Today marks the beginning of seven uninterrupted sea days as we make our way across the Indian Ocean toward Singapore, a stretch of time many passengers groan about, but for us, it feels like a gift. There’s a rhythm to sea days that always suits us, a gentle lull between ports that offers space to breathe, reflect, and settle into whatever pace our bodies and minds can manage. And right now, with my knee still healing from that unfortunate fall almost two weeks ago, these slower, quieter days feel perfectly timed.

When I woke up this morning, the ship was already swaying ever so slightly, that familiar cradle-like motion that reminds me we’re suspended between continents, travelers in transit with nowhere we need to be. I felt that tiny twinge in my knee when I stood, the kind that has become my daily reminder to take things slowly. But I also noticed something else, just a bit less stiffness, a bit more confidence in each step. It’s funny how healing rarely announces itself with fanfare. Instead, it arrives in small increments, almost shyly, as if checking whether we’re paying attention. And believe me, I am.

These sea days will give me the chance to keep easing along, letting my knee recover without the pressure of rushing off the ship or navigating uneven walkways in a bustling port. We’ve learned over the years that part of long-term travel is honoring our bodies exactly as they are. Some days, they can carry us off to explore wild landscapes and historic cities. Other days, they insist on rest, on tenderness, on adjusting the pace to something more forgiving. And that’s okay. After all, the journey isn’t only about where we go. It’s also about how we move through it.

We’ll likely spend our mornings in our usual spot in the Promenade Café, sipping the ship’s complimentary coffee while we tap away on our laptops. There’s a kind of simple comfort in that routine, the way familiar spaces become little anchors in a lifestyle filled with constant motion. I can already picture the steady hum of passengers passing by, the soft clatter of cups being gathered, and the low background music playing something easy and familiar. And even if I have to sit a little longer than usual or shift in my seat on the banquet against the wall to give my knee a break, it’s still one of my favorite parts of ship life.

The afternoons will probably drift by the way they often do, with perhaps a trivia game in the Schooner Bar or other area, or a quiet hour resting with ice on my knee in the cabin. I’ve learned to let go of any guilt about “missing” activities or not doing as much as others might on a sea day. There’s something freeing about accepting that enjoyment doesn’t have to be measured by movement or activity. Sometimes the greatest pleasure is simply watching the ocean glide by like a sheet of blue silk, its surface catching the light in ways that shift with every passing hour.

I keep imagining what it will feel like to finally step off the ship in Singapore, hopefully with a knee that’s vastly improved by then. That small hope of steadier footing, of walking through the bustling port without wincing, keeps me encouraged. But I’m also content with these seven days stretched out before us like a soft landing. They’re a reminder that healing, whether physical or emotional, often happens in the quiet spaces, the unhurried moments when life permits us to slow down.

So we’ll take these sea days as they come, one sunrise, one gentle swell, one careful step at a time, trusting that by the time we reach Singapore, both my knee and my spirit will feel a little lighter. From there, the third leg of our 47-night sea journey will begin as we make our way to Brisbane, Australia.

Meeting passengers on the ship who tell us they’ve been reading our posts over the years is both surprising and undeniably uplifting. Even after all this time of sharing our daily musings, it still catches us off guard when someone approaches with a warm smile and says they feel as if they already know us. There’s an endearing sweetness in those moments, a gentle reminder that our words don’t just drift into the void but somehow land softly in the lives of others.

Often, these encounters happen in the most unexpected places—waiting for an elevator, sipping coffee in the café, or shuffling into a trivia session. A casual hello quickly turns into a heartfelt exchange, where they share how they’ve followed our journey through ports, storms, triumphs, and mishaps. We listen, humbled, realizing that our little window into this nomadic life has quietly woven itself into someone else’s routine.

What touches us most is the genuine kindness behind their words. They aren’t praising or critiquing—they’re simply connecting, human to human, reminding us that even in this transient world of ever-changing passengers and ports, and tourists and towns, there are threads of familiarity. And in those unexpected threads, we feel appreciated and incredibly grateful.

Be well.

Photo from ten years ago today, November 23, 2015: