The Crossing—a Journal
Day 1 – 5:03 p.m. -- September 26, 2011 -- Lisbon, Portugal – Latitude 38° 43' 0" N
We’ve been in Lisbon all day. At 7:15 a.m. I was on the top deck and was pleasantly surprised to see that we were slowly sailing our way up the Tagas River, into Lisbon’s Harbor. The sun was rising to the east and Lisbon, on the left, slowly passed in front of us—like a slow motion travelogue. It was an exciting entrance into the city and I couldn’t wait to get off the boat
But it was Monday and much was closed. Instead, we bought a ticket on the Lisbon Sightseeing bus that would allow us to get on and get off at any stop. Our goal was on the other end of the city—Torre Bélem. Now a UNESCO site, this was the beacon for navigators returning from the New World. In 1755 Lisbon was razed to the ground in an earthquake/tsunami, but this symbol of Portugal’s glory days navigating the world survived.
We spent the rest of the too-short day just roaming around--a few churches, lunch in a nice park. We slowly made our way back to the boat—too slowly in fact, as the bus went far slower than expected. When the boat was in site we jumped off and ran. It was past 3:30—the time we were supposed to be back. We finally arrived—the last to board—at 3:45. Fifteen minutes later we were off, with nary a second to spare. The Norwegian Sun, I suppose, would have left without us.
Fifteen minutes later the horn of the Norwegian Sun blasted three times, signaling departure. Slowly, we pulled away from the dock and pushed our way into the Tagas River. We were on our way! The transatlantic journey had commenced.
Day 2 -- Tuesday, September 27, 2011 -- At sea -- Latitude 37° 50. 64’ N
All day we’ve been sailing south-southwest into a storm. We’d been warned by the captain 24 hours earlier that by noon we’d face gale force winds.
And that we did. All day the sky had been thick with clouds. Rain lashed against the ship, water pouring down the windowpanes that separated us from the howling storm. Waves were ten to twenty feet high. The great ship would sail into a giant wave, be lifted by it, then slam down into a deep trough. The surface of the inky blue sea frothed white. Giant plumes of water whipped off the crest of the waves, like powder blown off giant snow drifts—massive sheets of white.
The sky was black and grey, full of roiling clouds. It was a good day to stay indoors and watch nature’s fury from within the safe confines of the boat.
We were 4oo miles out of Lisbon, halfway between Europe and the Azores archipelago. All day the ship pushed forward—its engines at full throttle. 3,000 souls were dependant on the captain’s ability to get us through this rough and angry sea. By late afternoon crew had locked the doors to all decks. A thick soup of rain and howling winds made walking far too dangerous. Waves would wash over the bow of the boat and its power would actually jostle the ship. Thankfully, the captain had put on the stabilizers which leveled the ship to a manageable level.
It was actually fun to feel this awesome power as it jostled and buffeted the 78,000 ton ship. Walking a straight line was virtually impossible and we had to hold on to hall railings all the time. That night at dinner, there were far fewer people in the restaurants. There were many frail and elderly people aboard. All evening staff was bringing trays of food to staterooms.
For many, though, it was just another day at sea. I overhead one man say, “Now we’re in the ocean.” Later, we would learn that the Norwegian Sun had plowed through twenty foot swells and Gale Force 11 winds. That night, sleeping was a challenge. We’d rise up fifteen feet, then fall down fifteen feet. It was nothing like the normal gentle rocking we’d grown accustomed to. Periodically, there’d be crashes and bangs. We never knew from where they emanated, but we made sure everything in the stateroom was fastened down and tucked safely away.
Still, it had been a wonderful day and a great ride, but once was enough. From here on in I was looking forward to a smooth transatlantic crossing.
Day 3 – Wednesday, September 28, 2011 – Latitude 38° 44” 30’ N -- Ponta Delgada, The Azores
Sometime during the night the Norwegian Sun had come through the worst of the storm. All night I’d had dreams of being thrown around the state room. All night sounds of things crashing around us had crept into the room.
