Of all possible datelines, the “aboard the” something or other is one of the most treasured by journalists. The connotation being the author is on the move, and out of reach of dreary, land-based forms of communication, even when it is as insignificant as a blog post.

Being aboard the Celebrity Constellation (above, circa 2008) is being significantly out of touch. Like most cruise-ship operators, the Celebrity line continues to charge usurious rates for internet connections. Something like a dollar a minute. Yes. In 2014, when the whole civilized world is wired.

But such are the sacrifices we must make to tour the fringes of the Baltic Sea, in some comfort, with 2,100 of our dearest friends, and 900-plus people hired to cater to those 2,100 people and contribute to the Celebrity corporate policy of separating them from their dollars/dirhams/euros.

This morning we bid adieu to the indefatigable Fleur, operator of the Amsterdam B&B where we stayed, and took a taxi to the docks where the Constellation was parked.

Anyone who has sailed in a cruise ship (and “sailed” is much too energetic a word for what goes on in this most indolent forms of travel) knows that it takes hours to get the passengers on board, followed by their luggage several hours later.

The Constellation is a typical monster of the modern breed, with eight restaurants and 10 bars, and the logistics of preparing a 12-day cruise with all those people aboard boggles the mind. “Do we need 1,000 gallons of vanilla ice cream, or 2,000?”

The attractions of this journey fall into two categories, one silly and one rarely serious.

–To feel young again. Like most cruise-ship groups, this one skews old. Golden-years old. I’m going to say 65 is the average age. For those of you under, say, 50, who cannot imagine a world where you will be too creaky and crabby to travel, rest assured your final overseas vacation is likely to be on a boat.

–To see at least a little bit of six countries we have never seen, on a sea we have never touched, at a latitude we have never reached. One of those six is The Netherlands, port of departure. The others, in order, are Estonia, Russia, Finland, Sweden and Denmark.

We will not penetrate far nor stay long at any of them, but what journalists call “the toe touch” (for purposes of an exotic byline — ethically, if not morally, defensible in the business) counts for purposes of “been there”.

Cruise ships have become floating retirement homes of a high level. All-you-can eat everything (much of it of a fairly high standard), people who clean up after you, professionals who will hear out your petty complaints, live entertainment, a gym that can accommodate perhaps 75 sweatin’ oldies at once.

So, after the semi-farcical emergency test, which the residents of at least two dozen rooms could not be bothered to attend, the Constellation put to sea. Or the sea-like body Amsterdam is built next to.

Through a lock, to get us to real sea level, then out into the North Sea, rocking and rolling, as it often does, and north into the night, the coast of Denmark on our starboard side, and 11 more days of something resembling life at sea, circa the 21st century, ahead of us.