… is always more romantic in theory than in practice.
Sitting at the stern and gazing into the endless blue, for instance, is not quite as idyllic for the subject as it is for the observer. The Antarctic Ocean wind, whipping relentlessly from ever changing directions, hits the face like (for the want of something more eloquent) a giant mosquito swatter. The chill first seeps through the boots into the tip of the toes, creeps up the ankles, calves, and then to the rest of the body. Finally, the disillusioned traveller would leave the bench and resolutely head for the ship’s library for a nice hot cup of tea instead.
So much for seafaring adventures.