Day 4 on QM2 – Looking Outward. Birding the Atlantic

“You can never cross the ocean unless you have the courage to lose sight of the shore.”

 

Christopher Columbus

 

Through the Efforts of the Crew

 

By the fourth day on board and at sea, the crossing felt as though it had settled into itself and that we had relaxed into it.  The days had begun to take on a recognizable shape, defined by familiar routines and predictable activities.  Yet as we relaxed, it was clear that the ship never does.

 

Queen Mary 2, a vessel almost constantly on the go with a crew that is itself constantly in motion.  Day or night, the crew is always working, cleaning, repairing, and refining.  Hallway carpets are vacuumed, railings wiped down and polished, and statues are dusted.   The liner may feel serene to us, but it is maintained through relentless effort.

 

Our luxury and time relaxing come through the hard-working efforts and professionalism of QM2’s terrific crew. 

 

We have come to realize that the beauty of this voyage is not luxury alone. It is pace. A transatlantic crossing offers something increasingly rare - time and the opportunity to simply be.

 

Birthday Morning on Queen Mary 2

 

Our fourth day on Cunard's Queen Mary 2 began around seven.  Not long after Sean was showered, dressed and making coffee while I lingered under the duvet a few minutes longer.   As this went on, a small knock at our door revealed a ship’s steward who was delivering a letter from the Captain.  Curious, I opened it and discovered that I had been sent a card from the Captain wishing me a happy birthday – a thoughtful gesture that was entirely unexpected but greatly appreciated.

 

Who would ever have thought to have a birthday in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean?

 

Soon after, Sean slipped upstairs to the open decks, and eventually I too got out of bed, dressed, pulled my hair back into a ponytail and left the comfort of our cabin. 

 

Passing through the King’s Court Lido, I grabbed a coffee and stepped out into the morning air to find a spot from which I could watch the sunrise over the ocean. There’s something magical about witnessing the transition from night to day, especially on the open sea, where the colours of the sky and water seem more vivid. Today, the sun was casting a warm glow of soft pinks that were reflected in the waters of the ocean around the ship.   The light offshore somehow seems different than on land – feels less filtered, less interrupted. 

 

At the aft railing, Sean was watching gulls trailing the ship.  Even several days out, birds still found us and were riding the air currents stirred by the liner’s passage. When the colours began to soften and the morning’s display gave way to full daylight, we turned and set off together toward breakfast.

 

Breakfast in Britannia        

 

Part of our daily ritual was breakfast in Britannia Restaurant.  Four days into our voyage, we knew where we liked to sit, what roughly what we would order and enjoyed eating.   The formality of the evening in this room was softened in the mornings.  Suits and gowns were replaced with sweaters and walking shoes. 

 

Sometimes we were seated with others; sometimes we had a table to ourselves. Either way, the pattern was familiar – strong coffee poured promptly, fruit offered, toast delivered in quiet succession.  Outside the tall windows, the Atlantic offered no reference points.  Both the skies and sea shifted between slate greys and muted blues that were occasionally textured by winds and sea swells. 

 

This morning, I ordered pancakes with blueberries and maple syrup while Sean chose his now-standard ham and cheese omelette, accompanied by a vegetarian sausage.  While not extravagant, it was what we enjoyed and was more than enough to begin the day.

 

Notes from the Navigator and Daily Program Activities

 

Once again, our morning meal was unrushed and amazing.   According to the daily program, today as we continue “At Sea, En Route to Southampton.”

 

 “Queen Mary 2 will pass roughly 250 nautical miles abeam of the Titanic wreck site which lies to the south of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland, Canada.  The Grand Banks form part of the continental shelf extending from Newfoundland and North America into the Atlantic.  Known for both its abundance of marine life as well as infamous fog patches, the Grand Banks are a rich natural resource.”

 

As usual, aside from these notes from the navigator were lists of potential activities that passengers could enjoy.  Today, as QM2 pulls away from North America and land the activities that we could partake in include,

 

10:00 AM - Watercolour Art Class with Christopher Madden

11:15 AM - Waltz Dance Class with Yevhen and Daria

1:15 PM - Cunard Insight Talk : Robert Macomber – Maritime History

2:00 PM - Classical Concert : Mark Ashford

3:30 PM - Afternoon Tea with the Harmony String Trio

5:00  PM - Harpist Fiona McGee

8:45 PM - Party Night with Clique Party Band – G32

 

Sailing the Grant Banks of Newfoundland

 

The waters near the Grand Banks of Newfoundland have long been known for their fog, created when the cold Labrador Current meets the warmer Gulf Stream. These nutrient-rich shallows sustained centuries of cod fisheries but also earned a reputation as one of the most treacherous stretches of the North Atlantic. Here, dense fog, shifting sandbanks, and heavy shipping traffic make vigilance essential. 

