The Feel Good Way

I’m still cruising.

After a quiet day off — with nothing to do but attend on-board events (none of which interested me) and try to stay cool in the 34°C heat — I spend the day reading, recharging, and waiting for something more exciting. I’m ready for some real sightseeing again.

But the weather has other plans.

That evening, the captain makes an announcement: due to an approaching storm, we’re skipping our next stop and heading straight back to Athens. Two full nights and a day at sea.

Sure, I’m disappointed to miss another island… but secretly? I’m a little thrilled. Maybe this storm will finally bring some movement into this floating hotel.

I grew up on a sailboat. My parents were sailors, and until I got married, every weekend and holiday was spent on the water. I’ve always loved the sea — the sound of the waves, the rhythm of a moving boat. If there’s one thing I do love about being on a cruise ship, it’s falling asleep with the window wide open, lulled by the sound of the sea, whether I’m aware of it or not.

So yes — I’m genuinely excited for the storm to come.

As we leave port, the wind is already picking up. The waves have white caps that burst into mist as they crash. I stand on our terrace and watch, completely in my element. For the first few hours, though, the ship is still sheltered by islands and barely moves.

That night, I can’t sleep — not because I’m uncomfortable, but because I’m excited like a child waiting for Sinterklaas. I get up several times, checking the sea from our open window. The curtains flap wildly outside, the carpet is damp, the wind sprays mist onto our terrace. I watch from my room, mesmerized. The night is dark, the sea darker still. White spray whips across the surface, and finally, finally, the ship begins to move. I love this. 

Morning comes, and everything feels different. The usual breakfast area is closed. No one’s dining outside today — the wind has taken over. The ship is quiet. It sways and creaks, but the passengers are nowhere to be seen, as if in a collective sleep.

The buffet is relocated to another deck — larger than ever. I smile when I wonder if this is intentional: feed the guests well, then get seasick so they will spend the day in their beds? Yet, when I spot my mother — who normally can’t walk long distances — balancing two plates like a seasoned sailor, I smile even more. She’s still got her sea legs. We all do. We look outside, on this lower deck the waves are even more impressive. My mother is loving this as much as I do.

With unreliable internet and nowhere to go, the day stretches out in slow motion. I spend most of it on our terrace, already crusted in salt. I sit partly in the shade, wearing jeans and a sweater – the heat has left us completely- my face occasionally misted by the sea. My clothes and book are sticky with salt, and I don’t mind.

I watch the waves, the shapes they form, the patterns the wind draws on the surface. It’s hypnotic. We’re sailing through 9 to 10 Beaufort winds — and what that does to the water is pure art.

Of course, you’d never want to be out here on a small boat. But on something this size, you can watch nature do its wild thing in full safety. And I do, for hours.

It becomes a day of stillness — of slowing down, of reflecting, of reconnecting with something deeper. A reminder that not all beauty is found on land. 

Image is AI generated