I m still breathing in slow, heavy rhythms of sleep during my first moments on deck, and I round my shoulders against the damp, cold air. Fog hangs all around the boat, and dew drips from the rigging as we splash buckets of salt water down the decks to clean. The icy water bounces over the lip of the bucket, landing in my boots and soaking my shorts. My hands stiffen and ache as I lower the bucket by a rough length of rope and haul it back up and over the rail.
Passengers begin shuffling around deck.
They move awkwardly like penguins, circling and pacing as they wait for coffee or their turn in the heads . The galley sounds grow louder, and cast iron and tin create a discordant xylophone played with wooden spoons and metal spatulas. Out of the smoke stack, the diesel stove expels a thin, oily exhaust, and I move through the morning as if automated, smiling on cue to passengers, adding vigor to my chores when the captain walks by. It s hard to remember how happy I was, or even remember who I was, before I got this job as deckhand. Maybe if there were more women deckhands, it wouldn t have seemed like such a big deal.