By dawn, however, the winds had died down and rain had stopped, and by the time we were ready to leave the ship the sun had broken though. It would be a fine day.
We’d arrived early in the day to the largest island in the Azores archipelago—San Miguel. We disembark early and three of us—Glenda, myself and Brian of Copenhagen, rent a car and head due west out of Ponta Delgada. The island is very green and at the end of the rainy season. It’s really quite lovely, with hedges of hydrangea and wild lilies lining the road. We drive a bit, then head into the mountains in the center of the island. There are hot springs and geothermal plants and the smell of sulfur everywhere. I’m back in Iceland, but then this is another highly volcanic island. We climb into a cloud forest and stop the car to take a short hike.
There are bromeliads and tree ferns and bubbling pools of boiling hot water that locals use to prepare food in. “No swimming,” the sign says. As if you’d actually step into a pool of water that boils from geothermal activity.
Further up the trail is a swimming hole—temperature a Jacuzzi comfortable 102 degrees.
We turn around and begin to trek back to the ship. Brian and I spend the part of the afternoon exploring Ponta Delgada, but an early afternoon island siesta has taken over and most of the shops have closed. Instead, I return to the ship, get my computer and spend two hours using free wi-fi that restaurants at the port provide in exchange for drinks or a lunch. Cheaper this way than the absurd 80- cents-per-minute fee the ship provides. There are lots of emails as I’ve not been online in over a week.
By 5:00 p.m. we are on our way. I stand on deck and watch as we pull away from the island. This is the last any of us will see for more than six days. We were truly in the Atlantic and the greatest portion of the transatlantic had just begun.
Day 5 – Friday, September 30, 2011 – At sea – Latitude 33° 30’ N
I’ve decided to take the day off. Not that all the other days aren’t days off. In this sense I’ve decided just to seize the day and not allow other activities on board the ship to divert me. The whole expanse of a long, blue day at sea lay before me.
It was a glorious last day of September. The sun was strong and hot. After a month in Northern Europe with its weak, late summer sun, laying poolside would be indulgent.
I was keenly aware that the Norwegian Sun was but a speck on the sea. We were mid-point between Lisbon and Orlando—truly in the middle of the sea. I had to remind myself of this all the time. Since we left the Azores, there had been no traffic. Nothing. It was wonderful.
I find a place to sit on the deck 12, position my lounge chair to face the sun, lather on sun lotion, plug in my iPod and lay down. I have the space of a long, white afternoon in which to make my own time, my own sound.
When I do look up I face the sea—a marine blue expanse of water greater than I ever seen. The nearest land is still the Azores—970 miles behind us. The sea is moderate and the Norwegian Sun pushes forward south southwest. Small frothy waves break on the surface, fizzle, then disappear. There is nothing but sea and a powerful blue sky dotted with patches of big white clouds scudding by.
Javier, my Peruvian bartender buddy, walks by. I’d met him on the previous cruise when he was working the 12th floor Observation deck bar. More than once I’ve asked him for help with Spanish homework I’ve assigned myself.
“Estás bien, Daniel?” he asks me. We only speak Spanish. My request. “How are you?”
“Múy bien,” I tell him. “Más Diet Pepsi,” he wants to know.
These guys are trained well. Know what the passenger what. He knows my bad habits.
“Gracias, Javier.” I’ve paid $6.00 a day for the “all you can drink Pepsi” package and fully intend to get my money’s worth.
Noon. The deck empties out a bit. Lunch time. It’s 75 degrees and a light tailwind pushed us forward at 22 miles per hour. There’s no breeze. The sun grows hotter. I get lost in thought. There is something about this date and it takes some time to go back in time.
Saturday, September 30, 1967. It’s a rainy day in Plattsburgh. My best friend from high school, David Heath, died two days earlier. 16. Two weeks earlier we’d gone to a football game. I was a Freshman in college, he a high school Senior. Shortly after the football game, back in Troy, NY, my mother called to tell me David was in the hospital. The next day he’s in a coma. Twelve days later he’s dead. Leukemia. No warning.
