Ambience Day 14 - Unexpected Experiences in the North Sea

 “The sea has never been friendly to man. At most it has been the accomplice of human restlessness.”

Joseph Conrad, The Mirror of the Sea

 

Great Moments versus the Journey

 
Over the course of our various travels - along trails such as the Camino Frances, Wainwright’s Coast to Coast and the Trans Canada Trail, we have come to understand something that no map, app or itinerary can ever resolve.  There is no shortcut to navigating the complexities, challenges, and emotions of life, or the journey you are undertaking.

You cannot move cleanly from a beginning to an end. There are no straight lines. And above all else, the most important journey any of us makes is not measured in distance, but in years over a lifetime.

In the most basic terms, we are all born, and we will all die. Everything else lies in how we live in between – through the experiences on the journey.

What we seek, then, is not a destination so much as an openness - a willingness to remain attentive to what takes place along the way. The lessons that matter most are rarely the ones we set out to learn. They appear unexpectedly - often in moments and at times we assume will be quiet or uneventful.

Because even on days that seem unremarkable - days without drama, milestones, or obvious highlights,  a great deal can still happen. Today would prove to be just such a day. What we saw and experienced, again and again, reminded us of the importance of the unexpected.

Quiet Morning on Ambience

 
Sean was already up and out on deck when I woke, having slipped quietly into the morning ahead of me. I lingered a while longer, enjoying the rare luxury of doing nothing at all before eventually cleaning up and heading out to join him.

 
Stepping outside, I began with a slow circuit of the Deck 7 promenade before climbing higher to Deck 12. Warm air drifted across the open areas, and the conditions were unexpectedly gentle. The skies were slate grey, the sea almost black, and the water lay smooth and untroubled beneath the ship. It felt calm in every sense of the word. The temperature hovered somewhere in the range of a cool but comfortable early morning, and there was a sense that we had eased our pace - no longer racing from port to port. 

 
Very few people were awake at this hour. The decks were nearly empty, and the stillness on board created the illusion that the sea belonged entirely to us. With almost no roll, the low hum of the engines faded into the background, and Ambience seemed to skim across the surface rather than push through it.

 
As always, the change in the lighting and conditions arrived quietly. The sky began to brighten, just slightly, and it was then that I noticed a small brown bird flitting low off the stern of the ship. It was a small sighting, but a meaningful one. We hadn’t seen birds like this since leaving Invergordon many days earlier, at the very beginning of the voyage.

A blackbird - actually a Eurasian Blackbird!
 
Its presence was a subtle signal that we had returned to a different realm - one closer to land. Soon, as though to reiterate this sense, we began to spot more sparrows, a pigeon and even a blackbird with a bright orange beak.
 

Remembrance Sunday Service

 
As the morning moved toward late morning, dense banks of fog rolled in and waves of rain swept across the sea, lending the day an unmistakably solemn atmosphere. It was Remembrance Day in the United Kingdom, and a Sunday Remembrance Service was scheduled on board, led by members of the ship’s bridge staff and the chaplain.

 
We dressed quickly and made our way to the service. Inside, the lighting had been deliberately dimmed, and the tone was immediately reverent. Everyone in attendance behaved with quiet respect, and the space felt hushed, encouraging reflection rather than conversation.

The ceremony itself felt noticeably different from Remembrance services I’ve attended in the past, particularly those in Canada. The framing leaned heavily toward the British imperial tradition, a perspective that stood in contrast to the more restrained, often reflective tone I’ve previously encountered. Much of the sermon focused on the idea that younger generations - and society more broadly - do not fully understand what has been gained, or the sacrifices endured, by those who came before.

 
The readings and poems that followed were familiar and resonant, many of them rooted in the shared history of Britain and Canada. Their origins, shaped by the First World War and its aftermath, carried echoes of loss that crossed national boundaries. Hearing them here, at sea, underscored how remembrance traditions have travelled, evolved, and been interpreted differently depending on place and perspective.
 

Foul Attitudes on Board

 
Despite the historic importance of Remembrance Day and reflective attitudes that one naturally associates with this anniversary, it was soon evident that there was a clear shift in passenger attitudes on board.   As my father might say, “the vibe” of the ship, or at least the vibe of passengers’ attitudes, seemed off.  There was an undercurrent of impatience and frustration that seemed to have settled over many passengers, though its source was a mystery to us.

Perhaps people were exhausted. Perhaps the reality of the voyage nearing its end had begun to sink in. Maybe some were already mentally home, focused on logistics, final bills, or what came next. Or perhaps it was something more diffuse and indistinct. Whatever the cause, the atmosphere - at least for the moment - felt noticeably soured.
 
