There’s a storm approaching. Our ship swayed like a barfly who had gone through several rounds at the pub, and our postures counter each lean of the deck. The passengers around us giggle, almost teetering hysterically. Oh, how exciting. Look, at how the ship see-saws. A passenger, a harried man, anchored his hat to his head with rain-drenched arms as he entered from the weather deck. His companion, a slight, willowy woman in a floral dress, took hold of him, cackling as the vessel careened.

My wife is far from the general jovial mood as she clings to my arm; her constitution finds the oscillation far disagreeable as she gratefully accepts a sick bag from a ship crew. Undeterred, my child, all chaos and mirth contained in his four-year-old frame, stumbles about like he’s a Ninja Warrior contestant.

Me? My sea legs hold steady as I guide my better half towards the Coastal Kitchen restaurant. And as our wolfchild races ahead, my thoughts scatter from I wonder what’s for dinner and then to does the newsletter I sent out read ok. It’s the fourth day of our 10-day cruise and my mind is still in the office, an invisible tether between me and my desk.

My parents loved going on cruises. “It’s the best thing where you do nothing,” said my dad. As the twilight settled in their lives, my parents preferred a vacation that’s hassle-free. A cruise does that, especially a cruise that starts in Singapore. Their last cruise disembarked from Singapore and made its tour along the Malaysian coast.

I see why my parents and their peers enjoy cruises. Statistically, older adults, especially retirees are taken by the convenience and accessibility of cruises. It might hearken to a certain aspirational form of travel—like the grand voyages of yore, where in the old days, ships were the go-to for travel.

As a non-swimmer (ok, maybe I’m a below-average swimmer, who can doggy-paddle somewhat but I will still die in the deep-end of a pool), the idea of being stranded at sea isn’t appealing.

Do I have faith and full confidence in the ship? Sure. Much like the assurance the passengers had on the Titanic before Celine Dion kicked in—you put in as much trust in the thing before it betrays you. (I kid! I love Celine Dion!)

But ocean liner tech has progressed since that cute-meet with the iceberg. The vessel we stayed on is the Ovation of the Seas, one of Royal Caribbean’s Quantum class behemoths. This is the third ship in the class that’s designed for the Asia- Pacific and Australian markets—menus, entertainment and itineraries are tailored around the demographic and locales. All Quantum class ships are equipped with an observation capsule called the North Star, which rises 300 feet above sea level to give you an unparalleled 360° view; RipCord by iFly, an indoor vertical wind tunnel for skydiving; SeaPlex, an indoor sports complex and Two70° Lounge, a high-tech entertainment venue with a 270° ocean view.

While it shares the same architecture and core features as its sister ships, the Ovation of the Seas’ spectacle adjusts to be more nature-focused as it enters the quietest, most cinematic coastlines in the world: the North and South Islands of New Zealand.

We flew into Sydney, Australia to board the Ovation of the Seas as it departs for the ports in New Zealand (Dunedin, Christchurch, Wellington, Picton). En route, it will pass through the storied sounds (Milford, Doubtful and Dusky). The sounds are part of New Zealand’s Fiordland National Park and the broader Te Wahipounamu UNESCO World Heritage Site.

Conservation efforts extend beyond preserving the land and wildlife—there is also the preservation of the acoustic environment. Operators passing through the sounds are required to minimise engine noise, avoid unnecessary disturbances and maintain distance from wildlife.

There’s an eerie and calming mood from the sounds as this giant city slides on through a sequence of long, narrow, steep- sided inlets carved by ancient glaciers. Waterfalls fall in vertical ribbons, the hills are cloaked in rainforest that clings impossibly to sheer rock. Presented with an unspoilt environment, we gawk and take pictures and videos of indomitable rockfaces speckled with green.

This is what a time unsullied by human contact sounds like. Everyone goes quiet (almost) with only the occasional calls of kākās and bellbirds breaking the silence.