I returned to college the day after the funeral. Somehow I processed the grief. There were certainly enough diversions in my first months in college. In time, I compartmentalize the loss, but realized, when I visited his parents, that their grief is very much different. “I keep expecting him to come through the front door,” his mother once told me. I imagine they never got over the sudden, unexplainable loss.
Once in awhile I visit the cemetery in Albany. Both his parents are gone now and on my last visit I realize how young they were when this happened. They were only in their 40’s and each time I come away from the cemetery I experience a different level of sadness. One it was for a life lost so young, but as time went on I learned to grieve for his parents’ loss.
Why is it that some die so young? Why, in eighteen months, will I have lived four life times to his one?
The afternoon slipped away. By now the sun—early autumnal—is past its full tanning potential. By 4:30 I’m exhausted. What with five hot tubs and three pools to choose from and decisions to make about where to eat lunch—in the Garden Café or in the Sports Bar or the on-deck BBQ buffet. Well..all this decision-making has exhausted me.
It had been a fine day, saturated with the rich color of sea and sky, but it was time to think about dinner, and my daily trek to the gym. I take one last soak, grab another Diet Pepsi from Javier, pack up and leave.
Day 6 – Saturday, October 1, 2011 – At sea – Latitude 31° 10’ N
This was a day of change. At sunrise there was a slight rain, but by lunch we had passed the storm front and sailed into fine weather.
All day, everywhere, there was nothing but water—always in motion, never still. “The pulse of the Earth,” Steve would tell me. And he’s right. What appeared to be still, calm waters from the highest deck were, in reality, tiny wavelets, stirred on by currents and a slight chop of wind. Water, the color of pewter, glistened in the noonday sun.
But today was a fine day, and we were mid-sea—truly in the middle of the ocean. It was a day of abundant sunshine and a day of powerful natural beauty. If water is the pulse of the Earth then somewhere, in the center of the Atlantic, must be its heart. But the beat was irregular. Today we were sailing through small, one foot swells; at other times swells, four to seven feet high, created white caps. As far as one could see at those times, the seas frothed white and fizzy.
Today, from the lower deck, I watched a series of different currents tracing the sea—great serpentine rivers within the ocean that created their own distinct paths. The sea was the color of dark granite, but the currents, under the deep sunshine, took on the hue of polished gun metal.
There were clouds, too. Giant strato-cumulus that climbed out of the sea then rode the skies, layer upon layer of shaded whites and grays. At other times they lined the flat horizon where sea and sky met—colossal mountain ranges, snow-capped and gorgeous. As the day progressed, the highest clouds took on a luminescence as they caught the highest rays of the sun.
In the hour before sunset, when the sun reflected low in the sky, light reflected off the lowest level of cumulus clouds, and illuminated them in a shower of light.
Sea and sky. Nothing else, constantly changing.
Day 7 – Sunday, October 2, 2011 – At sea – Latitude 29° 18’ N
For five days there was nothing but sea and sky. No contrails of jets overhead; no passing tankers. Just the endless sea and a giant, exaggerated sky. Other than life on the ship, there was no other sign of human evidence.
Today, though, a freighter passed, heading east towards Europe. There could be no other destination. Our nearest neighbor, to the north, was Bermuda 350 miles to the north and the Azores, 1,940 east. I had been laying poolside enjoying a sunny, warm day when I looked up and saw a jet, high in the sky, flying, I imagine, towards North America.
This isolation had been a marvel. This was day seven of the transatlantic passage, and aside from some freight traffic between Portugal and the Azores archipelago, the 2,000 passengers of the Norwegian Sun had been comfortably encompassed in the confines of the ship and had been coddled in all ways possible by a crew of almost 1,000. It was wonderful.
And so passed another day, another afternoon under a warm, early October sun, another day reading poolside, another day of decision making. Gym at 4:00 p.m. or 5:00p.m.? Drinks at 6:30 with a large group of guys I’ve gotten to know or an early dinner at Four Seasons or the Seven Seas? Tonight’s show at 7:00 p.m.or 9:00 p.m.? And should I stick around for the late night comedy show or make my way to the 12th floor observation deck to listen to the Sun’s show band play dance tunes?
