II grew up watching Titanic, not because of Jack and Rose, and not even because of the tragedy, but because of the water. The idea that you could step onto a ship, watch land disappear, and surrender yourself to endless blue always stayed with me. It felt like freedom in its purest form — movement without urgency, direction without pressure.
Years later, that childhood dream returned in the most ordinary way. One slow afternoon, absent-mindedly scrolling through Instagram’s Explore page, I saw it: Six days. Eid Cruise. Red Sea. The name Aroya Cruises sat quietly beneath the image. I stopped scrolling. I whispered, almost instinctively, “Ya Rabbi, this is for me.” And then, just as softly, “The river is calling me.”
I was already planning to travel for Umrah, and the timing felt deliberate in the way life sometimes arranges things without explanation. Eid would be spent in Makkah, and the ship was scheduled to sail on March 31st. Worship first, rest after. A rhythm that made sense to my body and my spirit.
When I told Tito, I didn’t need to convince him. He simply looked at me and said, “You deserve this.” I smiled, because I already knew. My soul needed a recharge.
Eid passed in Makkah in that familiar, sacred haze — prayer, reflection, stillness. The next day, reality came rushing back as I sat in a taxi heading toward the port in Jeddah. My suitcase was large, my heart was racing, and the driver could not locate the port. Time slipped dangerously. Na shiga uku. We arrived just ten minutes before departure.
Earlier that week, my grandfather had questioned the size of my suitcase, wondering how long I planned to stay in Saudi Arabia. He didn’t know that I wasn’t just travelling for Umrah. I was stepping into something else entirely.
Boarding the ship felt surreal. The moment I entered, it became clear that this was not simply a cruise — it felt like a floating hotel, polished and expansive. Twenty floors high, stable and smooth, it moved with such ease that I forgot we were sailing at all. I had worried about motion sickness, but the ship glided effortlessly. There was no swaying, no discomfort, no reminder of instability. Only calm.
I travelled alone. It was my birthday gift to myself, and I wanted the experience to unfold without compromise. From the first evening, I felt wrapped in luxury. I wore beautiful dresses. I took photographs without rushing. I felt regal not because of extravagance, but because I felt unburdened. Present. Unapologetically at ease.
Life on board was abundant. There were more than fifteen restaurants, each offering something distinct, alongside a vast complimentary buffet that felt endless. The food was generous and varied, the kind that encourages you to linger, to taste, to enjoy without restraint. Meals were not rushed; they were part of the experience.
Every hour offered something new. Concerts. Theatre performances. Wellness spaces. Gyms. A waterpark suspended above the ocean. Evenings were filled with halal family night outings where people danced freely and joyfully. The atmosphere felt alive, like a contained world built for pleasure without excess.
At times, the internet connection was weak, but no one seemed bothered. There was too much happening in real life to care.
Somewhere in the middle of the journey, I met a woman named Reyuf. One early morning, she invited me to walk with her. We moved quietly to a corner of the ship I hadn’t noticed before, and there we watched the sun rise. The light stretched slowly across the water, golden and unhurried. Standing there, I felt something open inside me. I fell in love again — with nature, with life, with the simple act of being present. It reminded me how little we need to feel whole.
The ship sailed from Jeddah to Sharm El Sheikh, then to Jordan, and back again. But the destinations blurred into the background. This journey was never about where we went; it was about what softened within me along the way.
After Umrah that Ramadan, I didn’t need noise or stimulation. I needed stillness — the kind that settles into your bones. The ocean offered exactly that. It held me. It grounded me. Water has always done that for me, as though it understands things I don’t always say out loud.
This cruise was not an escape from Umrah. It was a continuation. A gentle landing. A way to absorb what worship had opened. Silence after prayer. Water after devotion.
Yes, it costs more than an ordinary trip. But healing always does. And remembering who you are has never been free.
By the time I stepped off the ship, one thought stayed with me: this is an experience I want to share with my children. In 2026, God willing, I will bring them here.
Aroya is not just a cruise. It is an experience of a lifetime. If you love water, if you love adventure wrapped in elegance, if you want luxury without chaos and joy without guilt, then put this on your 2026 bucket list.
Some journeys do not take you away from yourself. They bring you back.