported by several overlapping communities - my fellow interns, my coworkers at SCI, and the St. Mary's congregation - as I stumble my way through this year. 

A Seafarer's Life

As I'm sure you've gathered by now most ship visits are pretty enjoyable, if not downright fun. I spend an appreciable amount of time eating, laughing, conversing, and generally enjoying the fellowship of whichever crew I happen to be visiting. But every once in a while, I'll come crashing into the reality that I work with an exploited group of people. An attitude of pity for the 'poor seafarer' gets you nowhere as a port chaplain, but it's easy to forget that the several million invisible seafarers in the world make enormous sacrifices so that we, the upper-middle classes of the West, can have our goods when and where we want them. 

The average seafarer has a 9 month contract, usually followed by 1-2 months of time off. Officers usually have 6 month contracts, captains get 4. If they're on a ship that frequently stops in the US, the shipping company will generally invest in US visas for them, so that they can take shore leave. If the ship only docks in the US sporadically, they won't bother. But even US visa-holders have a horrendous time getting ashore. Because the process of unloading and loading cargo has gotten so speedy in recent years, many ships are only in port for a few hours. Between cargo operations, fueling, and loading provisions, the average seafarer is damn lucky if he has the time to leave ship. To add to all those complicating factors, the seafarer can't just descend the gangway and walk to wherever he wants to go: he needs to be escorted by someone with a TWIC (Transportation Worker Identification Credential) card anywhere within the terminal. This is where SCI comes in (we're all TWIC holders and authorized escorts), but if a crew wants to go out after our center closes (or is in a port other than Newark), they're out of luck. Point being, we see a lot of seafarers who haven't had shore leave in weeks, or even months. 

All of these everyday, run of the mill, complicating factors are exacerbated if you come from Myanmar. Several years back, a few Burmese seafarers jumped ship in the US. So, as logic would dictate, the affected shipping companies  responded by revoking shore leave privileges for ALL Myanmar crew. They have visas, but can't use them. It's racial discrimination and, the worst part is, it's perfectly legal. The economy of Myanmar is so awful that hundreds of Burmese citizens knowingly contract with the racist shipping companies because it's the only way they have of getting a paycheck and supporting their families. 

Today, I was on a container ship with 17 Burmese crew - all unbelievably generous, warm-hearted people, who gave me a royal welcome. As I sat in the crew's mess, eating the strawberry ice cream that they had insisted I accept, I made a horrifying discovery: each and every one of them has a TWELVE month contract. That's one year of being confined to a ship, without ever being allowed to set foot on dry land. If no port chaplain or businessman comes aboard with phone cards and SIM cards, they have no means of contacting their families (there are equivalents of SCI in many major ports, but not all). And, to add to the miserable situation, your average, $5 international calling card gets you a whopping 20 minutes to Myanmar. If you're lucky. Several of the seafarers I met today were so desperate to speak with their wives and children that they spent upwards of $100 on phone cards.

Take 30 seconds and imagine your life being swapped for that one. I'm not soliciting pity, just awareness. It's amazing and saddening, both, what lies hidden behind the commercial façade that US marketers present to us. Just think about it. 

Vermont!

If I were Michael Bloomberg, I would enact a citywide law requiring all New Yorkers to get the hell out of the city at least every two months. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate NY and consider myself a thoroughly urban person, but you know the city has you in its grips when you forget that there are places where there is no smog and where you can't always hear the roar of traffic. It was an absolute joy to get out for a few days. 

Vermont is gorgeous. I mean, take-your-breath-away beautiful. I hadn't been in New England since my family went camping in Maine over ten years ago, and I had quite forgotten how incredible it is. I can very much see myself living there someday (oh, I am a northerner at heart, aren't I?). You know a place is spectacular when it makes you gasp and point even in the pouring rain - which was the case for the 2/3 of our retreat. Most of the time, the fog up in the hills (we were almost in the Green Mountains) was so thick that you could hardly see past the tip of your nose - it was very Wuthering Heights-esque. 

The point of the retreat, if you will, was to do theological profiling, but mostly we just sat around and relaxed (exactly as a retreat should be, in my opinion). We were staying in a truly marvelous house, which was once a barn, with lofted bedrooms in each of the four corners. Wood burning stove, lots of comfortable chairs, stacks upon stacks of books... frankly, I was so enchanted by it that I had a hard time coaxing myself to go outdoors (though the trouble of putting on a ton of rain gear might have had something to do with that as well). We ate well, we drank well (for those of you harboring any doubts that my churchy ambitions will stop me from having fun, know that it was the priest's idea to buy a case of beer at a rest stop, not ours), we took lots of long walks in the woods, we read, and, best of all, we paid off our sleep debts. Just what the doctor ordered.