In the end, I did it all. By midnight, after the Observation deck closed, I stood on deck. For days we’d been sailing under a starry but moonless night sky. Tonight, though, a rising crescent of a cool silvered moon hung in the eastern sky. We were travelling a smooth 20 knots an hour and the seas were calm.
Absorbing the marvel of sea and night sky was a splendid way to end another perfect day.
Day 8 – Monday, October 3, 2011 – At sea – Latitude 27° 54’ N
I’m taking tango lesson 3#7. There was enough interest two weeks earlier to continue beyond the basics. This is American Tango, different from the Argentinean form we’d learned in South America. My knee doesn’t allow me to do an ocho--quick footed crossovers. “We’re senior citizens and our bodies…” I block out what a woman was telling me. “Huh? Me a Senior Citizen? A Senior Citizen is someone five years older than I.
In truth, though, almost everyone onboard is a senior citizen. Almost no one is under 50. The boat is full of Europeans heading to Florida to spend the winter. It’s full of Americans heading home after summering in Europe. There are people on one leg of an around-the-world trip. The majority, though, are people just out for the ride. When ships reposition form one continent to another, the price drops considerably. It’s a great vacation. I met one couple who paid less than $500.00 each for 16 days of food, entertainment, lodging and transportation. Not a bad deal at all!
Day 9 – Tuesday, October 4, 2011 – At sea – Latitude 27° 31’ N
Last day at sea. I’m sad in a way. Crossing the Atlantic was the culmination of a dream, and two days ago, when we were mid-point between Europe and North America was an extraordinary feeling—a feeling of being very, very far away.
Today, though, we are135 miles from the closest Bahamian island and only 299 miles from Port Canaveral, where we will land early tomorrow morning. The sky is clear and the sun is strong and the Norwegian sun has slowed to 15 miles per hour. What a perfect way to spend this last day.
I spend the afternoon under a sun-filled sky. Shortly after noon we passed another cruise ship heading to one of the Bahamian islands. But through the day, however, it was the only evidence of human beings. Around noon I was startled by a flock of birds—miles out at sea. They circled the boat, then flew off.
It was a day of private reminiscing—our going-away dinner almost a month ago in Copenhagen, then sailing out of the city’s harbor late on a lovely late summer Sunday afternoon. I thought of the fun train ride in Northern Germany and of the wet and wonderful hyper-paced days in St. Petersburg. I thought of the splendors of medieval Stockholm and the lily and hydrangea-filled roadways of the Azores.
My deck chair faced the sea. I was in the identical spot where, twenty months earlier, Glenda and I rounded Cape Horn at the very tip of South America. Today, though, was sunny and warm and the Norwegian Sun had slowed down to 15 miles per hour. We were ahead of schedule and the day would progress at a slow crawl.
I was reluctant to leave the 12th floor deck. The blue seascape and ever changing vista of clouds kept me there until almost sunset.
All day I’d been on the lookout for whales and dolphins. The water, 81 degrees, was certainly warm enough. But there were none. Perhaps we were too far out at sea. Perhaps it was the underwater rumbling of the giant cruise liner that kept them away. We’d seen dolphins leaping out of the water as the ship pulled away from Punta Delgada six days earlier, so there was hope.
Instead I just watched the sea—rough textured with tiny, one foot wavelets—and the sky and clouds. These were precious hours. Twelve hours later we’d be docked in Florida.
By 5:30 I’d moved to the left side of the ship. The ocean glittered as the sun slowly dropped to the horizon. We were at the 27th Parallel and the sun, as sit slipped to the edge of the horizon, was Caribbean orange. Sunset was ruddy and the glow sent shafts of orange light throughout the limpid air.
I never did see a dolphin or a whale, but I had seen God’s majestic hand, had lived for one week in the center of His boundless creation of sea and sky. I’d marveled at the sea’s depth—at times over 19,000 feet and at the seemingly endless variety of clouds that painted the sky each day.
Once again I’d lived in a space of privilege and I was abundantly thankful.
