Embarkation : Returning to MSY Wind Surf

“Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.”

 

Herman Melville, Moby Dick

 

A Year to the Day

 

It had been almost a year to the day since we had last walked these decks, leaned over the aft railings to watch dolphins rise in the ship’s wake, and ended long sea days with glasses of wine while the sun slipped behind the horizon at Candles. While wonderful, our first Transatlantic crossing aboard Wind Surf did not go according to plan, but then again, the journeys that stay with us rarely do. Weather altered the route, erased our expected call, and eventually carried us not to Lisbon or even to Portugal, but to Cádiz, Spain. As one of the entertainment staff cheerfully announced, “You may not get to the destination you thought, you may not even get to the country you thought, but you will get to land.”

 

In our minds, it had been a fair trade. Avoiding a major Atlantic storm in a small sailing ship seemed well worth a few more sea days, especially when those days gave us time to slow down, settle in, and let the strange gift of an altered journey unfold. That diversion changed everything that came after. Instead of arriving in Lisbon as planned, we stepped ashore in Cádiz and began walking north, following the Via Augusta, then the Via de la Plata, the Camino Sanabrés, and finally the Camino Finisterre over fifty-five days. What began as a rerouted voyage became a long passage from the sea to Santiago, and then beyond it again to the Atlantic. It was not the journey we had booked, but it became one of the great, unexpected arcs of our travels.

 

Last spring, our time aboard Wind Surf was shaped by novelty, discovery, and excitement. Every corner of the ship was and felt new to us: the decks, the dining rooms, the rhythms of sea days while sailing, the sudden appearance of dolphins, the way the sails transformed sail away into theatre, and the way a small ship crossing a very large ocean could create a sense of community so quickly. We had already explored and written about the ship in detail during that first transatlantic crossing, reflecting on what made life aboard this sailing vessel feel so distinct from the larger ships we had known. This second crossing began from a different place. It was not about discovery in quite the same way. It was about returning to something we love, and the deep pleasure of finding our way back to familiar decks.

 

Perhaps that is why stepping toward Wind Surf again felt less like beginning something entirely new than returning to a place that had held us kindly once before. We had come back for the comfort of that familiarity, but also for the adventure of not knowing what this voyage would become. The same ocean does not offer the same crossing twice. The same ship does not carry the same mood. And we were not the same people who had boarded her a year earlier.

 

Also, it felt as though it was time for the voyage and a break so that my mind could see what might come of it. For years, we have suggested to others that there is value in disconnecting, slowing down, walking long distances, and allowing the natural world to restore some measure of balance. On trails, on ships, and in all the unstructured hours between destinations, clarity has often returned when nothing was being forced. The Atlantic Ocean is particularly good at that. It does not rush anything. Out here, things either sink, settle, or they surface. This crossing felt like a means to give way to that process again.

 

This year, our lives have pushed us in new directions and are now full of deep questions.  Our hope is that the days at sea will provide their own answer, one way or another. Either I would have to come to terms with what I had been carrying, or I would have to find a way to navigate the storms of my own mind. Either way, landfall fourteen nights and fifteen days away seemed to hold some kind of key.

 

Arrival of MSY Wind Surf

 

As always seems to happen before a journey begins in earnest, we had slept very little. The previous two days had blurred together through rain, airport waiting areas, flights, heat, beach walks, birding, and the unexpected joy of recognizing people from last spring’s voyage before we had even boarded the ship. By the time we finally returned to our hotel room in Sint Maarten last night, exhaustion should have carried us quickly into sleep, but the day had been too full for our minds to let us settle easily.

 

Sometime in the night, we accidentally fell asleep with the patio doors open to the cool sea air. Luckily, or perhaps unfortunately, no lizards or mosquitoes found their way inside. Instead, we woke a few minutes after five to the gentle sound of waves lapping the sand outside our room. It was still well before sunrise, but there was no question of rolling over and going back to sleep. Wind Surf was due to arrive in port, and we wanted to be on the beach to watch her come in.

