Better by the Sea

Reading a book recently on remote work and productivity, I came across a line that stuck with me: "Remote work makes people more productive because you go from having the biggest distractions—other people speaking to you—to the least distractions—no one speaking to you." It made me laugh out loud, not because it wasn’t true, but because it reminded me of a life that couldn’t have been more different: working on cruise ships.

For years, I lived and worked in floating cities where the noise never really stopped. Sometimes sharing cabins the size of broom closets, navigating complex hierarchies of multinational crew, managing relentless schedules, and finding joy in 15-minute breaks on deck four—this was the daily rhythm. It was chaos. Controlled chaos, but chaos nonetheless.

And yet, I thrived. Or more precisely, I grew. It’s easy to talk about how ship life makes you a great employee—adaptable, punctual, customer-focused, endlessly resourceful. And that’s all true. But for me, the bigger transformation was personal.

I became more patient—not because I’m naturally zen, but because ship life tests your nerves daily. You learn that venting doesn’t move things along, and passive-aggression gets you nowhere when you’re eating breakfast with the same person you argued with at changeover the night before.

I became more collaborative—not in the corporate buzzword sense, but in the we’ve-got-four-hours-to-build-a-stage-and-the-power-just-went-out sense. There’s a kind of bond that forms when you’re solving problems at sea, with no Wi-Fi and nowhere to hide.

I remember a show where we were already down a dancer due to injury, and during afternoon rehearsal, rough seas caused another injury scare—this time to one half of an aerial duo. We had just a few hours to rework the choreography and staging, including her act, which normally involved a complex harness system with two operators flying her in multiple directions into a backup plan.

I was the Automation Technician at the time, and one of the systems we’d implemented was a last-minute check-in procedure to decide whether the aerial segment could proceed safely. Rather than making the call at show start, we moved it closer to the moment, asking for a simple thumbs-up or thumbs-down from the aerial performers and the crew flying them. Everyone had veto power. It was quick, direct, and built on trust.

That night, the weather stayed questionable and the act was pulled, but the rest of the show went on; retooled, restaged, and safe. In more extreme cases, we had fallback versions of the show: “flat floor” variants with no stage lifts, or even “park and bark” formats where singers stayed mostly in place and dancers adjusted around them. It was never ideal, but it worked. And we all knew we had each other’s backs, whether it was for a missed cue or a missed partner.

And I became more empathetic. Living alongside people from dozens of countries, celebrating holidays you’ve never heard of, or hearing about childhoods shaped by different histories; these aren’t experiences you can replicate on land. Not easily, anyway.

Now that I work remotely, I sometimes marvel at how quiet my world is. It’s not lonely, but it’s different. I’m productive, yes, but I’m also shaped by years in a very loud, very human environment.

So if you’ve ever worked with someone who came off ships—or if you’re hiring and their résumé includes a few years on the ocean—know that their experience probably made them more than just a good employee. It likely made them a better person, too. It certainly did for me.