Day 1 – 5:03 p.m. -- September 26, 2011 -- Lisbon, Portugal – Latitude 38° 43' 0" N
We’ve been in Lisbon all day. At 7:15 a.m. I was on the top deck and was pleasantly surprised to see that we were slowly sailing our way up the Tagas River, into Lisbon’s Harbor. The sun was rising to the east and Lisbon, on the left, slowly passed in front of us—like a slow motion travelogue. It was an exciting entrance into the city and I couldn’t wait to get off the boat
But it was Monday and much was closed. Instead, we bought a ticket on the Lisbon Sightseeing bus that would allow us to get on and get off at any stop. Our goal was on the other end of the city—Torre Bélem. Now a UNESCO site, this was the beacon for navigators returning from the New World. In 1755 Lisbon was razed to the ground in an earthquake/tsunami, but this symbol of Portugal’s glory days navigating the world survived.
We spent the rest of the too-short day just roaming around--a few churches, lunch in a nice park. We slowly made our way back to the boat—too slowly in fact, as the bus went far slower than expected. When the boat was in site we jumped off and ran. It was past 3:30—the time we were supposed to be back. We finally arrived—the last to board—at 3:45. Fifteen minutes later we were off, with nary a second to spare. The Norwegian Sun, I suppose, would have left without us.
Fifteen minutes later the horn of the Norwegian Sun blasted three times, signaling departure. Slowly, we pulled away from the dock and pushed our way into the Tagas River. We were on our way! The transatlantic journey had commenced.
Day 2 -- Tuesday, September 27, 2011 -- At sea -- Latitude 37° 50. 64’ N
All day we’ve been sailing south-southwest into a storm. We’d been warned by the captain 24 hours earlier that by noon we’d face gale force winds.
And that we did. All day the sky had been thick with clouds. Rain lashed against the ship, water pouring down the windowpanes that separated us from the howling storm. Waves were ten to twenty feet high. The great ship would sail into a giant wave, be lifted by it, then slam down into a deep trough. The surface of the inky blue sea frothed white. Giant plumes of water whipped off the crest of the waves, like powder blown off giant snow drifts—massive sheets of white.
The sky was black and grey, full of roiling clouds. It was a good day to stay indoors and watch nature’s fury from within the safe confines of the boat.
We were 4oo miles out of Lisbon, halfway between Europe and the Azores archipelago. All day the ship pushed forward—its engines at full throttle. 3,000 souls were dependant on the captain’s ability to get us through this rough and angry sea. By late afternoon crew had locked the doors to all decks. A thick soup of rain and howling winds made walking far too dangerous. Waves would wash over the bow of the boat and its power would actually jostle the ship. Thankfully, the captain had put on the stabilizers which leveled the ship to a manageable level.
It was actually fun to feel this awesome power as it jostled and buffeted the 78,000 ton ship. Walking a straight line was virtually impossible and we had to hold on to hall railings all the time. That night at dinner, there were far fewer people in the restaurants. There were many frail and elderly people aboard. All evening staff was bringing trays of food to staterooms.
For many, though, it was just another day at sea. I overhead one man say, “Now we’re in the ocean.” Later, we would learn that the Norwegian Sun had plowed through twenty foot swells and Gale Force 11 winds. That night, sleeping was a challenge. We’d rise up fifteen feet, then fall down fifteen feet. It was nothing like the normal gentle rocking we’d grown accustomed to. Periodically, there’d be crashes and bangs. We never knew from where they emanated, but we made sure everything in the stateroom was fastened down and tucked safely away.
Still, it had been a wonderful day and a great ride, but once was enough. From here on in I was looking forward to a smooth transatlantic crossing.
Day 3 – Wednesday, September 28, 2011 – Latitude 38° 44” 30’ N -- Ponta Delgada, The Azores
Sometime during the night the Norwegian Sun had come through the worst of the storm. All night I’d had dreams of being thrown around the state room. All night sounds of things crashing around us had crept into the room.
By dawn, however, the winds had died down and rain had stopped, and by the time we were ready to leave the ship the sun had broken though. It would be a fine day.