An additional bonus for you, my deprived readers: photographic inspiration struck me at last, and I have boatloads of pictures up on facebook! If anyone really wants them on flickr, let me know and I'll work on it (they take forever to upload). 

Highlights

I'm supposed to be in rural Vermont right now, on retreat with my program, but as I'm not (our trip has been postponed to have us leave at the crack of dawn tomorrow, due to storms in New England), you get another, long overdue blog post! Those of you who follow me on facebook will likely have seen that there is also an album full of long overdue photos, which hopefully at least partly make up for my lack of internet news of late. 

My life continues to progress in as wonderfully random and ridiculous fashion as ever but, as I'm lacking one good, solid story to flesh out in detail, I'm afraid you'll have to settle for a list of highlights of recent events. 

1) Being fed a 3 course Montenegran meal aboard a rather splendid ship this morning - yes, morning - they were sailing at noon, and so fed us lunch at 10:30 am. It actually happens quite frequently; I keep very strange mealtimes here on the East Coast. We thought, after the first course of pesto pasta, that we had already dined well, but the plates of food just kept coming. After we had given our best efforts at finishing our stuffed peppers (by that point, we were rather stuffed ourselves), we asked the crew if they ate like that every day. They looked at us like we were quite mad and said, "But of course! What else do we have to live for when we're aboard ship for 9 months at a time, if not food?" We had to admit, they have a point. 

2) Locking my car key - along with my phone, my wallet, and all my other possessions - in a van, while dropping some seafarers off at the mall. Having a mild panic attack, and finally begging mall security to wedge open the car door with their highly sophisticated tools: a doorstop and a coat hanger. Giving thanks for the good humor and mad skills of Chester the security guard, and feeling exceedingly stupid.

3) Attending the Seamen's Church 175th anniversary gala at - ...drumroll... - the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Apparently, SCI could settle for nothing less than the largest church in the nation to celebrate its birthday. It was pretty spectacular - there were a frightening number of bishops in attendance, and I daresay I've never seen so much alcohol in a church before (and mind you, I lived in a church for much of my college experience). I got paid to eat goat cheese haystacks and get appropriately inebriated, thanks to the very enthusiastic and responsive caterers responsible for the wine distribution, all the while being serenaded (actually, deafened would be a better term) by the state trumpets of the Cathedral organ. Have I mentioned that I love my job?

4) Having Veterans Day off for the first time in my life! Holding a "real job" (if you can call it that...) has its drawbacks, but also its perks: federal holidays among them. I celebrated by going to the Cloisters (the Met extension in Washington Heights, dedicated to medieval art and, as you might have guessed by the name, cloisters) for the afternoon. I was so distracted by the beauty of it all that, when I became thirsty, I quite forgot where I was and asked the security guard where I might find a bubbler. Needless to say, I didn't get an answer to that question. Oh, WI, how I miss you...

The disjointedness of this post gives you a fairly accurate idea of how scattered my life has been for the past week or so. Highly enjoyable, but definitely not organized. For that, I am unspeakably glad that I'm leaving the city for a few days to profit from the seclusion of the New England Countryside - the land the cell phone towers forgot. I'll be back within communications range Monday night, hopefully bearing lots of blog-worthy stories!

How to get to the Met

There really is no good idea to get from Harlem to the Upper East Side - you either have to take a crosstown bus (rarely a good idea) or walk through Central Park. Since it was a gorgeous November afternoon, my housemates and I opted for the walk, first taking the subway down to 86th St.

The trains run woefully slowly on the weekends, so I brought entertainment. Having mastered the art of knitting at least well enough for my own standards, I have moved on to the noble discipline of crocheting - taught, as always, by my faithful housemate, Rachel. So there we were, sitting on the platform of the 1 train. Rachel was teaching me how to double crochet, and I had just finally gotten the hang of it when the train came. It was a full, standing room only train, but I was so excited about my recently acquired skill that I decided to keep going. I should have known that doing any 2-hands activity on a moving - and frequently stopping - train was destined for catastrophe, but I, in my infinite naiveté thought that I had gained enough subway expertise to give it a shot.

