April 30, 2026. Harumi, Tokyo. Silver Moon lay alongside the Harumi cruise terminal, fully awake and waiting for her guests. Ahead of us: a grand voyage of 15 days and 14 nights — out of Tokyo, across the Pacific, and north to Alaska. Silver Moon entered service in 2020, at 40,700 gross tons with just 596 guests and all-suite accommodation. But numbers can wait. Embarkation day has only one real theme: excitement. This is the first chapter of the voyage; the rest of the 15 days will follow, in instalments.

Harumi Pier: The Ship Is Waiting

The first thing to do at the terminal is simply stand on the pier for a while. Silver Moon's white hull stretched along the berth, mooring lines made fast, under the pale grey of a Tokyo spring sky that made her look brighter still. We hadn't checked in, hadn't crossed the gangway — and already our hearts were beating a little faster.

Inside the terminal, a welcome wall made entirely of cherry blossoms spelled out WELCOME TOKYO HARUMI. It was the end of April; sakura season had just passed in the city, but the terminal had kept spring on its wall. On another wall, the HARUMI CRUISE TERMINAL sign was shaped as a world map — ships leave this port for everywhere, and ours was heading to the upper right of that map.

A Welcome in Paper Cranes

While we waited to board, the welcome began with paper cranes. The ship's daily programme, Chronicles, was being handed out in the hall, its front page reading Welcome aboard Silver Moon! above photographs of the captain and senior officers — we met the ship's "family" before we even stepped aboard. On the tables and in baskets nearby were origami works prepared by the terminal: cranes, flowers and little folded boxes, with a sign inviting guests to take one. We chose a paper crane to bring aboard — the first souvenir of the voyage, acquired before we had even boarded.

Walking out toward the gangway, we looked back at the stern once more. Stores were still being loaded, forklifts busy on the quay, and Silver Moon's name stood on the stern — from that moment, that name was our address for the next 15 days.

Boarding: Chilled Towels and a Grand Staircase

The first second aboard brought a chilled towel. A crew member offered rolled white towels with tongs, one by one — cool, faintly scented, and half the journey's tiredness simply fell away. In the corridor, crew smiled, greeted us and pointed the way. That feeling of being genuinely expected is where a luxury ship parts company with the big mainstream vessels — and it starts from the very first minute.

The atrium staircase is Silver Moon's heart: twin flights sweeping up and down, carpet and handrails in quiet tones, nothing showy. We would climb it many times over the next 14 days, but the first impression stays sharpest — we were really aboard.

The First Champagne, and the First Lunch

Our suite was still being finished, so we settled into Dolce Vita first. The welcome champagne arrived quickly, with a single-bite caviar canapé, and Tokyo's harbour beyond the window. We opened the cocktail list — Penicillin, Old Cuban, French 75 — and surrendered embarkation-day noon to champagne. Correct decision.

Lunch was at The Grill, and embarkation day called for restraint: a club sandwich with sweet-potato fries, the bread properly crisp, the fries a handsome orange. Eating slowly, watching the harbour — the ship hadn't sailed, but the holiday had begun.

Champagne on Deck, Desserts at the Café

After lunch, a walk on deck. Beside the pool deck stood a champagne station: Duval-Leroy on ice, flutes in neat rows, towels and amenities alongside. The ship understands embarkation day — every corner of it should involve champagne.

Afternoon tea found us at the Arts Café, part coffee house, part small gallery, with orange armchairs, a long bar and shelves of bottles — a lighter mood than the main restaurant. Desserts first: a lemon meringue tart, a tiramisu, a macaron; then two lattes with proper art and a plate of petits fours. Embarkation day's itinerary is simple: eat, drink, explore the ship, then something sweet.

Home for the Next 14 Nights

Then the suite was ready. The living room first: sofa, round table and desk in a row, the harbour beyond the sliding doors, the balcony open and the smell of the sea already inside. The bedroom sits apart, with a walk-in wardrobe between — hangers, drawers and bathrobes all in place, ready for the luggage to disappear into order. This would be home for 14 nights, and the first impression was simple: we would be comfortable here.

On the living-room table, a champagne bucket was already standing by, two flutes beside it and an orchid to finish the picture. There were also two water bottles and a small card: A REFRESHING WELCOME. A welcome, done properly, is not a slogan — it is everything prepared before you walk through the door.

An Afternoon Walk Around the Whole Ship

Settled in, it was time for embarkation day's favourite ritual: exploring the ship. We started at the staircase beneath the atrium skylight and walked her deck by deck. Daylight pours down through the glass roof and the stairs turn in the light; the public rooms are quieter than expected — less cruise ship, more boutique hotel that happens to float.

The aft deck lounge has the best view: deep-blue sofas facing Harumi's harbour and the city skyline across the water. A white Japan Coast Guard patrol vessel lay berthed on the far shore, and beyond the towers, Tokyo Tower showed itself. The ship hadn't left port, but the air on deck was already holiday air.

Indoors, we went room by room: the Silver Note jazz club's entrance lit by a flower-petal ceiling light; the Venetian Lounge theatre with its stage ready for the evening; Kaiseki's quiet wooden door; Atlantide's round tables all set; another restaurant screened by an etched-glass face, champagne and wine gift boxes displayed alongside. Eight restaurants and all those lounges — fifteen days is just enough to take them one at a time.

