Every season, it's the same story. The gangway comes up. The captain says “final call” in a tone typically reserved for disappointed schoolteachers. Crew members stand at the pier looking equal parts calm and dead inside. And in the distance, two people who've no qualms with holding up 4000 other passengers for 30 minutes, are running down a concrete pier.

How.

The 'missed my tender' excuse, and other greatest hits...

Let’s begin with the classics.

“It was the tender.” Of course. Tenders are slower. They run on their own schedule. And yes, if you leave it late, you can end up watching your ship from a small boat like you’re in a very low-rent remake of Titanic.

But tenders aren’t a surprise. Their timings are literally printed in the daily programme, announced repeatedly, and discussed by strangers in lifts. If you’re on the last tender and also trying to squeeze in a cocktail, two souvenir shops, and a leisurely wander back, you’re not “cutting it fine.” You’re choosing to inconvenience people...

It was my phone's fault

A thoroughly modern excuse. The smartphone, allegedly “smart,” has betrayed you. Your phone changed time zones. Or it didn’t. Or it did, but you didn't notice.

This one has legs because it’s plausible. If your phone is set to update time automatically, it might flip to local time while your ship stays on ship time, or vice versa, depending on the route and the line’s policies. You look down. It’s 4:12. You look up. The pier clock says 5:12. Suddenly you’re sprinting past a man eating gelato at a leisurely pace you can now only dream of.

But here’s what I can’t get past. The ship tells you the time. Repeatedly. The daily programme also tells you the time. The announcements tell you the time. There’s a channel on your cabin TV dedicated to telling you the time. At some point, if you’re still relying on a phone that's been displaying wildlife inaccurate battery life since 2013, then you’ve entered the realm of self-inflicted stress.

The “my child was…” defence

Children are many things. Fast. Sticky. Mysterious. Capable of a sudden emotional collapse because a half a croissant's fallen on the floor. They are not, however, a legally binding reason to ignore the ship’s all-aboard time.

Okay, the aquarium tour might've run long. The gelato line might've been lengthy. Yes, you had to find a bathroom immediately because someone suddenly announced they were about to have a personal emergency. I understand. I sympathise.

And yet. This is why you leave earlier than you think you need to. Children are not known for their ability to respect schedules. If your entire plan depends on your eight-year-old maintaining a steady walking pace through an unfamiliar city at 5pm, you're a dreamer. A romantic. A fool, (with affection).

The shopping spiral

There are two kinds of people on a port day. People who buy one nice thing, then walk back to the ship feeling serene. And then there are people who enter a shop “just for a look” and emerge 47 minutes later clutching a ceramic bowl, three magnets, and a creeping sense that they might be late for something.

This is how it happens. You start with a souvenir. Then you see a second souvenir that is “more authentic.” Then you need a gift for someone you don’t even like that much. Then you need a matching scarf because you’re committed now. Before you know it you’re haggling as if you’re in a travel documentary. Meanwhile the ship is preparing to leave without you.

The “it’s only ten minutes” philosophy

Some people treat the all-aboard time like the closing time of a pub. They hear it, they nod, and then they continue operating as though the ship is contractually obligated to wait.

“It’s only ten minutes,” they'll say, as if ten minutes isn’t the exact amount of time it takes for a gangway to come up, a pilot to be booked, and a captain to decide they’d rather keep the schedule than your dignity intact. Also, ten minutes is never ten minutes. Ten minutes becomes traffic. It becomes the bridge opening for seemingly no reason. It becomes a bus that simply refuses to materialise. It becomes a charming old town where every street seems to end in a staircase.

Ten minutes is the gateway drug to missing the boat.

The real reason, with a wink

We can blame technology. We can blame children. We can blame tender schedules, traffic, and the fact that every Mediterranean city seems to be built on a hill with exactly one road leading out.

But the truth is simpler, and it’s the bit nobody likes to say out loud: a lot of missed-boat incidents are just people assuming the rules aren’t for them. It’s laziness dressed as self-assuredness. It’s selfishness in sunglasses. It’s the quiet belief that the ship is a floating hotel and you’re the VIP guest, rather than one of several thousand passengers on a timetable that involves tides, pilots, port slots and the deeply unromantic reality of maritime logistics.

And look, I get the temptation. You’re having a nice day. The sun is out. The wine is chilled. The view is spectacular. You don’t want to stop enjoying yourself because a loudspeaker's told you to.

But if you’re going to play chicken with a cruise ship, at least be honest about what you’re doing. You’re not a victim of modernity. You’re simply treating “all aboard” as optional. The ship disagrees. And the ship (and a good dose of social embarassment) will always win.

So set your watch to ship time. Take a photo of the all-aboard time if you must. Build in a buffer. Walk back a little earlier than feels necessary. You’ll still get your gelato. You’ll still get your souvenir. You’ll just get them without also starring in a pier-side sprint that becomes entertainment for everyone on the upper decks.

Which, to be fair, is one of the better free shows on board.