 

As one crew member noted, to pass near the Banks is to voyage through waters that historically have demanded caution.

 

Bird Watching in the North Atlantic

 

After breakfast, we had planned to attend a lecture on the history of palace theatres. Instead, as we stood near the windows finishing our coffee, we noticed flashes of movement – birds!

 

Plans adjusted quickly. We returned to the cabin for binoculars - once again finding the room quietly refreshed in our absence - and stepped out onto the promenade.

 

For those who know us or who have read about our journeys, this might not sound like an unusual thing for us to do.  On board, though, it marked a small shift. Rather than moving from event to event, we chose what suited the moment and let the rest fall away. The crossing began to feel less like a program to complete and more like a lived break.

 

As such, we spent our morning on the open deck, feeling the ocean breeze and the gentle roll of the ship beneath our feet. The ocean has a calming effect that’s hard to describe, but easy to experience. The rhythmic sound of the waves lapping against the hull of the ship becomes a meditative soundtrack to our days.

 

Fulmars appeared first - dozens of them - shearing low across the surface, banking effortlessly in the ship’s disturbed air. We met David along the rail, who confirmed the identification. A few shearwaters cut across the swell farther out, more direct and purposeful in flight. Several Herring Gulls circled nearer to the ship.

 

We moved forward to the observation area near the bridge, beside the Commodore’s cufflinks  - the spare propeller blades mounted as sculpture. There a mixed flock of gulls and Northern Gannets gathered in the wind currents along the superstructure. They slid upward along the rising air, hovered briefly, then tipped forward and dropped along the bow, only to circle and repeat the pattern.

 

They were not fighting the wind. They were using it.  Each gust required subtle corrections - a slight tilt of the wing, a fractional adjustment - but the control was absolute. The capacity of these birds to cross vast stretches of Atlantic, to feed, to breed, to survive in conditions that test steel hulls and engineered vessels, is astonishing.

 

Standing there, the wind would pull at our jackets and hair – a subtle reminder that despite the ship’s comforts and stability, we were very much exposed to the elements – a small cork in a vast sea.

Eventually, we made our way aft.  On the rear pool deck, the water shifted visibly with the ship’s motion, sloshing against its edges. Some days, the pool was netted over, depending on conditions. Most passengers seemed to favour the hot tubs, leaving the main pool quieter.

Standing by the aft pool, we noticed something unexpected - especially for the mid Atlantic - a White-throated Sparrow hopping along the teak decking.  Was this a trapped traveller?  A windblown migrant carried offshore?  Or simply a bird resting where it could before continuing on?  It paused briefly, alert and composed, before disappearing over the railing.

Amazing!  Even out here, far from land, life persists in small, determined ways.

 

Seascapes, Wake Watching and Random Thoughts

 

Standing at the stern of the ship, we watched the wake of Queen Mary 2 as it traced the route we had completed behind us off to the horizon.  It formed a long white line that gradually dissolved into darker blue.  The pattern shifted constantly, braided foam, widening arcs, bubbles, and turned waters rejoining the ocean’s swells. 

 

There was something unexpectedly absorbing about watching the ship’s wake.  There is something unexpectedly absorbing about watching a ship’s wake. Perhaps it was because it offered proof of motion in an environment where distance is otherwise hard to measure.

 

Silence at sea is not the same as silence on land. On shore, quite often means absence - no cars, no voices, no machinery. At sea, you are enveloped in sound: wind moving across superstructure, the low, constant hum of engines, water pressing against steel. And yet it felt silent and calm here.  This sense felt reiterated by the fact that, despite travelling along one of the busiest transatlantic shipping corridors in the world, we saw very few other ships. Beyond the faint lights of distant fishing vessels the night before, the horizon remained empty of manmade structures.

 

As we stood there a German couple asked Sean if he might photograph them against the railing.  He did, and in return, they took one of us.  Later, we fell into conversation with one of the onboard birders, a Canadian with whom we compared notes from the morning – fulmars, shearwaters, gulls and more unidentified seabirds.

