It’s dead calm on the Mediterranean. The slumbering dinosaur silhouette of Amorgos fades on the horizon as Le Champlain cruises towards Santorini’s caldera, the ocean a tablecloth of inky silk pulled gently into a periwinkle sky. It’s the rarest of days: the sole sound is wake whispering like dancing ribbons, the only visible companion an optimistic yacht bobbing with empty sails. Suddenly, our ship stops. The already exceptional day is about to become extraordinary.
A hive of activity erupts as the entire aft deck rears like a braying water pony and extends into a retractable marina. Staff appear stage right,
