There was only one day left on the ship when I saw him talking with the hotel manager, going over the next day’s disembarkation plans. The moment he noticed me, he broke off the conversation, called out my name, and casually asked, “So, where are you off to after this?”

I said, “More traveling. Hiking in Norway, then Iceland. I’ll board a ship from there to Greenland. After that, back to Portugal to deal with my apartment, then Israel, Ireland, and the UK for work. I probably won’t be back in Lisbon until November.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Why Israel?”

I smiled. “It’s the last Middle Eastern destination I haven’t developed for my clients. Got to cross it off.”

Then I asked, “What about you?”

He told me he spends five months of the year at sea, five months on land. When he’s not working, he lives in a small wooden cabin passed down from his ancestors, nestled in a forest that's been in the family for 45 years.

We kept chatting like that, back and forth, and I could feel the hotel staff listening nearby, probably wondering if these two would ever shut up.

The day before disembarkation, I returned to the Bridge. He asked if I had any regrets, anything I hadn’t seen.

I said, “Whales. I must be cursed. I’ve tried whale watching in Antarctica, Iceland, Australia, and Norway—not once have I seen one. I’m basically a whale repellent.”

He said, “Come to the Bridge at 8 PM. You’ll see a fin whale.”

The first mate added, “We could take a different route and maybe spot another species.”

He looked at me and said, “Sissi’s never seen a fin whale. Let’s take the Hot Line.”

That night was the Captain’s Dinner. I barely ate and showed up at the Bridge right on time. The first mate handed me a pair of binoculars.

That night, I finally shed my curse.

Back in Antarctica, every time the horn sounded and someone shouted “10 o’clock, whale sighting!” I would race out to the deck—and the whale would be gone. One of my travel buddies even joked, “Next time there’s a whale, just stay inside. I’ll go watch it for you, so you don’t scare it off.”

But that night, I truly saw one.

During the dinner, we found out that this voyage was almost cut short on day three. The ship’s main engine had broken down, and while we were busy enjoying BBQ for four hours, the crew had been frantically repairing it. They repurposed a discarded engine from the shore door, swapped out the backup, and got us running again. If it hadn’t worked, we would’ve missed the rest of the journey—and I would’ve missed the bears I loved most.

After the whale sighting, he returned to the Bridge. I stayed quietly in the corner, listening to him explain the whole ordeal to an elderly couple. He said headquarters wanted to turn back. He had tried to dock at another port for repairs but was denied. So, he bargained for those four BBQ hours—and somehow, it worked.

That summer, in the Arctic, to me, he was calm. Quiet. Responsible. Steady. A man I respected.

The next morning, as I prepared to leave, he messaged me asking where I was. He wanted to return the rest of the saffron I’d given him. I told him I was in the lounge, sipping tea and staring out the window.