On day 15, the ship’s engines hummed steadily underfoot as an endless expanse of slate-blue water slid past the stateroom window. Through the partially open veranda door, a brisk, salt-toned breeze slipped into the room, creating a hollow, whistling, haunted-house wind noise. Combined with the rhythmic sound of the waves and the ship’s slow, gentle rocking, the atmosphere was mesmerizing.
It was a designated day of rest—a final chance to unwind before the upcoming hustle of repacking, switching between trains, and moving through a blur of different hotels on the way home.
One of the best parts of the cruise had been unpacking completely and feeling at home in the cabin, a comfort that would soon end. Around midday, a dark smudge of coastline appeared through the ocean haze. Breaking the quiet, the old mariner’s instinct took over: “Land ho!” slipped out loud, bringing a good laugh at the self-inflicted joke.
By the afternoon, the unmistakable symptoms of a cold set in—likely picked up from the crowd of kids on board. It brought a heavy, rundown feeling, but a sea day was the perfect time for it. The stateroom became a comfortable retreat. Two hot bowls of room-service soup arrived to take off the chill, followed by an afternoon of pure rest while watching the coast draw closer.
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