SELENE
From Tokyo to Alaska, the first part of the voyage had plenty of days spent entirely at sea. This post is not about itineraries; it is about the ship's own days: the harbour at departure, the wake behind the ship, grey seas, and then the sea seen from a restaurant window and a balcony, and evening and fjord waters.
Days at Sea
Arriving and leaving port, the harbour is always busy with other vessels: a tugboat, an orange cargo ship, cranes along the shore, each doing its own work while our ship eases away.
Out at sea the days simplify. Standing at the ship's side, watching a white wake trail behind and a breakwater far off; the sea grey and hazy, the breakwater lying far away between sea and sky — nothing to do but look.
On a sea-day morning, the view from the suite balcony is the same grey sea, a hazy coastline in the distance, the sky overcast. Weather like this is made for staying aboard: a slow breakfast, a slow day.
The Sea from a Window and a Balcony
On the evening of 1 May we watched the sea from inside the restaurant. Beyond the window, grey-blue broken waves and white bow spray; the restaurant lights reflected in the glass — the sea inside the window, dinner inside the window too.
At noon on 6 May the sea opened up. Looking back from the stern, the white wake stretched wide and far across the grey sea, a white canopy edge below, a small mast light standing to the right. The emptier the picture, the longer we stood there.
On the afternoon of 7 May, a champagne bucket and two glasses of champagne stood on the balcony's little round table, beyond the rail an open grey-blue sea with white wave tops. That is the good part of a sea day: no schedule to chase, champagne taken slowly, sea watched slowly.
Dusk and the Fjord
After eleven on the night of 10 May the sea changed colour. Golden sunlight broke through the clouds, a band of golden reflection stretched across the water, a little white bow spray at the lower left, a small stretch of coastline in silhouette at the far right. After days of grey, that evening's light was worth lingering over.
After nine on the night of 13 May the water was still as a mirror. To the right, a snow-covered slope and a conifer shore; to the left, peaks in the mist in the distance, the ship moving slowly through the fjord.
Looking back at the stern, the wake cut across the still water, snow mountains on both sides, a small corner of white canopy at the lower right — proof the ship was moving.
Looking sideways again, a snow-covered wooded cape reached into the water, snow peaks layered in the distance, ripples on the surface left by the ship's passing.
At half past ten the same night, two glasses of champagne, a bouquet and a plate of macarons and small pastries stood on the balcony table, beyond the rail the blue dusk water and a hazy shoreline in the distance. The fjord day ended at the table.