Even throughout the morning, walking the decks, I sensed it. People moved with agitation rather than ease, brushing past one another, snapping remarks, or seeming to walk off their frustrations through sheer momentum. As we headed toward breakfast, an elderly woman stopped us abruptly to scold Sean, insisting that “those who use the stairs are showing off and making fun of their betters.” Moments later, we encountered another passenger berating a crew member for having “missed every meal on board” because (apparently) the elevators were too slow.

 
Inside the Lido, the tension only intensified. While no one expects a buffet to be anything other than chaos disguised as order, outright hostility and confrontation were unexpected. Around us, people queued with visible irritation, carved their food with surprising aggression, and treated minor inconveniences as personal affronts.
 
The behaviour that followed was at times explosive, at times depressing, and at times almost surreal. A man shoved to the front of the line and began shouting his order, erupting when asked, politely, to wait a moment in the queue. Another passenger berated staff over the exact number of cucumber slices on a salad (only 2 and a half - NOT 3!).  Someone demanded a completely new plate of food because the bacon had touched the eggs. Elsewhere, plates were heaped far beyond reason, only to be abandoned with only a mouthful eaten and sent straight to waste before passengers got back up and demanded more food - again heaped beyond reason.

 
What was most disturbing was not the absurdity of individual demands, but the pattern behind them: entitlement expressed almost exclusively through the mistreatment of crew. At times it felt as though people simply wanted to vent, treating staff as disposable - as if being in service meant being obliged to absorb anger and disrespect. It was ugly behaviour, plain and simple.
 
And yet, amid it all, the staff of Ambience remained unfailingly professional  - calm, courteous, and patient in the face of conduct that did not deserve such grace.

 
Perhaps our perspective is shaped by life on the trail, where days are spent wet, tired, and grateful simply for shelter. To us, life aboard a ship still feels like luxury. The standard of living is undeniably high. And yet, for some, it never seems to be enough.
 
Simply put, the attitudes on display were embarrassing, not because people were tired or frustrated, but because of how easily comfort gave way to cruelty.
 

Travel at Sea

 
Over the years, we have come to see that different modes of travel give way to different expectations and attitudes.
 
Travelling by sea offers a chance to experience the world at a slower, more human pace - yet it also exposes an uncomfortable truth about the power imbalance built into modern cruising. Many ships are staffed by crew from the Philippines, India, Indonesia, and the Middle East, people who work extraordinarily long hours with patience and grace. And yet, a small number of passengers carry an outsized sense of entitlement, speaking to staff in ways they would never dare address someone at home. What we witnessed wasn’t just rudeness; it revealed how easily privilege can turn into cruelty when people believe they will never be held accountable. 

The challenge for those of us who love travel is to name this behaviour honestly while championing something better: respect, dignity, curiosity, and the simple recognition that kindness is part of the journey. Travel doesn’t entitle us-if anything, it asks each of us to be more humble.

 
As slow travellers, we’ve always believed that journeys reveal who we really are. On ships, that truth is magnified. Watching a handful of passengers speak sharply-or even cruelly-to the crew was deeply distressing, not because it ruined the Ambience, but because it betrayed a lack of empathy. These are people who keep the vessel running, who work far from home, who greet us with warmth day after day. If travel teaches anything, it’s that we are guests everywhere we go. Kindness is not optional. It’s the compass that tells us we’re heading in the right direction - just as the inverse is also true.
 

Captain’s Noon Announcement

 
At noon, the captain’s announcement provided a brief reset. We were now sailing in the North Sea, though still technically within Norwegian waters. By early evening, we would cross into UK territory - another slow transition amid this sailing.

 
Lunch offered little improvement over the morning’s experience. What should have been a simple break in the day instead felt like an exercise in endurance, reducing even this modest meal to something closer to a contact sport. The atmosphere in the Lido had not softened, and lingering there held little appeal.

 
Fortunately, an excuse presented itself almost immediately. Word spread that a small pod of dolphins had been spotted off the side of the ship. We didn’t hesitate. Grateful for the interruption, we abandoned the Lido and headed back out onto the deck, eager to trade the crowded queues for open air.
 

Eurasian Woodcock in the North Sea

 
While we didn’t spot dolphins that afternoon, something far more unexpected unfolded on deck.
 
As the ship pushed steadily through the North Sea, another birder onboard and I noticed a small, mottled bird tucked beneath a deck chair, barely moving. At first glance, it seemed almost unreal. Then recognition set in: a Woodcock - on the open ocean, hundreds of kilometres from land.