 

We hastily pulled on clothes and made our way downstairs, where the night security guard had to unlock the metal gate at the front of the Horizon View Beach Front Hotel to let us out. The town around us was only beginning to stir. As we walked down the brick laneway and stepped onto the warm white sand, a rooster crowed, followed by the familiar hoo-HOO-hoo call of a Rock Pigeon. It was a sound that carried me instantly back to so many early mornings on the Camino Frances en route to Santiago in Spain, when villages woke in the half-light and the day’s walking began before the heat fully arrived.

 

In that moment, Sint Maarten, Spain, pilgrimage, and sea travel seemed to fold quietly into one another. The journey had begun well the day before, with warmth, familiar faces, and the first real loosening of the tension we had brought with us. Now, standing barefoot in the sand before sunrise, waiting for a five-masted sailing ship to appear around the point, it felt as though the beginning was still unfolding.

 

An almost full moon hung overhead, appearing and disappearing behind slow-moving clouds in the velvety black sky. It was one of those mornings when the moon seemed impossibly close, three-dimensional and highly detailed, as though every crater and shadow had been carved into silver. Somewhere between us and that moon, four astronauts were travelling through space aboard Artemis II, farther from Earth than any humans had yet gone. What an amazing journey in our lifetimes! 

 

Wandering the darkened beach, we enjoyed the morning’s quiet.  After the noise, chaos, and cold of home, it felt like a true privilege to be standing enveloped in the warm, soft, salty sea air in such a calm and peaceful spot. 

 

Even in the morning’s quiet, we were not entirely alone. A few joggers moved along the waterfront, their footsteps soft against the boardwalk, each of them seeming to belong to the hour before the island fully woke. Behind us, the remains of a beach BBQ smouldered outside a closed bar, filling the air with the unexpected smell of wood smoke. One of the stray dogs that inhabit the beach came and gave us a sniff, hoping for a scrap or a friendly word, but otherwise all was quiet. The first rays of light were just beginning to chase the darkness away, and it felt as if we were suspended between night and day, in limbo between one adventure and the next. 

Suddenly, Sean caught sight of a bright line of white lights slipping by behind the dark silhouette of the point upon which Fort Amsterdam sits, guarding the entrance to the harbour since 1631.  Soon Wind Surf had rounded the bend and come into full view. 

 

Her five tall, white masts were lit up against the sky, cutting a majestic profile as she slipped silently across the bay.  Over the next half hour, we watched her steady and stately progress across the calm waters of the bay as the sky gradually grew brighter around her.

 

Morning in Sint Maarten

 

As if by magic, just after 6 AM, the sky suddenly filled with birds.  Flocks of Feral Pigeons wheeled overhead and settled on the rooftops behind us and in the sand around us. Groups of Laughing Gulls materialized as if out of thin air, soaring above the now glowing turquoise water and coming to rest on the docks and piers. 

To our great delight, large Brown Pelicans also appeared, arching their huge wings as they glided just inches above the waves.  Higher up, Magnificent Frigatebirds passed by in a steady stream, presumably heading for the salt pond at the center of the island.

We hung out on the beach for some time after Wind Surf had docked, taking in the scenery.  A Grey Kingbird landed on the roof of the police station at the end of the pier.  This medium grey and white flycatcher is a year-round resident of Sint Maarten and the rest of the Caribbean islands, but some individuals migrate north to breed in Florida, and there is a non-breeding population along the northern coast of South America as well.

 

We also noticed that the coconut palms on the beach were quite interesting.  They were in bloom, and the long clusters of creamy-yellow inflorescences were attracting small crowds of bees.  At the same time, the trees were also supporting fruit in various stages of development, from large green coconuts to small walnut-sized protrusions.  Moving about among these structures were several colourful yellow, black, white, and grey Bananaquits.

 

A moment of excitement occurred a few minutes later when we ventured out onto the pier and looked down into the brilliantly blue water.  Suddenly, a small school of silvery fish came leaping towards us, flying through the air in huge bounds. 