 

For years, we had wondered what birdlife truly occupied the mid-Atlantic. How seabirds survive and what species ride the winds between continents.  Today provided small but tangible answers.  From fulmars gliding effortlessly in the ship’s wake to shearwaters tracing the waves and the occasional gannet or kittiwake sweeping in from the weather side, the ocean felt like an open-air classroom.

 

What becomes clear on a crossing like this is that the Atlantic is anything but featureless. It is layered with currents, shaped by weather systems, and structured by invisible boundaries of temperature and depth. It remains one of the world’s busiest trade routes and one of its most biologically active marine systems. We often hear that humanity knows more about the Moon than about the deep ocean beneath us. Whether entirely accurate or not, standing here it feels plausible.

 

While some dressed fashionably and others marched to get their steps in around the panoramic decks of the vessel, we stood along the rails, shifting positions on board from time to time, to watch for whales, birds, and life in the middle of the ocean.

 

To some, standing in the wind and sea spray day after day, staring into a grey horizon might seem like a waste of time.  After all, there are buffets to enjoy, lectures to attend, theatre productions to watch, shops to browse, and bars to drink in.  Bus for us, amid the rolling waves and salt settling on our shirts and jackets, the act of watching felt entirely perfect.

 

Atlantic Seabirds

 

At one point, we retreated inside to warm our hands and bodies.  We took this time to wander into the library. There, among shelves of maritime history and travel memoirs, we found a book on seabirds and carried it back to a quiet corner seat by the window.

 

Seabirds are an amazing species suspended between worlds. They require dry land to breed and rear their young, yet rely entirely on the open sea for foraging. Their lives are measured not in short sojourns out to sea, but in long migrations that dwarf most human journeys. The Arctic Tern and the Sooty Shearwater, for example, make annual journeys exceeding 65,000 kilometres - crossing oceans and hemispheres with an instinctual precision that feels almost mythic.

 

Which, when you think about it is awesome!

 

And to think we speak of crossing the Atlantic in seven days as an amazing voyage (and it certainly is), yet for a seabird, this same unpredictable and inhospitable environment is its habitat.

Observation and Enrichment

 

Armed now with at least a basic understanding of which species might realistically be encountered mid-Atlantic, we decided to change our vantage point.  From the library, we stepped into the glass elevator and moments later, we ventured to Deck 11 and the Observation platform. 

 

Pushing through the metal doors against the wind, we stepped out onto the platform beneath the bridge. Ahead of us, the bow stretched forwards in a long, purposeful design.  Beyond lay the ocean and the horizon.

 

We stepped beyond the shelter of the windbreak. Almost immediately, the wind caught us and nearly knocked us off our feet.  Even in relatively moderate conditions, the strength of the wind was staggering.  Regardless of the wind, the view was extraordinary. 

 

We spent a few minutes out here, but eventually, we gave way to the cold and winds and retreated below deck. 

 

Later, seeking warmth and somewhere less windy, we made our way back down to Illuminations.  Here, the theatre was full of passengers ready to watch the enrichment talk on “Other Earths” by Dr Sue Bowler.

 

While a wonderful talk – for us, the shift in atmosphere was (initially at least) what mattered most.  Having moved from high winds and salt spray to soft seating and warmth was wondrous.   Throughout the talk the presenter guided us through discussions of exoplanets, orbiting distant stars, and habitable zones beyond our own planet. 

 

Captain’s Noon Announcement

 

At precisely 12 noon, moments after the clear ringing of the ship’s bell in the central well of the Grand Lobby, the Captain’s Noon announcement carried through the vessel. One of our favourite rituals of the crossing. 

 

Today we were told that there would be no time change – always an exciting discovery.  The wind was reported as south-westerly at 3 knots. The temperature outside was 9°C. We were now approximately 345 kilometres east of Cape Spear, Newfoundland -  our nearest land. Admittedly, that detail settled heavily – we were still closer to North America and Canada than Europe, yet we were also now firmly in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

 

Afterwards, the captain noted that it was expected that we would encounter increasingly larger waves through the afternoon and into tomorrow morning. The Atlantic, it seemed, intended to make itself known.

 

Then he mentioned that today we were entering the Great Circle Track – a term which refers to the shortest method of navigating between two points in the Atlantic Ocean, making it the traditional route for ocean liners.

