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When Emily Woodruff first saw Sea Venture on a blue November day, her heart jumped, and she said, “It’s so big'.” Her husband Jim, who misunderstood her or perhaps understood her in a different way, said reverently, “Nothing but the best.” as if he were talking about a new car or a motor home. But none of the brochures had prepared her for this: Sea Venture was incredibly, impossibly big, looming there beyond the heads of the people like some fantastic cloud castle against the sky. The white wall curved up and back; above it were other curves, and beyond them she could see pennants snapping in the sun, and a tall white cylinder, with gulls soaring over it.

Jim was sixty-five, a pink-faced man with white hair brushed smoothly back against his skull. They had been married thirty-five years, good years, on the whole. Their children were grown, and they had grandchildren. Last August Jim had sold his dealerships for a sum that took Emily’s breath away, and he said, “Let’s have a real vacation. Let’s run over to Honolulu for a couple of weeks and then take a cruise on Sea Venture.”

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