11th March 2013

Despite last night’s biblical downpour, we awoke to sunshine and a sky so blue it could have been painted by Dulux. Like proper mariners (albeit ones without a ship, a compass, or any idea of star navigation), we enjoyed a hearty breakfast before setting off to bid farewell to Copacabana’s famous beach.

It looked positively heavenly, the waves lapping gently against pristine sands. Frankly, we should have booked to stay longer, but hindsight is cruelly smug. Next time, we’ll know better.

We wandered along the shoreline, letting the surf tickle our toes, utterly entranced until a rather larger-than-expected wave caught us off guard. Too late to run (not that sprinting has featured in our repertoire for some years), we were comprehensively drenched. Still, it was bracing, and our squeals may have convinced onlookers that we were attempting some avant-garde synchronised swimming routine.

As we squelched along, I noticed a rather sorry-looking moth. Or, possibly a butterfly, also drenched from its seaside misadventure. I scooped it up and placed it on my T-shirt, where it clung like a tiny, winged brooch. By the time we reached the end of the beach, both moth and humans were more or less dry, and we perched on a wall to admire the more sensible souls who had stayed above the tide line.

Sue was keen to explore the cliff path and watch the locals fishing, so the moth and I tagged along. On the way back, I spotted a chap asleep against the rocks, sporting a green Leprechaun hat and a lit cigarette balanced precariously in his mouth. I’m convinced the photo I took could adorn the cover of National Geographic. With luck, it might also fund my next cruise.

Before leaving, I placed my loyal companion, Mothy, on a tree trunk where he blended into the bark beautifully. I only hoped the circling vultures weren’t interested in such a meagre snack.

Back at the hotel, we packed, checked drawers for forgotten socks, and checked out. The transfer car arrived, miraculously early, and whisked us to the port in under ten minutes. Check-in was swift, and soon we were in our cabin (or “stateroom,” though that might be a tad optimistic). Our steward, a friendly Filipino chap, introduced himself and pointed us towards the buffet on Deck 9. Sue needed no encouragement.

Barely an hour later, Sue discovered afternoon tea was being served on Deck 5 and insisted on sampling that as well. I’m beginning to suspect she’s hosting a tapeworm.

We explored the ship further, including the spa, though unless we remortgage the house, we’ll be admiring it from afar. Later came the “Welcome Meeting” for English passengers. Oh dear. It should have been a brisk 15-minute briefing, but it dragged on for three-quarters of an hour, thanks to a handful of elderly interrogators. One woman, in particular, seemed immune to both logic and literacy. Despite a giant screen screaming the answers in letters large enough to be read from orbit, and a leaflet spelling everything out, she persisted in asking questions so obvious even the presenter’s smile was starting to twitch. The poor Italian chap clearly regretted every life choice that had led him to this moment.

Sue and I have sworn that if that woman joins any of our excursions, we shall leap overboard in protest.

Afterwards came the obligatory lifeboat drill, which at least served as a dry run for avoiding our new nemesis. Wearing buoyancy jackets (sorry, life vests), we mustered, drilled, and were eventually released to change for dinner.

At 6.45 pm, we dined with two other English couples: one from Manchester, one from Dorset, both seasoned cruisers with more voyages under their belts than Poseidon himself. The food was excellent, the company good-humoured.

The evening concluded with a cracking show in the theatre: dazzling dancers, a laser display, and just enough spectacle to remind us we were now properly at sea.