This posting covers Chiwan - Shenzhen's port - and Hong Kong, only twenty-two nautical miles apart.
Armed with laptop, a Chinese pilot guides us up the Pearl River, past fishing boats and commuter catamarans.
Through the murky haze - or perhaps pollution - we also see work on the monumental Hong Kong - Macau bridge, due to open in 2015 or 2016.
Jayson Manlapaz, Amber's new, young messman, is very excited about China.
At breakfast, he looks at a terminal just like all the others and asks, "Are we near the Great Wall? I want to take a picture!" Poor Jayson looks disappointed when I say the Wall is a long way from here.
However, just beyond the boxes and cranes of Chiwan's terminal and below the buildings on the hillside, is one of the trip's pleasures.
The temple of Matsu, Chinese goddess of the sea and patron of seafarers.
Agents, who liaise between ships and essential services on shore, face a pile of problems when a vessel's in port. However, Herbert Ma - seen below - manages to get me to the temple, pay a quick visit himself and kindly leave me to wander. Chauffeuring passengers, I should say, is not part of his job description.
Although most of the temple has been rebuilt, parts date to the 15th Century.
Herbert prays in front Matsu's effigy.
Knowing the area isn't called 'typhoon alley' for nothing, even I leave a small donation, hoping some generous being will look kindly on Amber's voyages. Perhaps I should have left more as there are also 'super typhoons'.
Here's Matsu borne rather gracefully upon the waves.
Herbert returns to take me to the tomb of Song Shao, last emperor of the Southern Song Dynasty (1127-1279), before getting me back to the ship and presenting a farewell gift of chocolates.
At the top of the gangway, Domingo cheerfully welcomes me back. Where have I been? What did I do? Feel guilty because he'll work through our stay and certainly needs a break more than I do.
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The next day, Hong Kong's flag is raised and beyond the bridge is Kowloon.
"Grey, grey, grey!" grouses the chief mate, looking at Hong Kong harbour, "All one $&@! climate, not like four seasons in Croatia." Pause, then: "Excuse me, after twenty years at sea, every second word is #%?! and every third word is %$@&!"
Captain 'Boni' and pilot, using controls on the wing, delicately guide Amber into her berth.
On the other side of Hyundai Splendor, Central and the Peak are invitingly close.
But the weather gods - perhaps my donation was too small ("Frugal," my dear Si-Si would call it) - intervene. Sailors on the Barents Sea gloomily watch rain sheet down.
Even the terminal workers have umbrellas.
As well, our stay in Hong Kong is unexpectedly cut short. By the time arrival formalities finish, perhaps three-and-a-half hours to get out of the soggy terminal, into town and then a rush hour journey back to the ship. I don't need anything and, having been here in January, decide to pass. Only the bosun manages to get off for an hour and forty minutes "to have a hamburger!"
There was no shore leave for the crew in New York. This is the fortieth day since the States and only Singapore, Chiwan and Hong Kong have allowed brief chances for some to disembark. The terminal in Shanghai, our next port, is very far from the city, so Pusan, South Korea, is the last possibility before Houston.
For many Filipinos, seafaring is the only alternative to much lower wage jobs at home. However, young Westerners have choices and port stays - once a perk of a maritime career - are minimal. The bleak monotony of container terminals – distant from city centres – can hardly compare with the colourful attractions of the old ports, often an easy walk from the cities they served. Nowadays, flights abroad are relatively cheap. Why spend months at sea, hardly get off a ship, be away from family, friends and a normal life? Attracting First World teenagers into nautical colleges is a hard sell.
