以色列--加利利海 約旦--死海
英法多佛海峽，英吉利海峽
，柬埔寨--柴夫修斯王國，
南中國海之廈門輪渡與鼓浪嶼 中國--青海
韓國濟州島，香港九龍灣
菲律賓宿霧海峽
埃及尼羅河，英國泰晤士河，劍橋康河，巴黎塞納河，汶萊汶萊河--汶萊彎，布拉格伏爾塔瓦河游河，東京隅田川遊船，長江三峽， 加拿大千島湖，德瑞萊茵河，匈牙利多瑙河，聖彼得堡涅瓦河，加拿大聖羅倫斯彎，日本庄川峽，日本駿府灣，日本相模彎，箱根蘆之湖，天山天池，寧夏沙湖，杭州西湖，澎湖南海交通船,
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暢遊 Finland（芬蘭）之後，我們的下一個目的地，是隔著芬蘭灣遙遙相望的 Estonia（愛沙尼亞）；它的首都，正是保存著濃厚中古世紀風貌的 Tallinn（塔林）。
傍晚，我們拖著行李來到赫爾辛基的 Olympia Terminal（奧林匹亞碼頭）。北國的夕陽尚未完全沉下，淡金色的光線落在碼頭建築與盛開的花圃上。港邊人聲不多，海風帶著微微的涼意，玻璃登船廊道向前延伸，像一條懸在海上的道路，引領我們告別芬蘭，走向下一段旅程。
停靠岸邊的是 M/S Superstar（超級之星號），隸屬於 Tallink Shuttle（塔林克快捷渡輪）。船內的樓層圖清楚寫著它的名字；而那鮮明的青綠色船身與巨大煙囪，更成為這段航程最難忘的色彩。它不像傳統郵輪那般端莊沉靜，反而充滿明亮而年輕的氣息，彷彿把北歐夏日最鮮活的一抹綠，塗在灰藍色的海面上。
我們拖著行李走過長長的 boarding passage。玻璃窗外，青綠色的船身越來越近，橙色救生艇整齊排列在舷側。踏進船艙的一刻，才發現這並不只是一艘供人渡海的交通船，更像是一座漂浮在芬蘭灣上的小型城市。
船內設有餐廳、自助餐廳、酒吧、shops與寬敞的 lounges。有些旅客推著行李尋找座位，有些人在商店裡挑選商品，也有人端著咖啡坐在窗邊，靜靜等待城市離開視線。船艙中的燈光、談話聲和行李輪子滑過地面的聲音，交織成旅程開始前特有的節奏。
我們走上露天 deck（甲板）。青綠色的巨大煙囪矗立在藍天之下，海風越過欄杆迎面而來。靠窗的座位旁，有人喝著咖啡，有人低聲交談，也有人只是望著遠方發呆。那一刻，渡輪似乎不再只是連接兩座城市的工具，而成為旅途中一處可以放慢腳步、安靜看海的地方。
汽笛響起，船身輕輕震動，M/S Superstar 緩緩駛離赫爾辛基。
港邊的建築、碼頭與船隻逐漸退向身後；赫爾辛基的輪廓也在暮色中慢慢縮小。海鳥在船尾盤旋，偶爾掠過翻湧的白色浪花。渡輪留下長長的 wake（航跡），像一條銀白色的緞帶，將我們剛剛走過的芬蘭，輕輕繫在遠方。
船駛入 Gulf of Finland（芬蘭灣），海面頓時顯得更加遼闊。天空從明亮的藍色，漸漸染上金黃、粉紅與淡紫；雲影浮在水面，夕陽則把海浪的邊緣照得閃閃發亮。白晝尚未完全離去，夜色卻已從天際悄悄展開。
我們時而留在甲板，感受芬蘭灣迎面而來的風；時而回到船艙，在溫暖的燈光下稍作休息。窗外是無邊的海，窗內則是一桌桌正在吃飯、喝酒、談笑的旅人。每個人或許都有不同的目的地，卻在這短短的航程中，共同生活在同一艘船上。
這片海並不遼闊得令人畏懼，卻像一道流動的歷史之門。北岸是沉靜、整潔而理性的 Helsinki（赫爾辛基）；南岸則是帶著中古世紀氣息的 Tallinn（塔林）。芬蘭與愛沙尼亞隔海相望，兩地的語言也同屬 Finnic languages（芬蘭語族），彷彿彼此之間，早已有一條看不見的文化航道。
大約兩個小時，在海風、晚霞與船艙的燈影之間悄悄流過。
接近 Tallinn（塔林）時，遠方原本模糊的陸地逐漸變得清晰。港口的吊臂、倉庫與船影首先浮現；再往後看，便能望見老城高低錯落的紅瓦屋頂，以及刺向天空的教堂尖塔。那座隔海而來的古城，像一本在暮色中慢慢打開的中古世紀圖冊。
塔林是 Estonia（愛沙尼亞）的首都，也是一座保存極為完整的歷史古城。還未真正踏上岸，我們已彷彿看見老城中的石板街道、古老城牆、圓形塔樓與尖頂教堂，正在夜色裡等待著遠道而來的旅人。
當渡輪緩緩靠岸，我們重新收拾行李，隨著人群走下船。從明亮的船艙穿過長長的登岸通道，腳步落在異國的土地上，心中也升起一種難以言喻的欣喜：不過短短兩小時，我們已從一個國家來到另一個國家，從北歐現代城市走向波羅的海畔的中古古城。
回頭望去，M/S Superstar依然停泊在港灣中。青綠色的船身亮著燈，靜靜映在逐漸深沉的夜色裡。它完成了一次尋常的渡海任務，卻也替我們留下了一段難忘的海上記憶。
Helsinki（赫爾辛基）的海風尚未散去，
Tallinn（塔林）的石板路已在前方等待。
白晝在芬蘭的港灣中向我們告別，夜色則在愛沙尼亞的古城上空迎接我們。芬蘭灣上的那一道航跡，也在暮色之中，把兩座城市、兩個國家，以及旅途中的我們，輕輕連在了一起。
There are journeys that move across distance,and there are journeys that seem to drift between time.
The passage to Tallinn, aboard the Silja Line, felt like both.We departed as evening began to soften the edges of the Baltic sky.
At the harbor, the ferry stood immense and quietly confident,its lights already glowing against the fading day.
