There’s something sad about the last full day on a cruise ship.  I think it’s because that old friend, Reality, checks in.  She knocks early in the morning too.

The mail slot outside our cabin door is stuffed with instructions as we head to breakfast and one more chance to have corned beef hash covered with a sunny side up egg.  We never eat this at home, and I hear Reality clucking  her tongue at us for being so decadent.  We ignore her and grab the instructions to read as we eat.

We’ve been given our time to disembark, our tags for our luggage, and a final admonition to settle our on-board bill if we haven’t already.

When we return to our cabin, the steward has already taken away Earl’s rented tuxedo, a sure sign we’re about to be last week’s passengers.  We look at each other.  Today, there will be all kinds of “final” presentations to attend: a lecture on stocks, an art auction, Bingo, and line dancing. Earl decides he’s going to the program on stocks; I decide I’m going to the Trough for a final clutch of oatmeal cookies.

As the day passes, we pull our bags from under the bed and start filling them with things we know we won’t need until we’re home in Michigan. My formal dress goes in the bottom followed by three scarves and gold shoes.  Two swimsuits dive in as well as gloves and a hat meant for the beaches of Normandy (the gloves and hat, that is).  I never used any of these items.

After dinner we’ll return to packing.  Then we’ll set our alarm for six in the morning when we’ll finish removing any remnants of our visit from the bathroom. We’ll walk off the ship before 7:30 AM and begin thinking about our next cruise.

Bermuda has more than four hundred years of British history under its belt, and it shows. A large fort greets the cruise ships as they dock and an old fashioned pub, the Frog and Onion, is within walking distance of the gangway. That’s where many cruisers headed to, but Earl and I chose to see some sights on segues instead.

The island itself is shaped like a giant fish hook with the dockyard on the tip end.  That’s where we met our guide, Disa, who gave our group a quick lesson on riding a segue.  It’s all about balance and confidence. If you ever ice skated as a child, you’ll have a sense of the mechanics of it. Strong ankles are helpful.

Disa led the way as we left the dockyard and rode single file around some of the sights:  the old clock towers, the yard in the center of the fort where English soldiers took their lunches, the cannons that protected the island from invasion, and the dolphin museum which probably is a more recent addition to the local scene.

Eventually, we took a road out of the city to a residential area, a church that had once housed slave quarters, and an interesting cemetery. I ambled through some random headstones in the cemetery and was surprised that not one of the deceased had seen his fortieth birthday.  Most had been seamen; several had died from wounds; one, age twenty-two, drowned.

Next we stopped at a beach known for its sea glass and then segued past the newly built prison where Disa said that conditions in the new facility were nicer than some Bermudans had it on the street. It still didn’t entice me to assault someone to check this out.

There are almost three thousand passengers on this ship and one thousand crew members.  You might think it would feel crowded, but it really doesn’t.  However, there are times when you bump against strangers; and this is handled with certain protocols.

For example, crew members always say “Good morning, Ma’am” or “Good afternoon, Sir” if they meet you in the corridors.  It doesn’t matter how tired they are, they rise to the occasion.  It’s a great example to follow.

In the various dining rooms and at the Trough you sometimes have to share a table. If someone is sitting alone at a table for six, you approach and say, “May we share your table?” and you’ll never be refused. This isn’t part of American culture, but people on the other side of the Atlantic are fine with it.

From there it’s only a matter of time before one of you asks “Where are you from?” or “Is this your first cruise?” These are the two standard conversation starters guaranteed to elicit at least a one word response.  Usually they elicit a lot more, especially the second question.  People who are regulars are very proud of the number of cruises they’ve taken and will let you know they’ve been to both Borneo and Bora Bora.

On this specific cruise, we were to have visited the beaches at Normandy where the troops landed on D-Day sixty-nine years ago.  However, because of the hurricane that port was skipped, so many passengers tell you what their connection to Normandy was and why they are so disappointed that we couldn’t stop. You’re also apt to hear how the high waves and winds have kept them awake.

So, unless you’re the commiserating sort, I suggest you open any conversation with an inquiry into where your new best friends come from. The answers will be more varied.

This morning Earl stared out our stateroom slider window and said, “This ocean is big.”

This is about as profound as saying, “Rain is wet.” And I was quick to remind him that a repositioning tour with many sea days was his idea, not mine.  Of course, we’ve run into more than the usual number of sea days, thanks to threatening weather which probably elicited a “This hurricane is scary” response from a passenger or two.

So how does one cope when water is the only landscape – er, seascape – for days on end?

First, there is the library, which is amazingly popular.   Its space hardly fills the size of a modest bedroom in the States, and it’s open only six hours a day.  But I’m willing to bet attendance rivals the Wheelhouse Bar next door.  So far, Earl is on Book Four.

Next there are the stairs. So that we don’t disembark at the end of the cruise looking as if we ate everything in sight (Some do), we forego the elevators and walk everywhere.  If we want to visit the Trough, it’s five flights up.  If we want to have a cappuccino, it’s four floors down.

We occasionally attend one of the myriad activities on board, designed to keep passengers entertained and docile.  This crowd, many of whom are from Europe, is quite well-mannered; Docile is its middle name.  But this can be a challenge when you take three thousand Americans to the Caribbean and offer bargains on buckets of beer.

We’ve also cruised enough so that the entertainment has to be truly different to capture our interest. So far not much has. Except for the beautiful tanzanite ring I’m fancying in one of the on-board shops.  It really is “big.”

We just pulled away from the dock in Lisbon and turned around in the wider part of the Tagus River.  Twenty-four hours ago, I didn’t even know the Tagus existed.

I love sail away, no matter if it’s from Lisbon or in the South Pacific, Alaska, or the Caribbean. I look at the twinkling lights of the port we are leaving– since Sail Away is often at dusk – and feel a sense of kinship. Tonight Earl and I are on the Promenade Deck waving goodbye to souls on the shore.

Most people who live in the place we just visited probably don’t even know we were there. Yet, they have changed me forever.  They have broadened my understanding of our world, as I take away a little of their culture and pride and meld it with my own.

The Crown Princess slowly glides through the river waters and heads to the ocean. Earl and I step inside.