 
The bird looked utterly exhausted. Its cryptic brown plumage blended perfectly with the deck’s muted tones, and it appeared half-asleep, eyes closing and opening slowly. Crew members quickly understood the situation and, with quiet care, left it undisturbed - though nicely sheltered. Word was intentionally kept low-key; too much attention, too many curious onlookers, could easily have tipped the balance for a bird already at the edge of its endurance.
 
This was not just unusual - it was extraordinary.

 
Eurasian Woodcock are birds typically found in damp forests, thickets, and woodland edges, rarely venturing far from cover. They probe soft soil for earthworms with their long, sensitive bills and rely on camouflage and stillness for protection. They are definitely NOT seabirds. They are not strong long-distance over-water fliers.

 
Finding one resting on a ship in the North Sea suggests a bird caught in migration, pushed off course by weather or wind, and forced into a desperate search for refuge wherever it could find it.
 
And in that moment, Ambience became an accidental island.
 

Citizen Science at Sea

 
At this point (and perhaps for some time before now) you might reasonably wonder what I do with all these observations – whether birds, whales or entirely unexpected glimpses of life in places we don’t expect them.
 
For my part, our bird observations are identified, confirmed and submitted to iNaturalist, contributing to a growing global database used by researchers, conservationists and land managers.

 
Highly unusual records, like this woodcock, are also logged under specialized datasets such as Land Birds Flying Offshore and Birds on Ships, including the Birds on Ships project - https://www.inaturalist.org/projects/birds-on-ships .
 
For me, projects like this are especially compelling. After years of watching seabirds from shorelines, trails, and ships - and wondering how much life at sea goes unseen - it’s interesting to know that a single, tired woodcock resting under a deck chair can still add a meaningful data point to a much larger story.
 

Emergency Helicopter Training

 
As the afternoon wore on, and as I continued to check, discreetly and from a distance, on the now-sleeping Eurasian Woodcock, the day delivered yet another unexpected turn.

By mid-afternoon, a ship-wide announcement informed us that Ambience would be participating in a helicopter rescue training exercise. Shortly thereafter, the low, unmistakable thrum of rotor blades began to build over the wind and waves.
 
A helicopter appeared off the ship’s side and settled into a steady hover, holding position with remarkable precision as the vessel continued moving through open water. For nearly half an hour, it remained there, poised and purposeful, while supplies were transferred between aircraft and ship - a deliberate choreography clearly designed to rehearse emergency procedures at sea.

All of this unfolded just off one side of the ship, close enough for passengers to watch but far enough away to underscore the seriousness of the operation. The professionalism was striking. Every movement appeared measured, practiced, and exact -  a reminder of just how much coordination and skill are required when help must come from the air, far from land.
 
What made the moment particularly compelling was the knowledge that no emergency was actually unfolding. There were no injuries, no evacuations, no crisis driving the action. For the crew, this was essential preparation and training that could one day make the difference between life and loss. For those of us watching from the rails, it was sheer spectacle.

 

Then, just as smoothly as it had arrived, the practice session was over, and the helicopter pulled away from the ship as Ambience continued southward to the UK. 

Evening, Dinner and Drinks

 
By late afternoon, we settled back inside, stopping in the Botanical Lounge for a break.  Here we eased into the rhythm of the ship as it transitioned between day and night. I tried a glass of Tío Pepe sherry, its flavours carrying echoes of the Via Augusta and Via de la Plata, while Sean opted for a glass of chilled rosé wine.

 
Having enjoyed our break, we freshened up and changed into our more formal attire before heading to the Buckingham Restaurant for a comfortable and filling dinner. 

 
Later, we drifted back to SW19, where we shared a bottle of rosé wine while we talked about the day’s unexpected events.  Sitting here, the music of one of the talented piano players on board threaded its way through the ship’s central well. 
 
In this manner, the night passed us by.  Then, just before midnight, feeling that the day had given us all it intended to offer, we headed out for one final walk around the upper deck.

 
That was when we noticed it.

 
The air around the ship was suddenly alive with birds. A massive flock of gulls, far larger than earlier in the day, wheeled and surged around Ambience, hundreds of them riding the darkness - above us, alongside us, skimming the edges of the light spilling from the ship.

 
Were they following the glow of the ship's lights?? Chasing fish drawn toward the vessel or its lights? We couldn’t say. We only stood and watched, quietly astonished, as the ship moved forward through a living cloud of wings.
 
See you on deck!
 
Nautical Term for the Day: Show One’s True Colours - Warships sometimes hid their flags until battle was joined. Revealing genuine colours signified intent-now it refers to revealing one’s character.