Dateline November 22, 2022, Aqaba and the Days at Sea

From Safaga we crossed the Red Sea by night and woke at Aqaba, Jordan's one seaport.

Aqaba. Aqaba is an old place, going back to the Iron Age, a link on the trade routes that ran down from Damascus along the King's Highway, the road that runs the length of Jordan. Today it is a pleasant city given over to water sports. For a cruise ship, the reason to stop is Petra, a couple of hours inland.

We had seen Petra weeks before, on our own, and were doubly glad of it now. Several friends from the ship came back with sorry tales: the ship had docked late, and by the time everyone sorted out transport, they had perhaps two hours at Petra before they had to turn around. Two hours is nothing there. We felt for them. If you ever go, give Petra the better part of a day; it is simply stunning.

Out into the Red Sea. Leaving Aqaba, we settled in for four days at sea, down the Red Sea past Saudi Arabia and out into the Gulf of Aden, between Yemen and Somalia, before turning northeast for Oman and the Emirates.

Our bar. Days at sea have their own rhythm: a while by the pool in the morning, a quiet card room where we worked on these very stories, and then, at five o'clock, the Martini Bar on the sixth deck, which we soon called "our bar." The bartenders had our drinks waiting before we sat down.

We grew fond of the crew. Many were senior hands who had been let go in the long Covid shutdown, and their accounts of those years at home, from every corner of the world, were something to hear; they grieved the friends who were never hired back.

Good company. Two couples joined us most evenings: Peter and Brenda Ackroyd, from Holme-on-Spalding-Moor in Yorkshire, and George and Ruth Kirkbride, from Scotland. George's brogue was so broad that even the English among us lost the thread of him now and then. We hope to see them all again.

Pirate waters. One evening we sat over cocktails as the ship turned into the Gulf of Aden. The night before, a letter had appeared in every cabin: we were entering a high-risk area and were to keep our balcony lights off after dark on account of pirates, though with the American and British navies watching the waters off Somalia there was little real cause for worry.

Then one night, in the middle of our cocktails, a small boat came up to the side of the ship where the pilots board, two men aboard, dressed in black. Someone said "pirates," and the younger passengers went a little pale. We watched a good while; the men were handed something, waved their thanks, and sped back to their own ship. We had been passing supplies, food or medicine, to another vessel. It made for a lively evening.

With the open sea behind us, we made for Oman and the new cities of the Gulf.