The day, first set down in an older hand
At dawn the vessel began the first of two long days at sea, steering northward for Florida, with no island to break the horizon — only sky, water, wind, and several thousand souls gliding across the Caribbean in a city made of steel. The sea wore a brushed-steel shimmer, with long gentle swells and a clean east wind sweeping across the balcony.
We summoned the morning meal to our quarters and reflected upon a verse of the Spanish poet Machado, fitting for a day without itinerary: Caminante, no hay camino, se hace camino al andar — Traveler, there is no path; the path is made by walking. A worthy thought: movement as meaning, direction created simply by going.
The Master's Discourse on the Vessel
The chief event of the day was an engineering briefing by the Master himself, Captain Robert Jan Kan, a man of three-and-thirty years' service who radiates the calm of one who might drink his coffee while parallel-parking a thousand-foot ship. He spoke at length of the vessel's inner workings — her engines, her propulsion, her means of holding steady against the roll of the sea — and we listened as students before a patient teacher.
…and the same day, in the modern voice
Engines: four MAK V12 diesels, each burning roughly two tons of marine fuel an hour — about the weight of a Honda Civic, hourly. They're really giant generators: a cruise ship isn't so much a ship as a floating electric utility powering propulsion, kitchens, water, HVAC, and the whole "hotel."
Azipods: two electric propulsion pods, 35,000–40,000 HP total — call it 50 Formula 1 cars strapped to the stern. They rotate 360°, replacing rudders, letting the ship pivot in place, "crab-walk" sideways, and dock with surgical accuracy. It's why modern cruise ships turn like ballerinas instead of freight trains.
The rest: bow anchors of 10–15 tons each (chain links the size of a forearm); retractable stabilizer fins the size of a small SUV; and a stern "ducktail" — the hydrodynamic Spanx that quietly improves stability and fuel efficiency. Pilots board at each port (in Astoria, by helicopter). Nuclear propulsion: no.
Weekly consumption on a ship this size: roughly 110–180 kegs and 5,000–9,000 cans and bottles. Top sellers: Heineken, Amstel, Corona, and Caribbean lagers. Suddenly those cargo pallets make a lot of sense. The Captain's most-awe moment on the job, after all these years? "Entering port — every time."
The afternoon settled into the classic sea-day glow: half-open books on loungers, people slowly turning the color of toasted almonds, drinks sweating on little tables, poolside music drifting in the wind. We watched the wake unspool behind the stern like a bright white ribbon dissolving into deep blue.
Cruising north past Haiti, we sailed near Navassa Island — an odd geopolitical relic: uninhabited, a U.S.-administered wildlife refuge, claimed by Haiti, nearly inaccessible behind cliffs and rough seas, historically mined for guano, and now home to rare seabirds and coral. A strange diplomatic footnote floating in the Caribbean.
The Crow's Nest, and a Cruise Booked at Sea
Later, in the panoramic Crow's Nest, we planned our 2026 while watching the ocean race by — and we did it: booked another cruise. December 2026, a 12-day Eastern + Western Caribbean, bigger suite, aft-facing balcony, great price, roughly 360 days away. Location at the moment of booking: just off the coast of Haiti. Dinner was wonderfully low-key — veggie burgers, cold beer, Sunday football on the giant poolside screen. Some passengers were literally drinking beers while standing in the pool — peak sea-day ambition. At 8:23 the waning gibbous moon rose, gold over the water. The time change gave us an extra hour, easing us into Eastern Time as we approach Florida. Machado's words returned: we make the path by walking — or, on days like this, by sailing.