Alas, no. As the train lurched into the 103rd St. station, I, unsurprisingly, lurched with it, falling on top of a highly affronted Hispanic grandmother. The crochet hook flew out of my hands, hit Rachel square in the forehead (causing her to issue an impressive squeal), and richocheted to the other end of the train, out of sight. This was clearly the most interesting spectacle that most of the people in this train had seen in a long time - seemingly every person in the car began eagerly participating in the search for the missing crochet hook, in total violation of the reigning NY social norm that it is Forbidden to interact with strangers on the subway. Meanwhile, I remained completely incapacited with laughter at my own ridiculousness and both of my housemates unsuccessfully pretended not to know me. Just as I was beginning to worry that our stop would come before the elusive crochet hook would reveal its hiding spot, a triumphant 8 year-old at the other end of the car proclaimed in Spanish: "I found it, I found it!" to resultant cheering. The hook was then passed along, assembly-line fashion, to where I was standing, still doubled over with laughter.

I guess all you need to break a norm is a crochet hook and an incredible propensity for clumsiness. Needless to say, the stunning artwork at the Met was rather anticlimactic after the process of getting there.

the dark side of the port

Today, I had my first solidly awful ship visit. Most of them are, if not great, then at least comfortably ordinary, but this one came straight out of hell. A synopsis, for contrast with the ordinarily glowing blog reviews of what goes on aboard ship.

For starters, the ship in question was berthed in the most frustrating container terminal in the port. Unlike the 2 others, Container Terminal X (I've become irrationally terrified that the government will come arrest me for putting secure TSA information on my blog...) won't let visitors drive onto the straddle field - you have to wait for the security shuttle to pick you up at the gate and take you in. Which would be fine, if Romeo, the driver, actually came when you called him. As it stands, you're likely to spend anywhere from 20-90 minutes waiting for him to show up. It's particularly fun in the pouring rain, while you're standing amidst the gantry cranes and straddlers, convinced you're going to be squashed by a piece of machinery 100 times your size. The 5 of us chaplains dutifully take turns putting ourselves through that ordeal, and today the unfortunate lot fell to me. 

There were 2 ships in. The first was terribly busy, and I left after 10 minutes. The second, henceforth The Ship of Doom, welcomed me all too enthusiastically and ushered me up to the crew's day room. As I've said before, I carry $400 worth of phone cards, SIM cards, and other telephone paraphernalia. It normally lasts me for about 4 ships, and in this particular case, I had just restocked. It was nowhere near enough for the Croatian crew of the SoD. They cleaned me out within half an hour. Normally, when I run out of something, I just say "I'm sorry, I don't have any more," and that's that. Today, that response was met with:

"Well, go and get some more then! NOW!" Because all the other ships had been visited, and it was only 12:00, I acquiesced, none too happily. I waited 40 minutes for Romeo (at least it wasn't raining), went back to the center to restock, returned to Terminal X where I waited another 40 minutes for Romeo, and re-climbed the gangway of the the SoD, where the ambush recommenced. I was half terrified that they were going to clean me out AGAIN, but fortunately they contented themselves with berating me for taking too long and then skulked off. Once they were gone, the Indonesian crew contingent crept into the crew's lounge. They were much more polite, and much more receptive to the presence of a woman in their midst...a little too receptive, as it turned out. 

The tiny ship's steward, who was younger than I and on his first deep sea assignment, sidled up to me on the sofa, stared at me like I was God incarnate, and proclaimed: "You are such a beautiful woman. Maybe someday you would like to come to Bali...with me?" 

I balked. "Uh...I have no vacation time. Seamen's Church won't let me," I stuttered, probably way too fast for him to understand me. He relented for a brief while. The conversation turned to Indonesian food. I participated halfheartedly, inwardly freaking out about whether I chose the appropriate response. Just as I'd begun to think that I misinterpreted a joke, or missed an unknown cultural reference or something, the steward decided to get bolder. While his companions were bickering about who owed whom a cigarette, he said in a hushed voice:

"In my cabin, I have Indonesian noodles. Would you like to come with me...and try them?"

At this point, I truly freaked out. I'm used to being stared at aboard ships - as uncomfortable as it was at first, I've come to appreciate the reality that these men can go months without laying eyes on a woman. But this was the first time that I'd been propositioned, and I was horrified. "I have to go. Right now," I said, and bolted. To hell with being pastoral. I was so done with that godforsaken ship. I trampled down the gangway and waited on the straddle field for a full ten minutes before I realized that I'd forgotten to call for the damn security shuttle, I was that shaken.

A bit of advice, should any of you ever discover a long-lost calling for seafaring: the way to get what you want from your port chaplain is neither by yelling at her nor by hitting on her. End of story.