I described the Ovation of the Seas as a “giant city” and that’s not hyperbole.
Royal Caribbean International

There’s a two-storey Royal Esplanade that’s replete with duty-free shops and cocktail bars designed for people who think an expensive watch is a personality trait. There’s a robot bar where mechanical arms sling up a cocktail. There are always lines at the Sorrento’s, where people can get New York-style pizzas. Wonderland, a theme restaurant, leans heavily into the “Instagram first, taste second” philosophy. Some nights, we sit in on the music trivia competitions held at the Schooner Bar as my wife and I put our heads together to suss out the title of a five-second music clip.

In the evenings, there are movie screenings—due to the season, Elf and The Grinch, were top draws for families—comedy shows and musical performances. For the more risqué-minded, there are R-rated comedy and cabaret acts. The casinos remain a staple on the cruise ship but what makes it a “city” is the existence of a Starbucks (which is a miracle, given how Australians are about their coffees).

There is some contention on our stay at the Ovation of the Seas: the amount of food that is produced. There are varieties and cuisines of bites that you’re spoilt stupid. You won’t go hungry but I’d wander into that guilty recess thinking about the amount of food that goes to waste.

In fact, if you think about how an ocean liner operates, you start to feel insignificant. Imagine the number of people, from service staff to cleaners, needed. Then, add the people behind the scenes, the engineers who keep the engines running, the deckhands who deal with the mooring and cargo. Picture the living quarters for them and passengers as well. Envisage all the little working cogs in this massive machine; consider that first aid, lifeboats management, security, hospitality, hygiene, supplies… all these things that we tend to overlook, are taken into account. And you have to maintain this level of quality for 10 days without losing your caca.

It’s this sort of rumination that leads to a little bit of existential dread.

We docked at Dunedin, which looks like a slice of Victorian Scotland phased into the New Zealand’s South Island landscape. Founded by Scottish settlers in the 19th century, it still bears their architectural and cultural fingerprints from the Old Country—spires, stone churches, steep streets, the historic Dunedin Railway Station. Beneath the Edwardian architecture and student-town energy, there’s a wildness here.

Dunedin is the second-largest city on the South Island, but it doesn’t feel big. It’s layered instead: stately buildings downtown, grungy music venues near the university, and bushy reserves and ocean cliffs just a short drive away. Our day ashore was spent at George Street, which offered boutique shopping and cafes. The area is walkable, compact and noticeably cooler than much of New Zealand. We took a stroll to Dunedin Railway Station, an ornate Flemish Renaissance structure with mosaic floors and stained glass, and perused an art show on the second level before returning to the ship.

Our next port of call was supposed to be at Christchurch but due to strong winds, the ship opted to stay at sea, which is when my wife’s seasickness entered the chat.

When told about the cruise, my friend friend told me about his fear of the ocean and the impossibility of him being on a ship. But you’re supposed to love the ocean. It’s marketed as serene, romantic, freeing even.

But thalassophobia is the wrench in the gears. I think, my friend’s thalassophobia isn’t the fear of water but rather, what the water hides.

Eighty per cent of the world’s ocean is still uncharted; we are still discovering new species of aquatic life. That sort of unknown—the yawning, endless darkness—hides something primordial. Cthulhu waits dreaming.

And yet, for all its abject terror, there’s a perverse beauty in it too. There's no pretence when it comes to the ocean. It doesn’t lie. It doesn’t pretend to be safe, it simply is. It’s a force too big to tame, too old to charm.

Our stateroom is the junior suite with a balcony that looks out into the ocean. Sometimes, I’d sit outside and just… lose myself in that endless horizon of blue.

It’s a little frightening how easily I could lapse into that fugue state and forget that I’m here on vacation with my family.

Wellington feels like a city permanently leaning into the wind, both literally and creatively. Compact, hilly, the streets wind steeply up Mount Victoria and plunge down to a working harbour ringed with galleries, bars, and bookshops.

It may be the country’s political capital, but it’s more famous for being a cultural hub. This is Wellywood (a portmanteau of Wellington and Hollywood), where its film industry is the second-largest employer in the state. Wētā Workshop and Wētā Digital are based here and are major players in special effects in many major Hollywood projects.

