July–August 2025 • Holland America Line • Zuiderdam
Every great journey begins with a first step.
Ours began with a flight from Atlanta to Boston.
As the plane pushed back from the gate, we weren't just heading to another cruise. We were beginning a 35-day voyage across the North Atlantic—a journey that would take us to Greenland, Iceland, Europe, and back again.
Neither of us knew exactly what to expect.
That's part of the magic.
Boston greeted us with beautiful weather, history around every corner, and enough walking to convince us we'd accidentally signed up for a fitness program instead of a vacation.
We explored the city, wandered through historic districts, visited churches that had witnessed the birth of a nation, and enjoyed more than one excellent seafood meal.
Most importantly, we were together.
That was enough.
On July 19, we arrived at the cruise terminal and met our home for the next five weeks.
HAL Zuiderdam.
She wasn't the newest ship in the fleet.
She didn't need to be.
There was something comforting about her.
Welcoming.
Familiar.
The kind of ship where people quickly become friends.
Within hours we were settled into our cabin, meeting fellow travelers, and beginning the process of learning what would become our daily routine.
Ocean Bar.
Dinner.
Shows.
Conversations.
Sleep.
Repeat.
The adventure had officially begun.
The first days unfolded through Portland, Maine, and Sydney, Nova Scotia.
There were lighthouses.
Lake cruises.
Fog.
Rain.
And plenty of opportunities to discover that cruise plans are often just educated guesses.
One evening the Captain announced he wasn't entirely certain we could dock in Sydney.
The next morning we arrived with the wind at our back.
The ship performed a graceful 180-degree turn and slipped alongside the pier.
Game on.
Sydney welcomed us.
The voyage was underway.
The farther north we sailed, the more the world changed.
Fog became our constant companion.
The ship's foghorn sounded endlessly.
Sometimes it felt as though the windows had been painted white.
We attended lectures about narwhals—the unicorns of the sea—and learned about the ports awaiting us in Greenland.
Time zones shifted.
Clocks moved.
Days blended together.
And slowly, almost imperceptibly, the world became wilder.
If there was one day that defined Greenland, this was it.
Cold.
Windy.
Foggy.
Wet.
Perfect.
Most passengers wisely remained indoors.
Not us.
A handful of hardy souls gathered on the forward outside deck near the gym.
The wind whipped across the ship.
Rain soaked our jackets.
Fog drifted between towering mountains.
Passengers inside looked at us as though we'd lost our minds.
Perhaps we had.
But we weren't about to miss this.
Small icebergs floated silently past.
Waterfalls cascaded down sheer rock faces.
Mountains vanished into low clouds.
The scenery was unlike anything we'd ever experienced.
Then another Holland America ship appeared.
The Volendam.
Two HAL ships meeting in one of the most remote waterways on Earth.
Passengers lined both rails waving.
Cameras clicked.
Smiles appeared everywhere.
It felt special.
Moments later we passed one of the most beautiful icebergs of the voyage.
Not the largest.
Not the tallest.
But perhaps the most striking.
A brilliant blue jewel floating silently in Greenland's icy waters.
Lorraine and I stood together in the rain.
Cold?
Absolutely.
Worth it?
Every second.
After all, I could always get warm later in the arms of my bride.
The next morning we arrived at Paamiut.
By 8:15 I was bundled up on the bow watching Greenland emerge from the fog.
Icebergs drifted silently nearby.
The coastline appeared like a ghost through the mist.
Lorraine joined me.
We stood together without saying much.
Sometimes words aren't necessary.
A tender ride brought us ashore.
We wandered.
Explored.
Observed.
Life here felt difficult.
The town carried visible signs of hardship.
A local video discussing suicide rates left a lasting impression.
The statistics were heartbreaking.
Yet the people we encountered were respectful and resilient.
Not unfriendly.
Just cautious.
Life in Greenland isn't easy.
We climbed the hill overlooking town.
My knee wasn't thrilled.
The view was worth every step.
Later we visited the local church.
Quiet.
Simple.
Beautiful.
We sat together and said a prayer before leaving a donation and stepping back into the Arctic air.
Greenland wasn't what we expected.
It was more beautiful.
More complicated.
And more human.
Iceland felt different.
More developed.
More connected to the outside world.
One highlight came in Ísafjörður.
A small boat carried us into the remote Hornstrandir Nature Reserve.
We hiked through untouched landscapes, visited a waterfall, and enjoyed Icelandic snacks in a small summer house.
The scenery was spectacular.
The rain arrived right on schedule.
