 |
| Talking Story with Arlo |
It's Nice to be Nice
By Arlo Agogo
At 58 years old, I was what most people would call a confirmed desert bachelor. My days in the Arizona sun had settled into a predictable rhythm: coffee at dawn, a little yard work to keep the cactus alive, maybe a trip to the hardware store, and evenings spent watching some Internet blog, some sports updates and an occasional YouTube video that is tripping.
I’d been around the block a few times, a couple of "for ever" relationships that never quite stuck, jobs that came and went like monsoon storms. Adventure? That was something that just happened.
The afternoon Bill leaned over the fence
-- between our properties happened without notice. Bill was my next door neighbor. The kind of guy whose barbecue smoke always smelled better than mine and who waved whether he was in a hurry or not. Turns out, he wasn’t just retired like I’d assumed. He was the onboard manager for the Hawaiian American, a colossal cruise ship that never really left paradise.
This wasn’t one of those globe-trotting behemoths that crossed oceans for weeks. No, the Hawaiian American was a floating resort that lived its entire life in the Hawaiian Islands. It carried 3,000 passengers and roughly 100 working crew (not counting the officers, captain, and first mate), circling the chain in a perpetual, gentle loop: Honolulu to Maui, Maui to the Big Island, Big Island back to Oahu, and the grand finale along Kauai’s Na Pali Coast before returning to Honolulu for the next batch of dreamers.
Bill needed reliable hands for a 60-day contract.
“You’ve got nothing tying you down for the next couple months, right?” he asked, wiping sweat from his brow. “Come swab some decks, see the islands up close, make decent money. Better than sitting here watching the lizards race across your patio.”My brain did a quick calculation: zero obligations, zero plans, zero reasons to say no. The desert had been good to me in its quiet way, but it had also taught me that sometimes life needs a good shake.
So I said yes.
Less than a week later we were on a plane—first to San Diego, then the pacific hop to Honolulu. Bill was heading back to work; I was stepping into an entirely different universe. When we pulled up to the pier and I saw the ship for the first time, my stomach did a slow flip. It looked like a small white city had decided to float.
Decks stacked high, glass atriums catching the sun, the faint thrum of engines promising motion without ever really going anywhere far. The onboarding was brisk and efficient: drug test, background check, uniform fitting, safety drills. I was classified as an ABS -Able-Bodied Sailor—fancy talk for “guy who does whatever needs doing.”
My official shift ran from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m., sometimes stretching later when the party refused to quit. My job was simple on paper: swab decks sticky with spilled mai tais and piña coladas, wipe down bars there is no last call it's 24 hours partying sunrise the sunset a good time never stop, clear tables in the restaurants where laughter still hung in the air like perfume.
I cleaned up after people who were having the time of their lives. But here’s the part no one tells you about crew life on a ship like this: you’re not just cleaning paradise—you’re living in it. As crew, I had access to everything the passengers did. During off-hours I could slip into the bars, catch the late-night shows, swim in the pools under the stars.
I was on the other side of the velvet rope.
The rope was thin, and the music carried. Hawaii has a spirit that seeps into your bones if you let it. The word aloha gets thrown around a lot, but on the islands it’s more than a greeting. It’s a current, a living philosophy of kindness, respect, and presence.
Passengers arrived frazzled from mainland life—divorce papers still fresh in their carry-ons, work stress etched into their shoulders—and within days they softened. They smiled wider. They laughed louder. They moved slower. The trade winds carried the scent of plumeria and salt, the ocean whispered ancient stories through every wave, and even the most jaded hearts began to remember what wonder felt like.
Being nice became my second job, maybe the most important one. In uniform, I was everyone’s go-to person. “Which way to the best sunset spot on deck?” “Any good shave-ice stands on Maui?” “What’s your favorite Hawaiian legend?” I answered them all with genuine warmth because it cost nothing and returned everything. A smile here, a helpful direction there, a quick story about the volcano goddess Pele when someone asked why the Big Island smelled like sulfur—it all added up.