 

Although a straight line on a map seems intuitive, the Earth’s curvature as a globe means that the shortest distance between Newfoundland and the British Isles is actually an arc sweeping northward toward higher latitudes. This Great Circle route shaves hundreds of nautical miles off the crossing, saving time and fuel while following the natural geometry of the globe. But it also places ships closer to the cold Labrador Current, shifting weather systems, and the lively meeting point between Arctic and temperate waters, where conditions can change quickly.  Making it both the shorter and the more dangerous route. 

 

He also noted that by 7 PM, we will be at the approximate halfway point in the crossing.  Put another way, tonight we would be halfway across the Atlantic Ocean.  Half the voyage was done.

 

Pub Lunch

 

Having spent the noon hour reading about seabirds and watching the waters of the Atlantic ocean rolls past, we found ourselves ready for something different.  Rather than returning to Britannia or navigating the busier buffet spaces, we wandered to the Golden Lion Pub for a late lunch.

 

It is a quieter spaces and there are times on a voyage that we definitely seek out stillness over ceremony.  The Golden Lion feels as though it sits in deliberate contrast to the grandeur of the main dining rooms.  Wood panelling, subdued lighting, leather chairs, and the familiar glow of a television screen broadcasting a football match create an atmosphere that feels grounded and uncomplicated. Today, a small group had claimed the dartboard in one corner, and the conversations around the room were easygoing.

Though a little early in the day for us, we nonetheless decided to shake up our routine and each order a flight of Cunard beers.  It felt appropriate – after all, if one is crossing the Atlantic on an ocean liner, one should at least sample the line’s own brews.

 

At home, I am usually a Guinness loyalist, and Sean prefers Kilkenny or Caffreys, but today I enjoyed the Cunard Black – the onboard stout with flavours of biscotti and coffee.  By comparison, Sean leaned toward the Cunard Red, whose flavour reminded him of Alexander Keith’s Red in Canada. 

 

For food, I ordered the leek and potato shepherd’s pie, which was hearty, well-flavoured, warm and comforting.  Sean enjoyed a serving of fish and chips. 

 

Very quickly, it becomes clear that it would be difficult to go hungry on Queen Mary 2. The sheer range of options borders on astonishing. From the formal dining in Britannia to the bustle of the King’s Court buffet, to lighter fare in the Carinthia Lounge, pub lunches in the Golden Lion, and specialty venues such as Verandah and Bamboo.  In addition to which passengers can also go to High Tea each afternoon or have a snack in Sir Samuels at any time.  In fact, each day presents more culinary possibilities than one could reasonably sample. 

 

And therein lies the real challenge.

 

It is not that anything is poorly prepared - quite the opposite. It is simply that one cannot eat breakfast, enjoy a full lunch, attend High Tea, and then sit down to a multi-course dinner without consequence. Very quickly, we learned that on board QM2, one must make decisions. Some days we choose scones and clotted cream in the Queen’s Room and forgo lunch. Other days we opt to skip lunch or dinner altogether.

 

Today in the Golden Lion, we relaxed. sipping our cold pints, cozy in the deep leather chairs and watching the Atlantic slide past.  We finished the day’s crossword puzzle, chatted about nothing, and were unexpectedly treated to a bowl of crisps by the friendly bar staff.  Their warmth and humour made the space feel welcoming.  More like a local pub than on board venue.

 

Laundry and a Nap

 

Following lunch in the Golden Lion, the needs of the moment pushed themselves to the forefront.  Several days into travel – including trains, subways and being on board – meant that we were out of clean clothes.

 

On Queen Mary 2, laundrettes are spread throughout the ship on various passenger decks.  These small practical rooms are equipped with washers, driers, and ironing boards – they aren’t flashy but are essential on a week-long ocean crossing.

 

Carrying a bag of dirty laundry through the corridor felt odd as other passengers were already in various stages of formal clothing for the night. Loading the washing machine was equally surreal – the man next to us was washing tuxedo shirts as we set about cleaning hiking socks and merino wool shirts.  This meant that Gala attire rotated beside everyday travel wear. 

 

An hour or two later, with our laundry folded, we returned to our cabin, and here the accumulated fatigue of the past few days finally made itself known.  The early excitement of the voyage, along with a couple of pints at lunch, would lead us to lay down “for just a moment”.  When we woke up it was nearly 7 PM.

