A voyager at heart, I was looking forward to the arrival in New York of the new Cunard flagship, the Queen Mary 2, fresh from her maiden trans-Atlantic journey.

Although my own cruising experience has been limited to Fire Island ferries and various day-sailers, the big ships have always sparked my fancy. I think I may even prefer watching these grande dames to cruising on them, although I never had the chance to find out. Besides, it’s cheaper to watch.

I follow the entrances and exits of the Holland and the Princess Lines, the Cunards and the Carnivals, by reading a weekly log published in a local Manhattan paper, the Battery Park City Broadsheet. The paper’s editors share my interest in the waterfront action and their office has a front-row seat on New York harbor.

So when the time came for the vaunted Queen Mary 2 and her ancestor, the Queen Elizabeth 2, to sail historically out of New York, I was there to see them off. The Queen Mary 2 was scheduled to inherit the mantle of flagship from the 30-year-old QE2 as they passed into the majestic Atlantic after crossing the Verrazano Narrows. For the QE2, this would mark her last trans-Atlantic crossing.

The hype was huge for this voyage. Cunard’s PR folks were working overtime, along with the NYPD. It’s no wonder. A $3 billion investment is hard to recoup without some serious effort.

TV news was playing the terror angle—perfect timing for the pre-sweeps ratings. But I was paying no heed to the disaster-mavens. I was there to greet the Queens.

Showing my age, I still consider the QE2 the “new” ship it was in 1974 when it first sailed into Manhattan and wowed us with its elegance. I used to dream of sailing to Southhampton on the Queen, imagining a gala bon-voyage party with champagne and caviar, and a handsome escort.

The fantasy may have been fueled by my mother’s tale of a similar party. I was not yet born when she and my father took my infant brother to a shipboard send-off of friends. As the champagne flowed and the music played, my parents paid no mind to the loud blasts of the ship’s horn until they felt the lurching of the ship as it left its mooring.

Frivolity turned serious when the ship’s purser confronted the potential stowaways and called the Coast Guard. The next thing they knew, they were being ushered onto a tugboat from the hulking ship via rope ladder.

My mother followed the order to hand her baby to a sailor as she navigated the ladder in stockinged feet. Mid-way down, she watched as her infant was tossed past her, football-style, to a tugboat worker below, as hungry seas lapped between the hulls.

My brother survived the adventure with only a lifelong fear of heights. My parents were let off with a stern warning not to attend any more bon voyage parties.

With this memory, and no invitations forthcoming, I shepherded my family to the local pier to watch the Queens depart. It was a cool spring evening. The setting sun was blanketed by clouds to the west. City lights emerged as the first ship, the Queen Mary 2, forged the Hudson, and fireboats sprayed in celebration. Crowds lined the waterfront, from 42 Street to the Battery, waving and cheering.

She was all about size—the length of a skyscraper laid flat, with wedding-cake tiers of decks and mammoth smokestacks. Lights danced on all decks as she tooted her resonant horns three times. Sheer size is impressive, but there was something missing.

It was not until she passed beyond Lady Liberty that her sister ship pulled into view. By that time, the crowds were thinning. My own children were angling for ice cream. Then I saw it. The elegant silhouette of the QE2 was a Princess Grace to the QM 2, who now evoked Lewis Carroll’s Queen of Hearts by comparison. This aging beauty was from another time, when only a few could afford a stateroom crossing to Europe and stature was measured in form and elegance rather than size.

Farewell, sweet Queen.