Back in town we chatted with a young woman preparing for college.
If she'd said she was from Miami or Los Angeles, we'd have believed her.
Instagram and TikTok have made the world smaller.
That realization stayed with me.
As the days passed, something happened.
The ship stopped feeling like transportation.
It became home.
One morning we awoke to the famous Zuiderdam Animal Zoo.
The housekeeping staff had transformed the pool deck into a whimsical display of towel animals.
Everywhere you looked, there were creations made from towels, imagination, and patience.
It was impossible not to smile.
Elsewhere aboard, a towel sculpture appeared dressed in elaborate costume, looking more like royalty than laundry.
The crew constantly found ways to surprise us.
And they worked hard.
Very hard.
During one particularly cold and rainy sea day, Lorraine and I sat on the pool deck watching the scenery.
The Lido and pool deck teams never stopped moving.
Hot coffee appeared.
Meals arrived.
Smiles were constant.
Service wasn't just good.
It was exceptional.
Orange Night became one of the most memorable evenings of the voyage.
The Lido Pool area was transformed into a sea of orange decorations, music, dancing, and laughter.
DJ Jose kept the crowd moving for hours.
What made the night special wasn't the decorations.
It was the people.
Crew members joined guests on the dance floor.
Bar staff danced.
Stewards danced.
Everyone danced.
For one evening, passengers and crew became one giant family.
After more than thirty-five cruises, it remains one of the most joyful nights I've experienced at sea.
Another unforgettable evening took place in the Crow's Nest.
A Gatsby-themed murder mystery.
Crew members played suspects.
Guests played detectives.
An emerald had been stolen.
Eight suspects stood accused.
Lorraine, Dawn, Bill, and I took the investigation seriously.
And solved it.
The atmosphere was electric.
Management served drinks.
The Captain attended.
The bridge crew mingled with guests.
And later, after I casually suggested the painted wine bottles shouldn't be discarded, one magically appeared in our cabin.
A perfect souvenir.
A perfect night.
Not every port becomes a favorite.
Rotterdam reminded us of that.
Kinderdijk was wonderful.
The historic windmills exceeded expectations.
Steep stairways.
Tiny living quarters.
Remarkable engineering.
Everything we hoped for.
The rest?
Not so much.
The Market Hall disappointed.
The Cube Houses failed to live up to the photos.
Even the Food Hall left us unimpressed.
Fortunately, Lorraine found chocolate bars for the crew.
I found tomato-flavored potato chips.
And we both found another story to tell.
One sea day brought difficult news.
Dawn learned her mother, who was in hospice care, had stopped eating.
Suddenly ports and excursions seemed far less important.
We researched flights home from Dublin.
Offered to help with luggage.
Promised support.
Because that's what friends do.
That same afternoon a helicopter medical evacuation took place.
A reminder that life continues even while we're traveling.
Joy.
Sadness.
Adventure.
Concern.
All sharing the same day.
By the time we reached Halifax, the voyage was beginning to feel finite.
A hurricane had disrupted schedules.
Ships were changing itineraries.
Passengers were talking about home.
We enjoyed dinner at The Stubborn Goat.
Explored the waterfront.
Found a Tim Hortons coffee mug we'd been searching for.
Visited a church scarred by the Halifax Explosion.
Failed spectacularly in our quest to buy a Rolex.
And spent a peaceful afternoon on the veranda.
Seventy degrees.
Sunshine.
A gentle breeze.
Perfection.
Eventually every voyage ends.
The final sea days arrived.
Suitcases reappeared.
Addresses were exchanged.
Goodbyes began.
The Atlantic Ocean that had once seemed endless now felt surprisingly small.
As we sailed toward Boston one final time, the sunset painted the water gold.
It was beautiful.
Bittersweet.
Perfect.
The next day we disembarked.
The journey was over.
Or so it seemed.
Because the truth is this:
The best trips never really end.
They live on in stories.
In photographs.
In souvenirs.
In friendships.
And in memories shared between two people fortunate enough to explore the world together.
There were icebergs.
Waterfalls.
Fog.
Wind.
Orange Nights.
Animal Zoos.
Tender rides.
Helicopter evacuations.
Great meals.
Bad GPS directions.
Wonderful people.
And one incredible ship.
But when I think back on the Voyage of the Vikings, that's not what I remember first.
I remember standing on a cold deck in Greenland.
Rain falling.
Mountains disappearing into the fog.
Lorraine beside me.
Watching the world pass by.
And thinking:
"Life is pretty darn good."
❤️
Love my bride. 🚢🌎❤️