 

Evening Dinner in Britannia Restaurant

 

At one point in this evening – somewhere between folding laundry and taking a brief nap - we passed the halfway point in our voyage from New York to Southampton.  From this point forward, we are now closer to England than to America.

 

By 8:30 PM, we were dressed and on our way down to the Britannia Restaurant for dinner.   There is something settling about returning to Britannia at the end of a full sea day.  The grandeur of the space, the crisp tablecloths, linen napkins and polished glassware.  The ritual that repeats itself each evening gives way to familiarity and comfort.

Now rested, freshly showered, and back in a dress for me and a suit for Sean, we were shown our seats for the evening.  For two people who have so far spent nearly four years living out of a tent – eating noodles from a camp pot and rehydrating meals – the choreography of this formal dining remains faintly intimidating.  Multiple forks, multiple glasses.  Courses arriving in sequence and with no effort on our part.

 

Sean, who once attended private school and later a structured university, used to know these rules instinctively. I, by contrast, went to  Toronto Waldorf School, where independence of thought and creativity were emphasized. Neither of those skills is particularly helpful when seated in a long dress you’re still not accustomed to wearing, trying to determine which fork corresponds to which course - especially when the Captain is dining only a few feet away.

 

As the nightly meal unfolded – each beautifully presented, each delicious the conversations around us in accents of English, American, French and German blended together.  It is a strange and slightly fantastic thing to sit in such refinement while knowing that beyond the tall windows lies only darkness and the open Atlantic. The mind drifts briefly to images of grand ocean liners of another era -  the sort of scene one imagines aboard Titanic, the Ile de France, or the Normandie  - formal wear, silver service, and an immense sea stretching unseen beyond the hull.

 

Tonight, however, our table included an unexpected counterpoint to that atmosphere. A young American woman was seated with us, and throughout the entire meal, she remained on her phone - texting, scrolling, occasionally making calls.  When she did acknowledge anyone else, she spoke loudly and about how successful she was working remotely and her plans to retire soon to Europe. She had worn the same down jacket and track pants each day of the crossing thus far, dress code notwithstanding.  Generally, she ignored the staff attempting to serve her as well. 

 

It was a small, oddly modern disruption inside a very traditional setting. Here on an ocean liner steeped in history, someone sat half-anchored to another continent through a glowing screen.

 

Queen’s Room and G32

 

Enjoying the evening and with dinner behind us, we drifted to the elegance of the Queen’s Room where the Clique Band had already begun their set beneath the chandeliers.  The polished wood floor filled quickly, couples stepping into rhythm as tracks from the 1960s and 70s rolled out across the room built for tradition.  

 

It was interesting to watch the transition Cunard is clearly attempting. The selections leaned toward contemporary pop, an effort perhaps to welcome a younger audience into a space long associated with waltzes and foxtrots. Yet the reaction told its own story. When a 1990s or early-2000s song came on, the energy shifted. Some dancers hesitated. Others quietly returned to their seats. The floor, so alive moments earlier, thinned out. Change at sea, like anywhere else, is rarely seamless.

 

After a short while, and having enjoyed a couple of turns around the dance floor, we slipped into G32 at the back of the room, where a DJ was spinning tracks that felt closer to home.  Here, the bass was stronger, the lighting lower and the energy less formal.  Here, the songs we grew up with roared, bringing with them a lifetime of memories. 

 

By the time we brought our night to an end and began wandering back to our cabin the Atlantic had begun to roll and assert itself. 

 

What we had taken to be the dance floor and excitement of the music was, in fact, the ship rocking.  Not dramatically, but certainly enough that keeping our balance became something you had to remain conscious of.  Curious we tried to step out onto the promenade deck.  Here, rain lashed against the large windows, and the wind was pushing so hard that it was almost impossible to open the door slightly.  While we had hoped to step outside, the thought of being caught on the outer deck in that weather – unable to pull the door back open against the gale made us reconsider.

 

A firm reminder that out here, conditions change quickly and that the sea always has the final word.

 

“The Transatlantic crossing,

Where an endless sky

Sweeps across a mystic sea.

Awakening the adventurous spirit in those

Fortunate enough to make the voyage.”

 

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See you on board!

Nautical Term of the Day – Squall Line - A sharp, fast-moving band of wind and rain. In the Mid-Atlantic, these appear suddenly and historically kept sailors alert at all hours.