Cabin Trauma: Part 1
When I first joined the ship at twenty‑four, I thought I was stepping into a glamorous life of sunsets, uniforms and international adventure. I imagined myself sipping cappuccinos in Italy on my breaks, taking cute photos in my crisp name tag and living my best “main character at sea” life.
Instead, I walked straight into a cabin that felt like the opening scene of a horror movie.
My roommate was a woman in her fifties but not the sweet, motherly type who gives life advice. No. This woman had the energy of someone who had been on ships since the Titanic and was personally offended that I was breathing her air.
The moment I entered the cabin; she looked at me like I was a stray cat that had wandered into her living room.
I smiled.
She frowned.
I said hello.
She sighed like I had ruined her entire week.
And that was just the first five minutes.
On that first night, I tried to unpack quietly, like a respectful little baby crew member.
She watched me like a prison guard.
When I opened my suitcase zipper, she glared.
When I placed my shoes under the bed, she glared.
When I breathed too loudly, she glared.
By bedtime, I was lying on my upper bunk, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I should just swim home😒.
She turned off the lights while I was still brushing my teeth.
Not a word.
Just click – darkness. 🌚
I whispered, “I’m still …”
She said nothing.
Not even a fake sorry.
I crawled into bed like a defeated Victorian orphan.
Every day felt like a new episode of Survivor: Crew Cabin Edition.
If I left a towel hanging, she acted like I had committed a federal crime.
If I woke up before her, she huffed like I was ruining her beauty sleep (which, honestly, wasn’t working).
If I dared to exist in the cabin at the same time as her, she looked personally victimized.
One time, I sneezed.
She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they’d fall out.
Another time, I laughed at a message on my phone.
She said, “Some of us are trying to rest.”
It was 3 p.m.
I started tiptoeing around like a burglar in my own home.
I was young, clueless and still figuring out how to survive the chaos of ship life. Meanwhile, she had the emotional range of brick and the patience of someone who hated everyone under 40.
I cried in the bathroom more times than I’d like to admit.
I questioned my life choices.
I wondered if I should just join the engine team and live in the bilge water instead.
But here’s the funny part:
Everyone I told about her said the same thing “Ohhh, you got her? Good luck.”
Apparently, she was a legend.
A myth.
A walking warning sign.
And I, the innocent 24‑year‑old, had been sacrificed to her as a rite of passage.
As the weeks went by, I started spending less time in the cabin and more time making friends, exploring the ship and learning my job. I found my people . The ones who laughed with me , supported me and understood the madness of ship life.
And slowly, the cabinmate from hell lost her power.
She still glared.
She still sighed dramatically.
She still acted like I was a ghost haunting her space.
But I stopped caring.
I walked in with confidence.
I brushed my teeth with the lights ON.
I sneezed freely.
I existed loudly.
And she couldn’t do anything about it.
Now, when I think about that first contract, I don’t feel fear anymore, I laugh. Because honestly, the whole situation was ridiculous.
I was a baby.
She was a dragon.
And somehow, I survived.
That cabin didn’t break me.
It gave me stories.
It gave me character development.
It gave me the comedic trauma every crew member collects like souvenirs.
And most importantly, it taught me this:
If the 24year old me could survive her,
I could survive anything the sea threw at me.
