Admit it — those four words have you humming that old Christopher Cross song. And admit it — you don’t think it was all that bad a song. Confession — neither do I.

I love the water. Not the sailing yachts my parents had, that occupied most my childhood weekends. Or worse, those small club boats my boss adored, and hauled us all out to sea — harbor, actually, the same one I zipped across just a few weeks ago.

I love the sea in big boats. My first cruise was our honeymoon, Wifey’s and mine. Tahiti, Bora Bora, places like that, and once upon a time long ago past, we could afford things like that.

And don’t get me wrong, the much cheaper cruises on the much larger ships — that’s where I found myself at home. Home sweet, home on the waves.

And it was a weekend not unlike this one when I realized why I love this camper so much. It is so much like a cruise ship cabin, the resemblance us uncanny.

Sure, there is no balcony. There is no room steward to bring canapes and turn down the bed. But there is a tiny bathroom with shower. There is a tiny refrigerator. There is even a tiny couch and a tiny TV.

And tonight, there is water. Quite a storm, actually. Feels like she might like to capsize, our small vessell — but of course, it’s a big boat we sail. The wind that rocks us on our scissor jacks feels more like the swells of the open ocean.

And the rain — how many mornings have I awoken so early that it was still pitch dark, rain pouring from the blackness of sky above… just to feel the tapering at morning’s dawning, and the sky turn blue and sunny.

It’s so surreal, the rolling motion of the sea/wind, the deafening roar of the sea/rain. And then there is a moment of calm. Are we there yet? But are we ever really there?