The Butler's Champagne

In the early evening, back at the suite, our butler arrived. In our room, a white towel over his arm, bottle in one hand and the glass steadied in the other, he poured the champagne for us himself — opening a bottle in the suite is simply how this ship says welcome. No queueing at a bar, no waving for service: the champagne walks into your room, and the bubbles rise slowly in the glass.

The bottle was a Duval-Leroy, its cork resting beside the glass. We drank slowly in the room, the television murmuring, the light outside the window dimming by degrees. By then, embarkation day's excitement had settled into something steadier: the feeling that for the next 14 days, we would be looked after exactly like this.

Night Falls on Day One

Before dinner we passed the restaurant again: every table set, the lights half a shade lower, the whole ship wearing its evening expression. Back on deck, the house flag streamed in the evening breeze off Harumi as the shore lights came on one by one.

Embarkation day scores 90. The missing points leave room for the comparisons to come; the points earned are easy to explain. From the paper cranes at the terminal and the chilled towel at the gangway to the bottle our butler opened in our room, this ship spent a whole day telling us: you were expected, and you are welcome. Fifteen days, fourteen nights — and this was only day one. The sea days, the ports and Alaska's glaciers will follow, one chapter at a time.

30 April 2026, embarkation day, with Silversea's Silver Moon alongside at Tokyo's Harumi terminal. For our first dinner, just after six, we chose S.A.L.T. Kitchen — the restaurant whose name stands for Sea And Land Taste, and whose menu is never fixed: it travels with the ship, serving the flavours of wherever she calls.

Two menus: Terrain and Voyage

Two menus lay open on the table. The Terrain Menu is inspired by the day's port — Tokyo tonight, its dishes drawn from the port's flavours and seasonal specialties. The Voyage Menu is written for the journey itself, celebrating the North Pacific and the culinary traditions of the region we were about to cross. Even the wine list had a page headed 'WINE LIST / TOKYO', with local wines inspired by the day's port.

The local pours were from Yering Station in Australia's Yarra Valley — the Village 2024 Chardonnay and Pinot Noir. The bottles were presented at the table first; then the white was poured, crisp and fresh, an easy opening for the seafood to come.

Bread and starters

The bread service has a rustic charm: sliced bread standing in a terracotta pot, a round loaf in its own little crock, and two orange rounds of spread on a black slate with a small cup of dip — a gentle way to slow down before the meal.

We ordered starters across both menus. From Terrain, Tokyo flavours: Negima Yakitori, skewers of marinated chicken and negi with a glossy tare glaze; and Namero Tartare, chopped white fish dressed the fisherman's way, with shiso, lemon and shredded radish — bright and fresh. From Voyage came a taste of where the journey leads: King Crab Legs, Alaskan king crab split open and served with nothing more than a wedge of lemon.

One more Voyage starter: The Salmon Run — lightly poached salmon under a mild horseradish cream, heaped with red salmon roe. The name nods to the salmon's great migration, and the plate is a wash of orange-red; on the fork, the roe pops gently.

Mains: clam rice, duck soba and roast chicken

Three mains, each with a story. Fukagawa Clam Rice is an old Tokyo dish from the Fukagawa district: clams stewed in sake and miso, folded through rice with julienned carrot, fried tofu, sesame and scallion — homestyle and deeply satisfying. Duck Nanban Soba lays slices of pink duck breast over soba in a hot dashi broth, the duck's richness meeting the negi; the menu calls it 'a Tokyo classic'. The Voyage Roast Chicken is a golden roasted leg with leek and potato croquettes, asparagus, baby carrots and Brussels sprouts, over a dark, sweet berry jus that cuts the richness.

Dessert: a little from both menus

Dessert came from both menus too. From Voyage, the Matcha Mille Crepe — layer upon layer of matcha crepes and whipped cream, with a scoop of matcha ice cream. From Terrain, a Japanese Strawberry Shortcake, genoise, cream and strawberries in neat strata, and a bowl of Anmitsu — vanilla ice cream, red bean paste, fruit and agar jelly under black sugar syrup, crowned with a sesame crisp. Three desserts, four plates: dinner ended sweetly.

After dinner, the café

Not ready for bed, we settled into the café. First came a plate of petit fours — two caramel-toned macarons, four chocolate truffles and a cookie — beside a little faceted-glass lamp. Then two hot drinks: a latte with thick, silky foam, and a matcha latte in distinct layers. Orange armchairs, a pink cushion, the bar's backlit shelves and the espresso machine behind: the ship's evening slowed right down.

Late-night room service

Back in the suite, the day still wasn't over. Close to eleven, room service rolled in a late supper and laid the living-room table properly, white cloth and all: a cheeseburger, a hot dog, a bowl of noodle soup and a crème brûlée, with two cups of tea.