Our first thought was 'flying fish!' However, when we investigated the photos Sean miraculously managed to capture, we discovered they were likely Atlantic Tarpons.  Also known as the ‘silver king,’ these inhabitants of coastal waters, estuaries, lagoons, and rivers have a reputation for great aerobatics, and can grow up to 8 ft long!  Seconds after these silvery fish came flying out of the water towards us, we discovered why they were leaping and bounding.  A large (2.5 ft) fish came streaking through the water after them, zigzagging wildly before disappearing under the dock in hot pursuit of its prey. Perhaps it was a small shark – one of their main predators!

By this time, the concrete boardwalk behind us was coming alive with people, and we went in search of coffee.  We stopped at Le Petit Gourmet, a little café and mini market run by a lovely French lady.  We ended up with a huge breakfast of coffee, orange juice, fresh fruit salad, a croissant, toast and jam.  To our delight, the coffee was European - very rich and strong - and the quality of the food would have made France proud.  It was absolutely delicious!

As we sat at our little outdoor table, watching the sailboats bobbing gently in the harbour beyond the palm tree-lined white beach, we were joined by Donna.  We met her for the first time last night and very much enjoyed getting to know her a little better this morning.  She has a truly adventurous spirit and still travels independently, choosing her own unusual and interesting adventures while claiming to be much older than she looks.

 

Bird Watching Around Sint Maarten

 

After our morning feast, we decided to walk a few blocks inland to the Great Salt Pond to see what birds we could spot.  By this point, it was getting really hot by our standards, but the trip turned out to be well worth the walk.  We spotted a beautiful, rich brown coloured snail that was the size of an apple in the drainage ditch on the way to the pond, which turned out to be an African Giant Snail.  Along the way, we also spotted a lovely-looking lizard, but it was there and gone before we could take its photograph.

When we reached the birding lookout at the Great Salt Pond, it didn't disappoint.  This amazing spot is part of the Caribbean Birding Trail, and we have visited it before. 

 

Once here, we immediately spotted a group of White-cheeked Pintails right beside the wooden platform. This is the only place we've seen these stylish light brown ducks, with their white cheeks and bright red bills.  These small dabbling ducks are found throughout the Caribbean, South America, and the Galapagos Islands, often in brackish lakes, estuaries, and mangrove swamps.

We also spotted both American Coots and Common Gallinules paddling about in the water and giving their grating calls from the rocky dividers in the pond.  Black-crowned Night Herons were relatively plentiful and easy to spot, but it was while looking at a gallinule that I accidentally spotted a much smaller Green Heron moving in ultra slow motion along the densely plant-covered rocky islands.

Black-necked Stilts also waded on their ridiculously long, bright pink legs around the pond edges, and from the interpretive panel on the lookout platform, we re-learned to distinguish the smaller Snowy Egrets, with their bright yellow feet and black bills, from the larger Great Egrets, with their black feet and mostly yellow bills.  We also managed to spot two lonely Ruddy Ducks, their bright blue bills looking somewhat comical as they swam among the other birds.  Once again, Brown Pelicans and Magnificent Frigatebirds passed by overhead, but unlike last spring, we didn't spot any Boobies amongst the avian traffic.

The pond also yielded an unexpectedly large number of turtles.  These Pond Sliders, which we know as Red-eared Sliders in Canada, are an introduced species on the island.  Without any natural predators, they have clearly begun to take over the Great Salt Pond, existing in the hundreds.  The pond was very full life, but we noticed that apart from Zenaida Doves, Carib Grackles, and Blackbirds, there weren't many songbirds around.  This led us to investigate further.

We followed a wide, hard-packed gravel road farther around the pond, searching the dense trees and shrubs on either side for signs of birdlife.  Sadly, bird activity was pretty quiet, and many of the small access points to the pond had been blocked off or become overgrown since our last visit. However, we were delighted to find multiple lizards along the route.  We were first alerted to their presence when Sean took a step that caused a cat-sized Green Iguana to leap up and shoot off the road on raised legs. 