Stepping on board was like entering a small floating city—restaurants, corridors, windows opening toward the sea—yet beneath it all, a quiet anticipation lingered.
As the ship pulled away, the shoreline slowly dissolved into silhouettes.
The sea stretched outward, calm and understated,reflecting the pale northern light.
There was no urgency here—only a long, steady movement forward.
On deck, the wind carried a clean, almost transparent chill.
It cleared the mind without asking permission.People spoke softly, or not at all.Some stood still, watching the horizon as if waiting for something unnamed.Night came slowly in the north.Not abruptly, but like a curtain drawn with care.
The sky dimmed, yet never fully surrendered to darkness.A quiet glow lingered above the water,as though the day had not quite decided to leave.
Inside, the ship continued its gentle rhythm—footsteps, distant music, the low hum of engines.
Yet even within, one could feel the vastness outside,the steady breathing of the sea beneath.
Morning arrived without drama.
A pale light seeped through the window,revealing a different shore.
Tallinn appeared almost unexpectedly
its medieval towers rising above the harbor,its walls holding centuries in stillness.
Stepping onto land felt like stepping into a preserved memory.
The cobblestone streets carried the weight of time,each step echoing quietly against stone.
Church spires pointed upward,not in grandeur, but in quiet persistence.
There was a simplicity to the city—not empty, but complete.
Cafés opened slowly,the air held a trace of the sea,and the pace of life seemed to follow an older rhythm.
Walking through the old town, one did not feel like a visitor,but rather like someone passing gently through a storythat had never truly ended.
And yet, as with all journeys,there came the moment to leave.
Returning to the Silja Line,the ship once again became a bridge—not only between two shores,but between two states of mind.
The sea remained unchanged.
Calm. Wide. Unhurried. Perhaps that was the quiet lesson of the north—that movement does not always require urgency,and that stillness can travel just as far.
By the time the lights of the next harbor came into view,the journey had already settled within—not as a memory alone,but as a kind of space,open, quiet, and enduring.
