What getting stuck can teach you 

about moving forward

It was our first morning aboard a research vessel on a work-related excursion, bobbing atop the Philippines’ renowned Tubbataha Reefs. 

My colleagues and I had spent around 10 hours the previous night traveling under a full moon from Puerto Princesa, Palawan, to the middle of the Sulu Sea, where our floating home would stay anchored for the next two days. By this time, I had gotten used to the steady drone of the boat’s engine, which seemed to have lulled my companions into a deep slumber. I appreciated the solace nevertheless. It was a time to reflect. And so, reflect I did.

We were all on this trip for our annual team retreat to discuss the next phase of the project we were involved in—an exercise I had taken with a bit of trepidation, not knowing what “next” would really mean or look like. Over the past several months, there had been talks about how our project would evolve into something different. But how different, no one really knew for sure.

Quite naturally, many practical questions were brewing in my head: Will we have the same team? Will I have the same boss? Will I have the same job? Will I live in the same country? What will I wear on the boat? Okay, perhaps that last one wasn’t as hard-hitting as the rest of my questions, but this whole business of change was just completely knocking me off balance.

I’ve always been somewhat uneasy with change—the big ones, at least. Uncertainty can be quite unnerving and can leave me feeling restless at times. I like being planned and strategic, and knowing what to expect. I don’t mean to say, however, that I don’t welcome change, because I do (and I have on countless occasions). Nonetheless, it doesn’t erase the fact that change can feel quite uncomfortable, which in essence, is what change is really all about: taking a step out of one’s comfort zone and leaping into the unknown.

“That’s why we’re all going through this, to plot our next course and chart our future,” my intrepid boss had assured me during one of our calls prior to this boat trip. “No one really knows what the future holds, so it’s up to us to shape it,” she stressed.

I reflected on this fact of life as I took in the first rays of light, while the rest of the boat slept soundly.

Okay, fine. I will once again embrace change and move on to the next adventure, I told myself as I entered the rickety bathroom to take a shower before the day started with serious meetings, followed by fun water activities.

After getting dressed, I pulled the bathroom door, but it wouldn’t open. I tried to pull harder, but it still wouldn’t budge. I then realized that the lever, which was used to keep the door from swinging open in rough seas, must've accidentally locked the door from the outside, trapping me inside the small bathroom.

Holy Mother of Mercy, I thought, as a chill went down my spine, realizing how I could be trapped in there for hours unless one of my colleagues woke up and decided to take a shower (the toilet and shower were in separate stalls). The odds grew even slimmer as I also realized that it had to be a male person to take a shower, because the girls’ bathroom was on the other side.

Judging by the way the men on the boat slept and their seeming disinterest in fresh morning showers, I knew I was going to die, trapped in the shower stall forever, until my bones turned to dust. No one knew where I was. All I had was a small window to look out from and count the remaining years of my life through sunsets.

So there I was, contemplating about moving on to the next phase of my career, and yet I was physically trapped in the bathroom of a small boat in the middle of the sea. Perfect. I was literally stuck between a closed door and the deep blue sea. How’s that for a life metaphor?

God was obviously telling me something, but whatever it was, I couldn’t hear it, because of the loud engine that drowned all my attempts to scream for help.

I had to quickly think of a solution (with the MacGyver theme song playing in my head). Should I wave my towel from the window and attract the attention of a patrol boat (if there happened to be one) to signal our captain to come and get me? Should I ram the bathroom door and risk breaking my shoulder? Should I figure out how to make a bomb out of soap and water? Should I keep shouting for help? Should I shampoo my hair again?

After singing a few renditions of Whitney Houston’s I Will Always Love You (the bathroom had great acoustics), I then decided to do the dangerous and unthinkable. I squeezed myself out of the small bathroom window and found myself dangling on the side of a fast-moving boat in shark-infested waters.

I couldn’t believe this was all happening to me before breakfast.

I climbed out of the window and balanced on the narrow ledge that lined the side of the boat. I then slowly inched my way from below the shower stall window, passed the toilet stall, until I reached the hallway, where I was finally able to climb back onto the boat.

The whole time, I was thinking that I probably looked like a modern-day pirate out to steal goods from a private boat, and was half expecting sea rangers to come and apprehend me on the spot.

Goodbye comfort zone, I aptly told myself. It seemed like the adventure had already started before I even knew it.

It’s oftentimes easy to feel stuck after years of working in the same set-up. And it’s also easy to ignore this in most cases, primarily because you feel safe, that is, until something incredible comes along and pushes you out of your rut, whether you like it or not. And not very far from my own bathroom epiphany, sometimes, we do need to take the hard way out to appreciate the many exciting opportunities that await us.

Whatever uncertainties I had been grappling with at the beginning of this boat trip somehow got washed away by the tides, filling me instead with a deep sense of peace, knowing that all will be well, no matter what happens. 

Much like the new work project we were planning, I was now ready to evolve into something even better. But for safety’s sake, I also secretly prayed that it would never involve dangling from the side of a speeding boat out in the open sea ever again.