There were also several large Green Iguanas draped over tree branches, sunning themselves several feet above the ground and looking both ancient and regal at the same time.  Below them in the leaf litter, several large blue and brown lizards, called Anguilla Bank Ameiva lizards, were also very impressive.   These lizards are endemic to Anguilla, Sint Maarten, and Saint Barthelemy in the Lesser Antilles.  Apparently, on Sint Maarten, they only exist in isolated populations due to predation by mongooses. I'm not sure why I find lizards so exciting, but perhaps it is because we don't have many (or many very large ones) in Canada.

By this point, the sun was getting quite hot, so we headed back towards the beach where we could enjoy the cooling ocean breeze.  We stopped along the way for a cold iced tea and ran into the group of our fellow passengers that we had met yesterday after dinner.  Once again, the feeling of being warmly greeted by a trail family enveloped us - something we never expected to experience off the Camino pilgrimage routes.

 

Check Out and Continued Exploration

 

After our refreshment and having taken a few minutes in the shade, we made our way slowly back toward the hotel.  A group of people was gathering at the ferry dock, waiting for the boat to a nearby island.  We paused at the side of the pier, looking down into the clear water and admiring the diversity of life that exists in the ocean, even right in the midst of a working harbour.  

Just along the dock, we spotted large yellow and black striped fish called Schoolmaster Snappers mixing freely with a whole group of smaller yellow and black striped fish.  An orange, magnificent feather duster worm waved gently in the current among them, fastened to the side of the concrete pier.

Since it was almost time to check out of our room, we returned to the hotel to take a quick shower and pack the last of our things. When we went to leave, the very kind owners of the hotel offered to let us store our suitcases in their secure conference room behind reception.  We gratefully took them up on the offer, heading back out to explore the island for another hour before walking out to the ship for embarkation at 1 PM.

As it turned out, we wandered the road toward the Cruise Terminal anyway, checking the steep, scrubby slopes along the way for feral goats, birds, and lizards.  Once again, it was relatively quiet, but we did manage to spot several colourful yellow, black, and red Bananaquits in the palm trees that lined the walkway, as well as a nest in one of the shrubby trees that was being vigorously defended by an adult.

To shelter from of the hot afternoon sun, we paused in a Rotary Club shelter that had been built at the side of the road.  The shade was lovely, and it felt nice to relax on the benches for a bit. Sitting there listening to the birds and the breeze, we could appreciate the laid-back, unhurried lifestyle of the Caribbean Islands.  It is important to make time to just be, instead of filling every waking moment with doing or getting from place to place. 

 

Cruise Terminal and Check In

 

Eventually, we headed back to town and picked up our luggage.   Afterwards, we set back off towards the Cruise Terminal.  

However, having an hour before our assigned check-in time and feeling parched in the hot sunshine, we stopped once again at the Greenhouse Restaurant for a couple of cold drinks.  As we sat in the open-air restaurant, enjoying the breeze from the ceiling fans, we noticed an interesting species of lizard stealthily climbing a palmetto palm on the patio.  It had a long, thin face, an incredibly long whip-like tail that it wrapped around the trunk, a fine, light grey pattern, suction-cup toes, and a brilliant, lemon yellow neck flap.  A new (to us) lizard species!

 

When we used iNaturalist to identify this amazing animal, we learned that it was an Anguilla Anole.  Anoles are a specific genus of small, slender tree lizards that have colourful, extendable throat fans called dewlaps that they use for communication, sticky toe pads used for climbing, and the ability to change colour depending on their mood, environment, or temperature.  It was yet another species that is endemic to the Lesser Antilles, and apparently, it is a favourite food of American Kestrels.

 

Sitting there, I realized that something in us had noticeably shifted from the year before. Last spring, our excitement had pulled us toward the ship with the urgency of the new experience that awaited.   We had wanted to step aboard, explore everything, learn the layout, and understand the rhythms of this new kind of voyage as quickly as possible. This time, even with the anticipation of another transatlantic crossing ahead, we found ourselves in no particular hurry.

 

That lack of haste surprised me. It was not indifference, but something closer to trust. We knew the ship would be there. We knew the crossing would begin later in the day. We knew that once we stepped across the gangway, the next many days would belong to sea time, ship time, and whatever weather, company, and mood the Atlantic chose to offer. For now, there was still pleasure in sitting beneath the ceiling fans, watching lizards move through the palms, feeling the heat of Sint Maarten around us, and allowing the shoreline.

