Flitting from one oceanic idyll to another can be tiresome, in the ho-hum sense. Fact. Tell me, how many days does it take before one gets tired of waking up to a canopy of clear skies and searing sun, floating on a bed of calm warm sea, ranging in colour from deep blue to turquoise? I'd say about seven.
The food was good, even great on occasion; and the people, once understood, passable, and at times, pleasant. But the great moments were those of relative solitude when, ensconced in a quieter part of the deck and accompanied by the sound of the engine thrumming as it powered its way through oncoming waves, I was gently cajoled into pleasant, semi-oblivion. The hull rose, fell, and swayed from starboard to port and then back again; a rhythmic dance; a rock and roll lullaby.
It was good, as Nirvhanas go, though I've known better. Perfection, like all else, is relative (a fact known to poets and those of an artistic bent, though forever hidden from the pedant). I can tell you, at other times, and other places, I've known my soul soar, swoop, and in orgasmic ecstasy, burst into a million pieces... I kid you not, ecstasi* every bleedin' where! But, I digress...
On this voyage I learned something of myself: I can, though not without effort, co-exist "peaceably" within a group and in confined quarters. I think though, I'll give the, "opportunity of a lifetime: a fortnight's self-catering for six in a miniature submarine", a miss.
* Neologism, of a sort.