I started to understand something I’d forgotten in the desert:
It’s nice to be nice.
In a world that often rewards cynicism, the islands rewarded kindness with amplified joy. A simple “Aloha” delivered with eye contact could turn a stranger’s day around. And when they thanked me, when their faces lit up, I felt it too.
The rhythm of the cruise was hypnotic.
Each week followed the same beautiful pattern. Days in port while passengers scattered to beaches, luaus, helicopter tours, and zip lines. Nights sailing between islands, the ship rocking gently as stars wheeled overhead.
Every seven days came the frantic four-hour turnaround in Honolulu: old guests off, new ones on, cabins cleaned, decks mopped, bars restocked. I’d be out there with my mop and bucket, watching the cycle of arrival and departure like some floating tide.
Then came the crown jewel: the Na Pali Coast finale on the last full day.
As the ship eased along Kauai’s wild northwest shore at golden hour, the cliffs rose straight from the sea like emerald cathedrals carved by rain and time. Waterfalls spilled down impossible green faces. The sun dipped low, painting the sky in fire and rose and every shade of gold in between.
On the top deck, the crew hosted a traditional luau—hula dancers swaying to live ukulele and drums, fire-knife performers twirling blazing torches against the fading light, the smoky scent of kalua pork and fresh poi drifting everywhere.
Passengers cheered, cameras flashed, tears glistened on cheeks. I watched from the edges, mop forgotten for a moment, feeling something stir deep in my chest that I hadn’t felt in decades: pure, uncomplicated wonder.
The real turning point came quietly one afternoon on the bridge. I’d been sent up to deliver some maintenance parts when I mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that I had advanced computer skills—spreadsheets, inventory systems, ordering software, the works.
The commander’s eyes lit up like someone had just handed him the winning lottery ticket. “We’re short-handed up here,” he said. “You ever done procurement?” Within hours I was promoted. No more night-shift swab duty. Now I spent my days on the bridge, radio in hand, coordinating with chefs, suppliers, and vendors at every port. I ordered fresh ahi tuna for the sushi bar, tropical fruit for the breakfast buffets, spare parts for the engine room, even specialty wines passengers had requested. The ship sailed at night, arriving at each new island at dawn.
My job was to make sure everything was waiting on the dock when we pulled in. It was quiet, detailed work, but it felt important—like I was helping keep the magic running smoothly behind the scenes.
At 58, surrounded by vacationers in their prime—solo travelers, honeymooners, families, groups of friends—many women carried that unmistakable vacation glow. The unwritten rule was crystal clear: hands off the guests. No dates, no entanglements, nothing that could complicate the experience.
But being pleasant? That was required.
So when a beautiful woman with a cocktail in one hand and mischief in her eyes tugged my arm during a late-night show, whispering something flirty about how I looked good in uniform, I’d smile, deflect gently, and say, “I’m on duty right now, but give me your number. I’ll call when I’m back on shore in a couple months.” She’d laugh, scribble her digits on a cocktail napkin, and walk away with a playful wink. Ego boost? You bet. Harmless fun that reminded me life still had sparks.
Those 60 days were the adventure of my lifetime. I went from a solitary desert existence to living in the heart of paradise, surrounded by people rediscovering joy. I learned the power of a genuine smile, felt the ocean’s ancient rhythm, watched sunsets that made grown adults weep.
I discovered that kindness isn’t weakness.
When the contract ended and I flew back to Arizona, the desert looked different. The sun was still brutal, the nights still quiet, but something inside me had shifted. I carried a piece of aloha home with me.
And every now and then, when the wind kicks up and carries the scent of distant rain, I close my eyes and hear the waves again.
Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.
Groove is in the Heaart - Arlo
Sponsored by .....
Sponsored by .....
Channels from Arlo......
For E mail notification of new content subscribe at arloagogo.substack.com