 

Eventually, of course, we made the fifteen-minute walk to the Cruise Terminal. It was very quiet when we arrived, and we were ushered inside and taken through check-in and customs within a few short minutes. It was the first time we had ever embarked on a ship without a single person waiting in line ahead of us. Even there, we again felt little need to rush.

 

As we moved through the process, we began to realize that a few members of the crew recognized us. There was a look or two of familiarity in a glance, the pause of someone placing a face, the warm sense that we were not entirely anonymous here. It was subtle, but it mattered – at least to us.  On a large ship, passengers can disappear into the scale of the vessel. On Wind Surf, things had a different sense.

 

Still, we took our time before boarding. Sean spent nearly half an hour photographing the ship from the pier outside while we still had the chance. During a transatlantic crossing, there are very few opportunities to see the vessel that is carrying you. Last year, after leaving Sint Maarten, we did not see Wind Surf in its entirety from shore again until we disembarked in Cádiz. This time, experience tempered excitement. We knew enough to pause, to look, and to let the moment before boarding become part of the voyage itself.

 

It was after three o’clock by the time we finally crossed the gangway and stepped back on board.

 

Back on Board Wind Surf

 

At check-in, we had already begun to sense that the crew had changed since our last crossing, and as we were warmly greeted by Hotel Manager Onur on the dock and shown toward our room, more and more new faces appeared. Soon we were introduced to our room steward, Darvis, before heading upstairs to reacquaint ourselves with the ship and find a late lunch at Veranda.

 

The open decks were blazing hot by then, the kind of heat that makes shade feel less like comfort than necessity. Thankfully, Veranda is covered, and a generous buffet was waiting, including (thankfully) a large number of vegetarian options. After a morning spent walking the beach, circling Great Salt Pond, watching birds, lizards, fish, and the arrival of the ship, it felt wonderful simply to sit down.

 

Lunch was delicious: fresh salads, small sweets such as cookies and brownies – each welcome after travel days. Only once we were seated in the shade did we realize how badly sunburned we had become during yesterday afternoon and this morning’s wanderings. We had been so caught up in arrival, exploration, and anticipation that the Caribbean sun had done its work.

 

After lunch, we returned to our room to unpack, change, hang our clothes, and begin the small ritual of making a temporary home at sea.

Sail away wasn't until later this evening, and so we had a full afternoon ahead of us.  After settling in, we headed up to Compass Rose, the bar at the back of the ship – another covered venue - for a celebratory drink.  I tried something called a Strawberry Pimms, which turned out to have a lot of fruit in it, but also some interesting spices, which made it taste very nice.  This is one of our favourite spots on the ship, and we thoroughly enjoyed the harbour view from our spot under the awning.

At 5:00 PM, we had our muster drill, which involved finding our way to the correct lifeboat, checking in with the crew there, and learning how to put on the life vests.  We were greeted at our muster station by Tenil, a lovely lady from Brazil who almost single-handedly runs the shop on board from 10 AM to 10 PM every day, and who somehow remembered our names from last year. 

Knot the Same Crossing

Shortly after the muster drill, we went inside to the Lounge for the crew welcome aboard. There, we learned that this would be a nautical-themed crossing, with opportunities to learn how to steer the ship, tie knots, and sing sea shanties, among other things. Naturally, no one could resist the obvious pun that this would be “knot your average crossing.”

 

As we listened, it also began to sink in that indeed this was “knot the same crossing”. The ship was familiar, the ocean was familiar, and even some of the passengers and crew were familiar, but the atmosphere had already begun to feel different. There was a different captain, a different bridge team, many new staff, and a new entertainment director from Newcastle-upon-Tyne, which immediately made us think of the beginning of Hadrian’s Wall National Trail. These small connections between journeys always seem to appear when we pay attention.