We’d arrived early in the day to the largest island in the Azores archipelago—San Miguel. We disembark early and three of us—Glenda, myself and Brian of Copenhagen, rent a car and head due west out of Ponta Delgada. The island is very green and at the end of the rainy season. It’s really quite lovely, with hedges of hydrangea and wild lilies lining the road. We drive a bit, then head into the mountains in the center of the island. There are hot springs and geothermal plants and the smell of sulfur everywhere. I’m back in Iceland, but then this is another highly volcanic island. We climb into a cloud forest and stop the car to take a short hike.
There are bromeliads and tree ferns and bubbling pools of boiling hot water that locals use to prepare food in. “No swimming,” the sign says. As if you’d actually step into a pool of water that boils from geothermal activity.
Further up the trail is a swimming hole—temperature a Jacuzzi comfortable 102 degrees.
We turn around and begin to trek back to the ship. Brian and I spend the part of the afternoon exploring Ponta Delgada, but an early afternoon island siesta has taken over and most of the shops have closed. Instead, I return to the ship, get my computer and spend two hours using free wi-fi that restaurants at the port provide in exchange for drinks or a lunch. Cheaper this way than the absurd 80- cents-per-minute fee the ship provides. There are lots of emails as I’ve not been online in over a week.
By 5:00 p.m. we are on our way. I stand on deck and watch as we pull away from the island. This is the last any of us will see for more than six days. We were truly in the Atlantic and the greatest portion of the transatlantic had just begun.
Day 5 – Friday, September 30, 2011 – At sea – Latitude 33° 30’ N
I’ve decided to take the day off. Not that all the other days aren’t days off. In this sense I’ve decided just to seize the day and not allow other activities on board the ship to divert me. The whole expanse of a long, blue day at sea lay before me.
It was a glorious last day of September. The sun was strong and hot. After a month in Northern Europe with its weak, late summer sun, laying poolside would be indulgent.
I was keenly aware that the Norwegian Sun was but a speck on the sea. We were mid-point between Lisbon and Orlando—truly in the middle of the sea. I had to remind myself of this all the time. Since we left the Azores, there had been no traffic. Nothing. It was wonderful.
I find a place to sit on the deck 12, position my lounge chair to face the sun, lather on sun lotion, plug in my iPod and lay down. I have the space of a long, white afternoon in which to make my own time, my own sound.
When I do look up I face the sea—a marine blue expanse of water greater than I ever seen. The nearest land is still the Azores—970 miles behind us. The sea is moderate and the Norwegian Sun pushes forward south southwest. Small frothy waves break on the surface, fizzle, then disappear. There is nothing but sea and a powerful blue sky dotted with patches of big white clouds scudding by.
Javier, my Peruvian bartender buddy, walks by. I’d met him on the previous cruise when he was working the 12th floor Observation deck bar. More than once I’ve asked him for help with Spanish homework I’ve assigned myself.
“Estás bien, Daniel?” he asks me. We only speak Spanish. My request. “How are you?”
“Múy bien,” I tell him. “Más Diet Pepsi,” he wants to know.
These guys are trained well. Know what the passenger what. He knows my bad habits.
“Gracias, Javier.” I’ve paid $6.00 a day for the “all you can drink Pepsi” package and fully intend to get my money’s worth.
Noon. The deck empties out a bit. Lunch time. It’s 75 degrees and a light tailwind pushed us forward at 22 miles per hour. There’s no breeze. The sun grows hotter. I get lost in thought. There is something about this date and it takes some time to go back in time.
Saturday, September 30, 1967. It’s a rainy day in Plattsburgh. My best friend from high school, David Heath, died two days earlier. 16. Two weeks earlier we’d gone to a football game. I was a Freshman in college, he a high school Senior. Shortly after the football game, back in Troy, NY, my mother called to tell me David was in the hospital. The next day he’s in a coma. Twelve days later he’s dead. Leukemia. No warning.
