Every year I run the same math. A client asks me about a big ship and I ask them what they actually want. If the answer is choice and volume and a show on most nights, a big ship earns its place. If the answer is an itinerary they can describe a year later in specific sentences, small ship is where we start.
The case for small ships
A small ship carries between 200 and 600 guests. That number changes the whole trip. You are berthed inside marinas that a 2,000-passenger ship cannot enter. Your tender rides are short. Your shore days begin when you arrive, not an hour later after the queue clears.
The galley is small, which means one menu, one head chef, and dishes that arrive at a temperature actual cooks care about. The service team remembers your name by day three and the wine pairings by day four. None of this is magic; it is a staffing ratio the brochure does not talk about.
“The itinerary does not sell these trips. The first evening at the bar does.”
What the patient planner gets in return is a cabin category that actually suits their sleep style, an excursion calendar that respects the weather, and a wine cellar the sommelier has been building for the year. The impatient planner gets a cabin on a big ship and an average trip.
What I look for when planning
Cabin placement above all. Mid-ship, mid-deck, near the elevators but not next to them. Cruise lines hide cabin-noise information; I keep my own notes.
Dining rotation second. Most small-ship lines ditch assigned seating. The trade-off is that the best tables turn over fast. A quiet word with the maitre d' on the first evening is often enough; my clients never make that request themselves because they do not know it is a lever to pull.
Fifteen months is a long planning window. It is also what it takes to get the itinerary, the cabin, and the quiet excursion slots lined up. I tell clients early because the trip starts the day we commit.