 

We were delighted to recognize more than a dozen passengers from last spring and a handful of the lovely staff, but there was no pretending that this voyage would simply repeat the last one. It had its own cast, its own tone, and its own itinerary, at least in theory. There were also practical differences. This year’s introduction seemed to lean more heavily toward spa treatments, excursions, future sailings, and the new Wind Surf app. Last year, everything had felt new because we were new to it. This year, the differences stood out because we had a memory to compare them against.

 

As the saying goes, you can never stand in the same river twice. Perhaps the same is true of the sea. The key, as always, would be to stay open to the best of what was actually before us, rather than holding too tightly to what had already been.

 

Sunsets Sail Away from Sint Maarten

After the warm crew welcome, we went up on deck along with everyone else for the 7 PM sail away.  Soon after the sun completed setting, turning the sky a soft golden orange as it sank down behind the dark silhouette of the hills. As the lights of Sint Maarten began to blink on all over the island, a stream of small sailboats and a large luxury yacht called Sophia, which was apparently once owned by Tommy Hilfiger, sailed into port, presumably returning to their berths for the night. 

Standing on deck in the soft, warm breeze, we watched as the stars began to appear one by one in the soft black sky.  Above us, the five tall white masts as well as the lines and cables, were brightly lit, creating a complex geometry all their own.  Each was beautiful in the fading light of the day.  Then the first notes of Vangelis' 1492: Conquest of Paradise began playing.

Slowly, as Wind Surf pulled away from the dock and made a 180 ° turn in the harbour, the sails began to unfurl one by one.  Unfortunately, this time one of the mainsails got stuck partway through, but this did little to diminish the spectacle or sense of occasion.  There were many repeat passengers on board, and everyone agreed that this iconic sail away never gets old - there is something of pure magic about it.

 

Preparing for the Evening

Before dinner, we returned to our room to freshen up and change for the evening, though I was immediately distracted by the porthole. Our cabin was on Deck One, low enough that the sea felt startlingly close. At times, we seemed almost at water level, and at other moments, the swell rose high enough to cover the window entirely. It was mesmerizing, and slightly surreal, to stand in our room and watch the Atlantic already pressing itself against the glass.  I suddenly had visions of spotting a dolphin swimming past or seeing a whale looking in on us. 

 

We also took the opportunity to ask Darvis, our room steward, if we could receive a physical copy of the daily itinerary. We still prefer paper for these voyages. There is something grounding about holding the day’s rhythm in your hand: the meals, lectures, music, gatherings, and nautical notes laid out in a way that feels more tangible than an app. On a ship like Wind Surf, where so much of the pleasure comes from the tactile experience of being at sea, paper somehow feels right.

 

Afterwards, as we made our way toward Amphora, we noticed, as we had the year before, that there was very little obvious motion after departure. Yet the ship was far from silent or still. Around us were the familiar sounds that give Wind Surf her character: the creak of the vessel, the snap of sailcloth in the wind, the low rush of water against the hull. It reminded me of the atmosphere in old submarine films, or even the original Star Trek TV show, where the ship itself seemed to have presence. You were never insulated from the vessel. You could hear it, feel it, and understand that you were travelling within something alive with purpose.

 

That is part of what makes Wind Surf feel so different. She is not a floating hotel sealed away from the sea. She is a place where you live with the ocean, close enough to hear it moving around you and, in our cabin, close enough to watch it rise over the porthole. To some people, that might seem unsettling. To us, it felt like exactly what we had come for. We were not simply being transported across the Atlantic. We were in it, travelling through it, aware of the water, the wind, the sound, and the distance ahead.

 

Dinner in Amphora, Music in the Lounge

Dinner is served in Amphora, the main dining room, from 6:30 to 8:30 PM each night, so with the lights of Sint Maarten receding behind us and headed off for our evening meal. 

 

Dinner tonight turned out to be a delicious meal of a chickpea salad to start and a quinoa and eggplant stuffed pepper for the main course for me.  The meal was excellent and our server, Eko, was incredibly kind.

After our evening meal, we stepped into the Lounge to listen to the Pure Soul Trio playing 80's music.  The trio are incredibly talented musicians, and took multiple requests from the audience, performing the pieces with a style and energy all their own.  One of the songs they played to huge applause was Bon Jovi's 'Livin' on a Prayer', which felt very appropriate to us, as that feels like exactly what we are doing right now.