We opted for a shore excursion, the Lord of the Rings Tour in the Wellington region. Accompanied by Robbie Tichener, who was the background actor for many Peter Jackson’s movies, most notably King Kong and The Lord of the Rings trilogy, we travel through the seaside suburb of Miramar to visit the Wētā Cave, a museum dedicated to Wētā Workshop’s work. There, we were privy to the company’s history and contribution to the movies. My wife and I were agog over many of Wētā’s props and behind-the-scenes footage; my kid, oblivious to the context but he was intrigued by the props until he was bored by the guide’s exposition.

Tichener took us to Mount Victoria Park, a mix of steep forest trails, open clearings, and sudden glimpses of the harbour. It happens to be the shooting location for the Nazgûl’s pursuit of the hobbits in The Lord of the Rings. Pointing to a spot known unofficially as the “Hobbit Hideaway,” Tichener pulled back the curtain on how the scene was shot. It’s amazing what camera angles and forced perspective can do to illicit the fantastical and otherworldliness of Middle-earth, all in the backyard of a public park.

Of course, my kid has no inkling of the significance of the set. Instead, he is awed by the old radiata pines and macrocarpa—tall, straight, and densely packed. They were planted more than 100 years ago, when Wellington was shaping its wild hills into parks. Today, the canopy is high and thin, sharp beamsof light filter through, sifting as the wind moves its branches. The kid picks up a fallen needle, the air redolent with the dry, resinous scent of pine.

I smile at the moment. Mount Victoria Park held our interests but for entirely different reasons.

Time feels off on the ship.

The way time bends: mornings blur into mimosa-fuelled brunches. Afternoons dissolve into activities on the deck or at the arcades. Dinners are formal, or themed, or both. Sometimes your food has a little too much salt in it. Always, people are friendly and smiling.

As the ship sails further south, the days feel shorter, the days feel like they have rolled into one another. Even with a WiFi package and access to the Internet, you sometimes forget that your smartphone exists. You remember how to look at the horizon.

The unbroken line of the sea stretches into forever and as the ship bobs and hums beneath your feet like a sleeping beast. You don’t recall the contents of that newsletter you’ve sent out, nor do you care for what was on them. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like a bad thing.

At Picton, most passengers spill out and immediately head toward the nearest ferries to visit the Kaipupu Sanctuary or the Edwin Fox Maritime Museum. We opted for a more terrestrial day out at the Marlborough’s endless vineyards.

Blessed with foresight, the wife has arranged for lunch at Saint Clair Family Estate Vineyard Kitchen. It’s all big skies and bigger vines as we travelled and we arrived already half-drunk on the scenery.

Already bustling with families scattered across a sun-drenched terrace. We were showed to our table outside; the umbrellas flap lazily in the breeze and the air trills with the sporadic cries of children laughing, wine glasses clinking.

First order of business is the wine, the weirdly named Pioneer Block 3 43 Degrees Sauvignon Blanc. Bright, citrus-sharp, you’re forgiven for every time you’ve ever said no to a second glass at lunch.

The afternoon was a delight of Cloudy Bay clams, steeped in an aromatic broth that I sopped up with bread. There’s a lamb dish that smells of rosemary and slow-cooked to a point that the meat collapses at the mere suggestion of a fork.

We would have spent more time at Saint Clair but they were strict with the timing to disembark. Timing-wise, we had almost an hour on the shuttle back as it drop/pick-up passengers at the different vineyards.

Once high-hung, the sun now curls towards the hills. The return back to the dock is long but it is enough time for a nap and how often do we ever have the privilege of 40 winks after a meal?

You learn to love the sea in degrees.

The trepidation sits in your stomach like a ball when you hit the gangway, that narrow bridge where your land-loving brain wrestles with the fact that you’re about to live in a floating hotel for a week. And with a wife and an excitable small child, to boot.

But give it time and you slowly sink into a welcomed familiarity. Day in, day out, the lay of the ship becomes routine. You remember the directions of “port” and “starboard” are. You’re on first name basis with Gracil, who serves you each evening at the Coastal Kitchen. You’ve eaten too much. You’ve let go—just a little, floating like just another leaf in the grand scheme of things.