Sydney wasn’t supposed to be dramatic. Just a gentle port call and a quiet wander. But the wind had other plans—The captain, with the kind of calm decisiveness that makes you trust strangers with your life, chose to anchor offshore rather than attempt a docking maneuver that could turn theatrical in all the wrong ways. Safety first, of course—but it meant the dreaded tender ride. Or, as they now call them, “water shuttles,” as if a rebrand could make the experience less like a carnival ride choreographed by a seasick octopus!

I’ve never been fond of them. The lurching, the waiting, the vague sense that you’re participating in a group trust exercise with the sea. But we got on. What else can you do when adventure insists?

Once ashore, Sydney unfolded like a watercolor—soft, inviting, and just a little sleepy. The wind felt more like a companion than a threat. We wandered without agenda, letting the town reveal itself in quiet corners: a mural tucked behind a bakery, a man taking a break on a bench by the police station…We took photos—of each other, of nothing, of everything.

We passed the world’s largest fiddle—a 60-foot steel tribute to Cape Breton’s Celtic spirit—standing proudly on the waterfront like it was daring the wind to try something.

Back aboard the ship, we watched Sydney fade into the mist. It hadn’t been dramatic after all—just quietly beautiful, like a poem you didn’t expect to love.