Cruise ships and coronavirus: Trapped on board a ship turned away from port, I'm trying to stay positive

These experiences were made exceptional by attentive and knowledgeable staff, comprising a largely European expedition team and hospitality and boat tender staff from the Philippines.

The Filipino staff are especially worried for their industry, with cruising and international travel sliding towards temporary oblivion. And with the Philippines having a closed border, staff are currently unsure where they'll go to wait out this crisis.

Despite the emotional state of upheaval, the night before our planned docking, the crew, mostly the Filipinos, demonstrate their diverse talents by delivering a rocking farewell concert. The band from engineering, 'the Machinists' belts out a gutsy Proud Mary, while Kristita from housekeeping croons a sweet Can't Help Falling in Love.

"I want to take the time to thank our wonderful staff from the Philippines for all that they bring to this cruise and for these unique performances," Says Kristian Saeterhaug, our Norwegian compare and reception manager. "I can tell you, that this next number would never happen off the coast of Norway. I give you… the tender boat drivers!"

The dance troupe of six burly boaties takes their positions on the dance floor as the unmistakable baseline of Tom Jones' Sex Bomb cranks up. Some mock-raunchy moves prompt rapturous applause and raucous wolf-whistles from the crowd.

Finally, the yahooing guests are invited to the floor, and despite everyone's uncertainties about tomorrow, or perhaps because of it, the crew and passengers party. Joining the throng of jovial waitstaff, previously-reserved Norwegian guides and diverse international travellers, I'm conscious of the feeling that whatever happens now, we're all in this together.

The next morning brings devastating news. The Chilean government has changed its advice, and will not accept us, despite our disease-free declarations.

During the coming days hovering off Punta Arenas, we hear that all ports in South America are now closed. Chileans in hazmat suits deliver the ship's order of fuel, food (hopefully lots of dessert) and importantly, more wine.

The senior crew frantically try to find a solution for what seems like the almost impossible predicament of where to land, and to organise hypothetical charter flights, should we indeed be able to land somewhere, sometime. The Falkland Islands are discussed, but uncertainty reigns.

I'm becoming friends with my room steward, Ralph Abaya, and his cheery smile cheers me up, every time. We discuss our joint predicament, and clearly he has so much more at stake than me. He tells me about his wife and seven-year old son that depend on him, and how he is glad they are safely inside the closed Philippines border, even if he is outside.

"Yes, I'm a little bit worried, but I'm OK," Ralph says. "This cruise is our job, we need to finish it."

I'm desperate to get home to my own husband and kids, even with self-isolation. I'm oscillating between frustration, exhaustion, and just plain sadness, but it's mixed with plenty of laughter too. Photos of penguins are being compared, science lectures delivered, and artistic talents discovered (watercolour penguins, anyone?).

Like a virus, the positivity is contagious. Ralph is still smiling, and if Ralph can smile, so can I.

Update: The Roald Amundsen is now headed for the Falkland Islands, hoping to disembark passengers there.

The writer travelled as a guest of Hurtigruten.

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