By Ruoyu X., ’30
I lay on the bamboo mat in a pool of my own sweat, swaying with the ship. A net around my cot attempted to keep out the mosquitos, and the room’s thin walls leaked every crewman’s cough. Yet as I looked outside the porthole, the greatest discomfort was my own shame.
Growing up in a coastal city, the sea carried a call to action. My father, once a cargo crewman and now a shipping administrator, shared tales of free-spirited voyages and world experience; yet I was most drawn to his depictions of close-knit crews. I was someone who hesitated in small social moments: lowering my eyes in the hallway, uncertain if a wave was meant for me, never taking that initial step. The ship seemed to provide what everyday life lacked: a space where closeness was facilitated.
But when I interned aboard a similar vessel in summer 2024, I quickly discovered the details my dad had left out. My excitement melted under the 100°F sun. There weren’t assigned tasks to distract myself with, and both my journal and copy of Moby-Dick I had brought aboard became nothing more than paper weights.
Worse, I didn’t perceive the camaraderie my father had described. The crew kept to their shifts, mostly isolated in the rooms, caring only that “the ship keeps moving.” The sailors spoke in a provincial dialect I could barely follow, and my father had advised me to conceal my background (as an international school student and administrator’s daughter) for fear it would alienate me from the crew. I tried to join conversations, but with no relatable experience and only fragments of understanding, my words fell short. All I felt I could do was lie flat in my cot and wait for morning.
When I disembarked a week later, my relief was as overwhelming as the heat had been. Yet with time, what returned to me most was the sailors’ faces, carrying stories I had never uncovered.
Which is why, the next summer, I stubbornly boarded again. I carried unease, knowing how physically and emotionally draining the prior voyage had been; but I also carried determination to resist that urge to retreat into my cabin. When I boarded, the engineer (the rare woman aboard) looked at me with surprise and spoke in Mandarin instead of dialect: “most never come back. They don’t appreciate the routine.”
Routine. I became determined to find a routine that wasn’t “hide from the heat.” I volunteered to help: rust-chipping the deck, double-checking the cargo tallies, and washing vegetables. The more I leaned into the routine, the more it carried me. Small things I had ignored before became luminous: hammocks stretched beneath the night sky, chuckles exchanged over bowls of noodles.
With little windows of opening, nods of appreciation or smiles of hello, I took small steps to unearth their experience, not allowing dialect (or a ‘blacklist’ of what truths I should withhold) inhibit me. When I led with authenticity, previous obstacles fell to the wayside. In return, I received incredible stories. Not glamorous sea adventures, but honest experiences from people of all walks of life, all of which were documented in my seafarer’s journal. Everything from a middle-aged couple who decades ago had gone deep into debt (and spent 30 years at sea repaying it), to a young captain sailing from loneliness. Soon, my observations transformed into responsibility; after months of policy research, interviews, and sample collection regarding the crew’s lack of treated water, I led water safety sessions and successfully petitioned the department of transportation for new regulations regarding small vessels’ right to clean water.
My contributions were made possible by that crucible at sea, forged in sweat, silence, and routine: the value of small steps, the power of camaraderie, and the fulfillment of persevering through failure. I’m proud to have been eaten alive by a metal beast, and then entered its jaws once more.
Admissions Committee Comments
Ruoyu’s essay demonstrates great strength and perseverance through time spent interning at sea. Through this experience, Ruoyu notes that she wants to make her own impact instead of following in the footsteps of the people before her or blending in with the rest of the crew. She tries something new that didn’t live up to expectations on the first try but still has the courage to return. This shows the admissions committee her determination and persistence, dedication to excellence through research, and how she found community in unexpected places—all qualities that make a strong Hopkins student.
Ruoyu X.“I chose this topic because it steps outside the usual boundaries of my student life, and that choice made the end the hardest part to write. I wrote multiple versions of that final paragraph over months because I found it difficult to determine what meaning (if any) should be used to define my experience. I was writing before I’d had the distance to know what my story meant. In the end, the gap between a sincere experience and a sincere piece of writing is simply the quiet work of time.”
