11th March 2013

Mother’s Day 2013 began with a decadent lie-in until the shocking hour of 8 am. Sue opened her cards and gifts from Charlotte and Sarah, which I’d been faithfully lugging around in my suitcase like some clandestine courier. I’m not entirely sure why I’d bothered with the secrecy; Sue later admitted she’d known exactly where I’d stashed them all along. Honestly, is nothing sacred anymore?

We opted for breakfast in one of the fancier restaurants tucked away at the back of the ship. The walk alone nearly justified a second breakfast, but eventually we found ourselves at a table. At first, it was just the two of us, but soon we were joined by a French couple, and later an Italian pair. Conversation flowed with the French lady, who spoke good English, while the Italians seemed to be conducting a vow of silence. The buffet was groaning with sweet pastries, hence the French invasion, no doubt, but then I spotted it: proper English Stilton. On a cruise ship. In Brazil. I was smitten.

The ship docked in Maceió at noon, and we watched the manoeuvring from Deck 12, the nautical equivalent of the cheap seats at the theatre. Once safely moored, we gathered on Deck 5 with our excursion group, proudly sporting our obligatory stickers like children on a school trip. A coach whisked us 35 km out of town, with our English-speaking guide providing cheerful local insights, before depositing us at a café by a vast lagoon.

There, three small catamarans awaited. We climbed aboard and set off gliding serenely through the mangroves, eventually landing on a strip of blindingly white sand separating lagoon from ocean. Our captain sternly warned that the sea was “unsafe for swimming” and urged us to stick to the lagoon.

Naturally, Sue and I ignored all sensible advice and marched straight into the surf. The sea was gloriously warm, and I hurled myself at the breakers like a child on holiday in Skegness, just with fewer knotted hankies and considerably more sunshine. At one point, while body-surfing, I found myself suddenly accompanied by dozens of silver fish leaping frantically from the water. As a qualified scuba diver, I really ought to have twigged what that meant. Spoiler: I didn’t.

The penny nearly dropped when a frantic beach guard came tearing along on a quad bike, windmilling his arms and bellowing: “TUBARAO!” At that point, I abandoned my Olympic impression of David Hasselhoff and exited the sea with a speed that would have impressed even the coastguard.

We beat a retreat to the lagoon, which turned out to be like wallowing in a giant tepid bath, soothing enough, but with all the excitement of a care-home hydrotherapy session. After a final splash, we retraced our steps via boat and coach and made it back to the ship just in time for pizza and a mug of strong coffee.

Dinner that evening was with the Manchester couple (the Dorset duo having defected to another restaurant). The Mancunians were in celebratory mood as his lost suitcase had finally arrived after more than a week, meaning he could at last wear something that hadn’t already been seen in the dining room three times. They also shared a gem of local knowledge: apparently, the very beach where we’d been frolicking had prominent signs warning of sharks and urging people to stay out of the sea. Suddenly, everything clicked: the leaping fish, the coastguard who’d zoomed over on a quad bike, yelling for me to come closer in. I’d assumed it was just Brazilian “health and safety gone mad” and that he thought I couldn’t handle a current. In reality, he was probably trying to stop me from becoming the hors d’œuvre for a passing great white.

The evening closed with a colourful show celebrating South American dance and culture. The choreography was lively, the costumes dazzling, and although the music coordinator seemed to struggle with the concept of starting on cue, the whole thing was still thoroughly entertaining. I didn’t understand a word of it, but then again, that’s becoming something of a theme.