We bob like a cork in the wind-whipped waves as passengers begin climbing off the craft, sliding toward the middle to step off a stool and onto a metal platform with help from the crew. Nikolai and his friend get off before me, thank God, and then an older couple goes, so at least there’s some distance between us.

Of course, the one time a guy directs his attention at me rather than Walsh, it’s a passenger looking for a rebound lay. This cruise is going to be fun.

“You have an admirer,” says Walsh with a snort.

“I noticed.” Why he hasn’t spared Walsh a second glance, I have no idea. Maybe he doesn’t go for blondes.

It’s my turn to get off. A wave catches the Zodiac just as I step and I’m propelled upward like a giant, invisible hand is giving me a lift. I swallow back a swell of nausea and stumble as my feet connect with the metal platform. The crew member on my right guides me toward the handrail and I grasp its slick surface.

“Thanks,” I choke. Walsh follows, and we ascend the stairs to embark the vessel.

With every step we climb, my stomach knots tighter and tighter. I eye the line of passengers waiting to filter into the ship through the door at the top. None of them are Graeme. After our Zodiac is emptied, another one full of passengers pulls up. I scan each face. No Graeme.

Where is he?

When it’s our turn to enter and we cross the threshold, I immediately feel the pitch of the ship. I widen my stance to gain balance as a busy scene greets us. An entourage of smiling Ecuadoran crew members line what’s essentially a lobby, funneling us toward a semicircular central reception desk.

We complete check-in, drop our life jackets and backpacks in our cabin—a cozy, nicely appointed space in creams and teals with a large picture window—and head upstairs to the lounge for the mandatory safety briefing scheduled to start in twenty minutes.

The swirling pattern of sapphire-stained wood inlays on the floor and the seating in shades of blues and greens make me feel like we’re in an underwater grotto. Or at least it would, if the room wasn’t lined with two solid walls of windows. Light bounces off the shimmering water outside and floods the room.

Guests mill around, either gazing out the windows, ordering drinks at the bar, or gathering in clumps, chatting. My palms sweat and my breath quickens as I scan each face, each form. No sweep of dark brown hair, strong jaw, or deep-set eyes.

“Open bar, right?” asks Walsh.

Unlimited drinks are included on this departure as a special booking incentive, but she shouldn’t be getting slammed right out of the gate. “Moderation,” I remind her.

“Yeah, yeah.” She rolls her eyes. “Want anything?”

“No, thanks, I’m feeling yuck.”