The burger was a sesame brioche with a cheddar beef patty, still pink in the centre when bitten into; the hot dog wore zigzags of ketchup and mustard, with fries and onion rings; the noodle soup was a dark broth with glass noodles, sliced meat and a floating slice of lemon. Finally, cracking the brûlée's caramel shell with a spoon — embarkation day, eaten from dinner to midnight, was truly done.

The embarkation-day dinner was at S.A.L.T. Kitchen; this post changes the scene to meals we ate aboard Silver Moon in the middle of the voyage, spread across a week: breakfast delivered to the suite on May 7, a lunch on May 10, dinner at Silver Note that same evening, and two late-night suppers brought to the room after midnight. One meal at a time.

Breakfast in the Suite

On the morning of May 7 we had room service bring breakfast to the suite and set it by the window: fried eggs, a fruit plate, berries and a pot of coffee, the sea right outside. Breakfast with that view slows everything down.

Lunch on May 10

That day's lunch menu listed coconut crusted shrimps, apple fig walnut salad and a focaccia sandwich among the starters. We opened a glass of Champagne, pale gold, and lunch began at an easy pace.

The coconut crusted shrimps came first: two shrimps in a golden coconut crust, a little sauce beneath, chopped herbs scattered over — crisp while hot. Then the apple, fig and walnut salad: thin apple slices, walnuts for bite, lightly dressed and fresh.

Another starter came on a green glass plate: shredded white meat, red onion and mango cubes, with a thin black crisp on the side. Bright in colour, clean in flavour.

Dinner at Silver Note

That evening we had dinner at Silver Note, the ship's evening restaurant, where the lights stay low. The table was set first: a basket of knotted herb bread, and in front of it three small bowls of sauces for the bread in a row, a table lamp, wine glasses already poured. A restaurant that sets its table properly like this is a reassuring place to eat.

Then came several small plates, each with its own idea. Egg salad crowned with caviar, under a glass dome, with two thin crisps beside it; a quinoa tart ringed with green vegetables, topped with radish slices and yellow pepper, on a long green glass plate; tuna tartare in a small tin, with avocado slices and curled radish. Small portions, concentrated flavours.

The main was a surf-and-turf of lobster tail and steak: the lobster tail roasted orange-red, the steak in thick cuts over a green sauce, a red lattice crisp standing beside it, with asparagus and lemon. Surf and turf eaten at sea is hard to beat.

Late-Night Suppers in the Suite

Twice we had food sent up in the middle of the night. The one in the early hours of May 11 turned out surprisingly formal: the table laid with a white cloth, dishes, a coffee pot and tea in a row, and on a chair a towel folded into a figure with a flower — a small touch from housekeeping.

The early-hours supper on May 13 was much more relaxed: a bread roll, fries, onion rings and a fruit plate, with tea. Beside the table stood a pink balloon reading Happy Birthday, which livened up the late-night meal.

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.

On 11 May, Silver Moon docked at Kodiak. An Alaska port day usually goes like this: the ship docks in the morning, we walk ashore, and return aboard in the evening. We did not go far that day — the dockside, the processing plant, the harbour and the bears were all of it.

A Morning of Docking

Just before ten in the morning we were still aboard, looking from the balcony at the crab-pot yard by the dock: metal cages stacked in rows, a forklift and a small boat beside them, a hillside behind. Kodiak is a fishing port, and a scene like this looks more like Kodiak than any postcard.

At half past eleven we went ashore. Silver Moon's midsection lay against the dock, two Petro Marine tankers parked on the wet asphalt, their reflections under the hull. When a ship docks, the pier has its own rhythm: refuelling, line handling, everyone busy at their own job.

Seen from the stern, the ship's white canopy decks rose in tiers, dock workers handling the mooring lines, the wet asphalt mirroring the hull. We like this angle: the ship is not a postcard ship, it is a ship in the middle of docking.

Walking the Dockside

Walking along the pier, the ship's side carried orange-and-white lifeboats, with the gangway at the far end where people went up and down. Up close the lifeboats are bigger than expected, the orange vivid against the white hull.

Closer still, the lifeboats and the gangway in detail, dock workers busy at the ship's side, the wet asphalt mirroring the whole ship.

By the pier stood a yellow school bus, a Passenger Shuttle sign on its front — in Kodiak the shuttle is a converted school bus, clouds pressed on the hillside, the rain only just stopped.

At the processing plant, the hull of STAR OF KODIAK stood beside the Pacific Seafood building, blue containers and parked vehicles in front. This is not a sight to see; it is where Kodiak works every day.

From the green-bench overlook the whole harbour lay open: another small white ship to the left, a wooden house in the middle, the bow of STAR OF KODIAK at the right edge, vehicles coming and going across the wet asphalt car park.

The City of Bears

Bears are everywhere in Kodiak. A roadside Bear A-B-Cs board sets out the rules for living with bears: A is for access to food, B is for best behaviour, C is for common sense — on bear ground, people mind the rules.

Beside the path stood a giant black bear statue on its hind legs, a row of bear paw prints along the red walkway. The statue towers over a person; standing before it, Kodiak's bears stop feeling like legend.

In the exhibit hall, three life-size brown bear sculptures fished for salmon in a stream model: a mother bear and cubs around the water, salmon bright red in a row. The Kodiak day ends with this group of bears.