After the music session, of course, we headed up to the Compass Rose bar for a nightcap.  We could still see the glow of the lights from Sint Maarten reflected in the sky behind us, and we were just passing the tiny island of Saint Barthelemy.  The feeling of leaving these two tiny islands behind, heading into the pitch darkness ahead, where there is no land for the next 10 days, is like nothing else we’ve experienced.

 

That feeling is difficult to describe to anyone who has not experienced it. On a map, the Atlantic can be measured, named, and crossed by a line. From the deck of a ship at night, leaving the last island lights behind, it becomes something else entirely. The darkness ahead feels immense and ancient. It is hard not to think of earlier sailors, for whom that same horizon held not certainty but possibility: fame, fortune, storm, sea monsters, or the edge of the known world. Even now, with radar, satellite navigation, weather forecasts, and a highly capable crew, there is still a small part of the imagination that understands the old fear and wonder of sailing into blackness.

 

At The Waterline

By the time we returned to our cabin, we were more than ready for sleep. The day had begun at five in the morning, after very little rest in the days and nights just beforehand.  Yet somehow today had contained a ship’s arrival, birding, breakfast, beside a beach,  lizards, a birding hike, embarkation, sail away, dinner, music, and the first night at sea. Waiting for us in the room was a blue and white canvas tote bag with the Windstar logo, a gift for returning travellers. It was a small gesture, but after the warmth of the day, it felt like another sign that we were being welcomed home.

 

This crossing, our cabin is on Deck One, the lowest passenger deck. Our porthole gives us what might best be described as a seabird-eye view of the waves, although at times even that feels too high a comparison. Every few seconds, a swell rose and covered the glass completely. Since we booked the voyage only about twenty-four hours before departure, and since this was one of the least expensive cabins on the ship, we assume it might be considered one of the less desirable rooms. Yet to us, it felt perfect.

 

Half the time, our heads seemed barely above water. The other half, we appeared to be submerged. Given our current state of mind, that felt unexpectedly accurate. We had come aboard carrying exhaustion, uncertainty, and the residue of months that had not been easy. Now we were below decks, listening to the swoosh of waves through the walls as Wind Surf cut through the swells, suspended between what had been left behind and whatever the Atlantic might make of us. It was a wonderful sound to fall asleep to.

 

Reflections on Embarkation

 

The first time we crossed the Atlantic aboard Wind Surf, everything felt exciting because everything was new: the ship, the routines, the relaxing sea days, and the idea of measuring distance not in kilometres walked but in nautical miles slowly sailed across amid open water. This time, stepping back on board, the ship felt familiar, warm, and welcoming. We knew where to find the quiet corners, which decks called to us at different times of day, and how quickly a small ship can begin to feel like a refuge from the modern world…or how it can feel like home.

 

Yet familiarity did not mean sameness. This was the same ocean and the same ship, but much had changed. We had changed. Much of the crew had changed. The passenger mix felt different. This time, there seemed to be fewer Dutch travellers and more Americans, while the Canadians on board appeared to have announced themselves with an unusual abundance of maple leaves, flags, hats, and shirts. Even the hoped-for destination had changed from last year’s unexpected landfall in Spain to the still-uncertain promise of Ponta Delgada and Lisbon.

 

So no, this was definitely “knot” the same voyage.

 

And perhaps that was exactly right. A return journey should not be a reenactment. It should allow memory and expectation to live alongside the moment without letting either one take control. We had come back to Wind Surf because the first crossing had mattered to us, but we had not come back to repeat it. We had come back to see what the sea, the ship, and our own unsettled minds might make possible this time.

 

As Isak Dinesen wrote, “The cure for anything is salt water: sweat, tears or the sea.” I do not know whether that is entirely true, but as we lay in our low cabin with the waves rising over the porthole and the Atlantic beginning to gather around us, I was willing to believe it might be.

 

See you on board!

 

Nautical Term of the Day – Making way - When a ship is moving through the water.