The day, first set down in an older hand
We woke this morning standing off the coast of Cuba, the sea unbelievably smooth — near mirror-calm — the sky glowing soft gold. Beneath that quiet, the Gulf Stream raced by like the ocean's own conveyor, bearing warm Caribbean water toward Europe, shaping weather and migrations and centuries of nautical history. One feels its energy even when the surface lies still.
Upon the veranda we kept our half-hour of reflection, and the meditation turned upon human time and sacred time. Human time: the clocks, the schedules, the disembarkation notices, and my companion arranging our future voyages with the precision of an admiral. Sacred time: the space between thoughts, the colors of dawn upon the sea, the hush that arrives when one remembers how enormous the world is, and how small our gliding across it. Cuba drifted past in soft watercolor blue, and it was enough.
…and the same day, in the modern voice
Aimee Mode: Activated
While waiting for room service, we got into our favorite cruise pastime: planning more cruises. Vacation planning during a vacation is truly our spiritual practice. Aimee — our Deal Fox 🦊, logistics queen, and low-key travel CEO — made the call: we're switching to the 10-day Western Caribbean for next time, and while in full command-center mode, she also locked in a 15-day repositioning cruise (San Diego → Miami) for January 2027. Best rooms, best prices, best dates. Honestly, she should be sponsored by Holland America. Then a 5K and a 55-minute power walk (counterclockwise, because we are consistent), which by cruise math fully erased two pints of Heineken. And since it was Cake Day, we committed: Black Forest and Cookies & Cream. Both excellent. Both morally justified.
The Dateline Incident: when a few passengers were late returning to the ship, the woman next door narrated an entire thriller — secret calls, mysterious vanishments, possibly a custody dispute, definitely someone "being taken away." Reality: they were just… late. But she told it like Keith Morrison was about to step out and interview her.
The Key-Card-Light Meltdown: their cabin lights only work with the key card inserted. The husband wanted to leave; he said she'd "hate being in the dark." She said, "I don't care. Do what you want." He left. Lights off. She sat in the dark. Ten out of ten. Would watch again.
YouTube Sailing Videos at Full Blast: for reasons unknown, sailing tutorials at maximum volume — anchors dropping, waves smashing hulls, men yelling "REEF THE MAIN! REEF IT!" — while we just tried to enjoy Matt Haig and a chill beer.
The geological journey your feet took over ten days: Turks & Caicos — pure ultra-fine coral sand, powder-soft and blinding white; parrotfish grind the coral to make some of it (yes, you walked on the good kind of parrotfish poop). Dominican Republic — a mineral-coral hybrid: quartz from inland mountains plus volcanic particles plus reef. Curaçao — mostly imported crushed coral, because the natural coastline is rocky volcanic limestone. Bonaire — pure reef sand, pale white with hints of peach; protected reefs make sand slowly, so every grain is precious. Aruba — a rare silica-coral blend; quartz blown from ancient South American rivers makes the sand stay cool underfoot, because quartz reflects rather than absorbs the sun.
Back on the veranda, Aimee queued up The Life Impossible by Matt Haig while I cracked a Heineken. At some point mid-chapter, we started packing — and confronted the great question of the hour: how many hoodies and refrigerator magnets did I accumulate? Answer: many. But at least I didn't buy a license plate at every port. Restraint!
Lightning, and a Last Walk
In the evening we watched light flicker far out on the edge of the world — distant heat lightning, several alligators away, giving the horizon a slow pulse. We tried photographing it; the camera caught almost nothing. Classic human time — the urge to document. But watching the sky flare alive in silence? That was sacred time, a moment meant to be lived, not stored. Before turning in, we took one last slow walk around the decks, saying goodbye to the people we'd met all week — servers, bartenders, café staff, fellow travelers. It felt a little like the end of a Survivor season, when the last few people walk the island and reflect on everyone they met along the way. The ship felt like it was exhaling with us — one last calm night before everything changes.
The cruise ends turtleless. Ten days, five countries, three reefs, and not a single shell. But the voyage isn't over — there's a seaplane in our future, and an island literally named for turtles. The engine has been running the whole time. Tomorrow we leave the ship. The payoff is coming.