I wake to the sound of coughing. Muffled as it is though the ferry's cabin walls, its the unmistakable sound of...consumption.
I peer out the window and the world has changed. The jagged old peaks wreathed in snow are gone, replaced by low, rolling crumbling hills. And the first small icebergs. Its another stellar morning, and by the time I wander up on deck the Danish tour group, elderly but still spry enough to pushy and kind of abrasive, have monopolized all the lounge chairs again, clustered in their smug little circle of cargo pants and orthopedic clogs.
It's dead calm and the morning sun feels positively sultry. Hard to imagine , but it's shirt sleeve weather at sea above the arctic circle. I try to gather up all the warmth I can and store it up for later, when conditions are less conducive.
We cruise past ever more spectacular bergs, great ice castles and cathedrals floating past in the summer sun. Passengers cram the rails, recording it all. I join the fray of course.