I returned to college the day after the funeral. Somehow I processed the grief. There were certainly enough diversions in my first months in college. In time, I compartmentalize the loss, but realized, when I visited his parents, that their grief is very much different. “I keep expecting him to come through the front door,” his mother once told me. I imagine they never got over the sudden, unexplainable loss.
Once in awhile I visit the cemetery in Albany. Both his parents are gone now and on my last visit I realize how young they were when this happened. They were only in their 40’s and each time I come away from the cemetery I experience a different level of sadness. One it was for a life lost so young, but as time went on I learned to grieve for his parents’ loss.
Why is it that some die so young? Why, in eighteen months, will I have lived four life times to his one?
The afternoon slipped away. By now the sun—early autumnal—is past its full tanning potential. By 4:30 I’m exhausted. What with five hot tubs and three pools to choose from and decisions to make about where to eat lunch—in the Garden Café or in the Sports Bar or the on-deck BBQ buffet. Well..all this decision-making has exhausted me.
It had been a fine day, saturated with the rich color of sea and sky, but it was time to think about dinner, and my daily trek to the gym. I take one last soak, grab another Diet Pepsi from Javier, pack up and leave.
Day 6 – Saturday, October 1, 2011 – At sea – Latitude 31° 10’ N
This was a day of change. At sunrise there was a slight rain, but by lunch we had passed the storm front and sailed into fine weather.
All day, everywhere, there was nothing but water—always in motion, never still. “The pulse of the Earth,” Steve would tell me. And he’s right. What appeared to be still, calm waters from the highest deck were, in reality, tiny wavelets, stirred on by currents and a slight chop of wind. Water, the color of pewter, glistened in the noonday sun.
But today was a fine day, and we were mid-sea—truly in the middle of the ocean. It was a day of abundant sunshine and a day of powerful natural beauty. If water is the pulse of the Earth then somewhere, in the center of the Atlantic, must be its heart. But the beat was irregular. Today we were sailing through small, one foot swells; at other times swells, four to seven feet high, created white caps. As far as one could see at those times, the seas frothed white and fizzy.
Today, from the lower deck, I watched a series of different currents tracing the sea—great serpentine rivers within the ocean that created their own distinct paths. The sea was the color of dark granite, but the currents, under the deep sunshine, took on the hue of polished gun metal.
There were clouds, too. Giant strato-cumulus that climbed out of the sea then rode the skies, layer upon layer of shaded whites and grays. At other times they lined the flat horizon where sea and sky met—colossal mountain ranges, snow-capped and gorgeous. As the day progressed, the highest clouds took on a luminescence as they caught the highest rays of the sun.
In the hour before sunset, when the sun reflected low in the sky, light reflected off the lowest level of cumulus clouds, and illuminated them in a shower of light.
Sea and sky. Nothing else, constantly changing.
Day 7 – Sunday, October 2, 2011 – At sea – Latitude 29° 18’ N
For five days there was nothing but sea and sky. No contrails of jets overhead; no passing tankers. Just the endless sea and a giant, exaggerated sky. Other than life on the ship, there was no other sign of human evidence.
Today, though, a freighter passed, heading east towards Europe. There could be no other destination. Our nearest neighbor, to the north, was Bermuda 350 miles to the north and the Azores, 1,940 east. I had been laying poolside enjoying a sunny, warm day when I looked up and saw a jet, high in the sky, flying, I imagine, towards North America.
This isolation had been a marvel. This was day seven of the transatlantic passage, and aside from some freight traffic between Portugal and the Azores archipelago, the 2,000 passengers of the Norwegian Sun had been comfortably encompassed in the confines of the ship and had been coddled in all ways possible by a crew of almost 1,000. It was wonderful.
And so passed another day, another afternoon under a warm, early October sun, another day reading poolside, another day of decision making. Gym at 4:00 p.m. or 5:00p.m.? Drinks at 6:30 with a large group of guys I’ve gotten to know or an early dinner at Four Seasons or the Seven Seas? Tonight’s show at 7:00 p.m.or 9:00 p.m.? And should I stick around for the late night comedy show or make my way to the 12th floor observation deck to listen to the Sun’s show band play dance tunes?
In the end, I did it all. By midnight, after the Observation deck closed, I stood on deck. For days we’d been sailing under a starry but moonless night sky. Tonight, though, a rising crescent of a cool silvered moon hung in the eastern sky. We were travelling a smooth 20 knots an hour and the seas were calm.
Absorbing the marvel of sea and night sky was a splendid way to end another perfect day.
Day 8 – Monday, October 3, 2011 – At sea – Latitude 27° 54’ N
I’m taking tango lesson 3#7. There was enough interest two weeks earlier to continue beyond the basics. This is American Tango, different from the Argentinean form we’d learned in South America. My knee doesn’t allow me to do an ocho--quick footed crossovers. “We’re senior citizens and our bodies…” I block out what a woman was telling me. “Huh? Me a Senior Citizen? A Senior Citizen is someone five years older than I.
In truth, though, almost everyone onboard is a senior citizen. Almost no one is under 50. The boat is full of Europeans heading to Florida to spend the winter. It’s full of Americans heading home after summering in Europe. There are people on one leg of an around-the-world trip. The majority, though, are people just out for the ride. When ships reposition form one continent to another, the price drops considerably. It’s a great vacation. I met one couple who paid less than $500.00 each for 16 days of food, entertainment, lodging and transportation. Not a bad deal at all!
Day 9 – Tuesday, October 4, 2011 – At sea – Latitude 27° 31’ N
Last day at sea. I’m sad in a way. Crossing the Atlantic was the culmination of a dream, and two days ago, when we were mid-point between Europe and North America was an extraordinary feeling—a feeling of being very, very far away.
Today, though, we are135 miles from the closest Bahamian island and only 299 miles from Port Canaveral, where we will land early tomorrow morning. The sky is clear and the sun is strong and the Norwegian sun has slowed to 15 miles per hour. What a perfect way to spend this last day.
I spend the afternoon under a sun-filled sky. Shortly after noon we passed another cruise ship heading to one of the Bahamian islands. But through the day, however, it was the only evidence of human beings. Around noon I was startled by a flock of birds—miles out at sea. They circled the boat, then flew off.
It was a day of private reminiscing—our going-away dinner almost a month ago in Copenhagen, then sailing out of the city’s harbor late on a lovely late summer Sunday afternoon. I thought of the fun train ride in Northern Germany and of the wet and wonderful hyper-paced days in St. Petersburg. I thought of the splendors of medieval Stockholm and the lily and hydrangea-filled roadways of the Azores.
My deck chair faced the sea. I was in the identical spot where, twenty months earlier, Glenda and I rounded Cape Horn at the very tip of South America. Today, though, was sunny and warm and the Norwegian Sun had slowed down to 15 miles per hour. We were ahead of schedule and the day would progress at a slow crawl.
I was reluctant to leave the 12th floor deck. The blue seascape and ever changing vista of clouds kept me there until almost sunset.
All day I’d been on the lookout for whales and dolphins. The water, 81 degrees, was certainly warm enough. But there were none. Perhaps we were too far out at sea. Perhaps it was the underwater rumbling of the giant cruise liner that kept them away. We’d seen dolphins leaping out of the water as the ship pulled away from Punta Delgada six days earlier, so there was hope.
Instead I just watched the sea—rough textured with tiny, one foot wavelets—and the sky and clouds. These were precious hours. Twelve hours later we’d be docked in Florida.
By 5:30 I’d moved to the left side of the ship. The ocean glittered as the sun slowly dropped to the horizon. We were at the 27th Parallel and the sun, as sit slipped to the edge of the horizon, was Caribbean orange. Sunset was ruddy and the glow sent shafts of orange light throughout the limpid air.
I never did see a dolphin or a whale, but I had seen God’s majestic hand, had lived for one week in the center of His boundless creation of sea and sky. I’d marveled at the sea’s depth—at times over 19,000 feet and at the seemingly endless variety of clouds that painted the sky each day.
Once again I’d lived in a space of privilege and I was abundantly thankful.
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