But we keep showing up on lovely fall Mondays like this one. I unlock the green gate and muscle open the door, trying to keep two pizza boxes secure in my left arm. I walk into the empty smile of the Wenatchee. Upstairs I find a blissful, peaceful, quiet cabin. The lights are dimmed, and the morning crew is mustered outside the dayroom, absorbed in phones, twittering about some mate.

“Oh hey, Albert!” a friend greets me as I plop down next to her. “You brought us pizza?” I shrug. I feel a twinge, because I didn’t. Because there’s never enough for everyone, whether it’s pay or pizza. The morning crew’s captain appears, holding a black messenger bag.

“Okay who is here? One OS? Okay, Chantal, you can go. There are two ABs, so you two can go. And the captain just arrived, so I’m out of here.” This isn’t the usual handoff, but today isn’t a normal day. Right on time, our chief mate walks up the stairs lugging two bags of groceries. Today is going to be a good food day. Once everyone trickles in and spreads out into their very own booth, David instructs us to check our respective areas to make sure they are clean.

Reader, I think you know by now; some crews are better than others. My crew today is superb, but the crew we relieved was mediocre. My areas: The sun deck heads, libraries, and car deck heads, appear untouched. So I slap on a pair of nitrile gloves and prop open the door to one of the car deck heads. I squirt some purple in the toilet bowl, spray some red on the seat, in the sink. I scrub, wipe everything down. Yuck. Looks like this hasn’t been cleaned in a week. I sweep, go upstairs for a mop. I wipe down the walls. I start on the blackened corners, fuzzy with dust. When rust and paint start to peel, I call it. On to the next.

I come up for air, shaking dust from my blue rag into a trashcan. I see an engineer, a Harry Potter type, walking toward the rail. He’s got his big headphones on and is carrying a sandwich, an apple, and a soda. He’s got a pleasant look on his face. Satisfied. In his zone. He walks slowly toward the starboard rail. He rests his forearms there and stares out onto Eagle Harbor. I consider going to talk to him, but asking him to acknowledge this ordeal feels inappropriate. I keep cleaning, sweating and zigzagging through my sections.

Back upstairs the ABs have donned harnesses, climbed outside the safety of the green gates. They make their way steadily offshore, lathering the windows with soap, scrubbing at stubborn seagull poop, swiping it all away with squeegees. The sun is out and I can see them sweat too, blue shirts are unbuttoned, undershirts are out. Our fill-in second mate shows up in time for our theoretical second round trip with a case of sparkling water, a boom box, and four more pizzas.

After all the windows are shining, and I’ve swept behind the doors and in all cabin corners, David mandates a thirty-minute break. We flock to the day room for another slice. We take out our phones and check in on the digital world. The bosun takes a phone call near the galley. One of the ABs retreats into their hood and scrolls, slowly sliding to horizontal. Another Eastside OS walks up from the car deck, out of breath and visibly pissed off. “WOW you actually showed up,” one AB heckles. We ask him about his journey. We get distracted and start yapping about who knows what. A few crew take their backpacks and find a hiding place. A reader seeks silence. One OS wants a power nap.

Heads turn as engineer Harry enters the cabin and addresses the room, “Okay, I’m out of here. I haven’t heard anything from my relief, but he should be here soon.”

We all look around at each other. The bosun asks, “Um, is there anyone else down there?”

“No, just me.”

“Oh okay, well did you let the captain or mate know you were taking off?”

“Nah, that’s why I figured I’d better tell you.”

“Could you please let him know, before you go?”

The engineer sighs, “Fine, I’ll try to find him.”

We all exchange uneasy looks. Even when we’re not underway, we need an engineer to man other running equipment down below. Of course this is happening today. He’s over it. What else can we possibly say to this kid?

Then David calls over the radio, “Wenatchee crew, please meet on the car deck for a drill.” I realize the constant crackle of the blocky neon radios has been missing today. We talk through the procedures for running aground while steeping in the slant of the weakening sun. Aiden comes walking down the bridge wearing a jean jacket, on a mission. He must be on the other boat.

“I came to get fall gear. We don’t have any over there,” he explains, rushing past. He’s much more buoyant than last time I saw him, which is a huge relief.

“Hey, there’s so much pizza. Please take some!” I call out. He turns, nods. Something behind us catches his eye and he points to the pilothouse on the Puyallup, parked next door. Captain Luis, who never forgets a crewmember’s name, is waving at us from on high, his gray-topped head backlit by golden light. We all wave back enthusiastically. Calm, kind, and capable, he’s one of the greats.

The bosun takes the opportunity to cut in, “Hey David, just to double check, did that engineer tell you he was leaving?”

“Wait, what!? When-uhh… Did he say if there was anyone else down there?” David goes a little white as the bosun explains. “Wenatchee captain, what’s your location?” he asks over the radio, already rushing upstairs. Anxious eyebrows raise all around. The second mate takes over the drill and explains how to smash safely into the dock if we have to. It doesn’t take long for him to dismiss us. He’s on overtime.

We pass Aiden on the stairs, who’s holding a harness and two slices. “I took some pizza, and a crisp hundred out of Bobby’s wallet,” he jokes. “You really should stop carrying cash, man.” We smile and tell him to get lost.