Every port of call is itemised. The author would make a seriously cool writer of alternative travel brochures. There's Curacao, "where rich people can hide together"; Aruba, with its iguanas and Taco Bell. Cartagena, all comfortable and complacence; the traffic jams of the Panama Canal; the Galapagos, where seals lollop after passing bicycles.
There's also the obligatory storm, in which pasts are revealed and truths realised. Gav meets Phoebe with the guitar and tattooed arms, who reminds him of a dolphin (this is a good thing). We sail towards a reconciliation backed by soaring violins.
It's an affectionate book. Roffey worships whales, tortoises, even the odd barracuda. She likes quite a few people, too: Ocean is cute without being too cloying, and the second-rate Gavin, struggling out of grief towards acceptance, makes a vulnerable, credible protagonist.
It's not a subtle book, and doesn't pretend to be. Emotions are heaved around in bucketfuls. Natural splendours are technicolour with tinsel trimmings. Orchestras play during the scary and sentimental bits.
Movie audiences - there's bound to be a movie - will lap it up. It'll pluck at heart-strings, touch tear-ducts, possibly clog arteries. I galloped through it with a smile, plus just the odd snort and snigger.
David Hill is a Taranaki writer.
