I’ve been seeing The Woman in Cabin 10 appear on Netflix for a while, but I didn’t plan to watch it anytime soon. The title felt familiar, though I couldn’t quite place why.

Years ago, on a contract, a trainer onboard handed me a book she’d just finished and asked me to donate it to the ship’s library when I was done. I read it in between shifts, without thinking much of it. Over time, all I remembered was a woman locked in a room and the atmosphere of a small luxury vessel.

Seeing the adaptation surface on Netflix brought that faint memory back. I wondered if this was the book I’d forgotten; after all, it’s not often I read fiction set on leisure ships.

Last night, I pressed play. By the end of the movie, I was almost certain – almost completely certain – that this was the book I read years ago.

“But I was almost certain—almost completely certain—that she was the woman in cabin 10.”

Quotes that echo life at sea

I’m sure Ruth Ware never intended her lines to be read through a seafaring lens, but some of them echo strangely well with life at sea.

When I sign on for a new contract, I always fly into whichever country the ship is berthed in. But walking into a cruise terminal, even with the familiar nerves, brings a small, undeniable spark. Stepping onto the gangway feels like slipping back into a world of adventure.

“I love ports. I love the smell of tar and sea air, and the scream of the gulls… a harbor gives me a feeling of freedom in a way that an airport never does. Airports say work and security checks and delays. Ports say… I don’t know. Something completely different. Escape, maybe.”

For those of us working onboard, it suggests a different kind of escape – not a holiday, but a shift from land routines. You could say I turned tourism into work, and in doing so found a freedom of a different kind.

That sense of escape ends the moment the contract starts, though, because the freedom is in the movement, not in the routine that follows.

And then reality kicks in – onboard life runs on structure, schedules, and systems.

Which is why the book’s description of a ship with almost no maps or guidance felt so strange to me.

“It didn’t help that, unlike a ferry, there were no floor plans or maps, and minimal signage—supposed to help the impression that this was a private home that you just happened to share with a load of rich people.”

On big mainstream cruise ships, signage is everywhere: muster routes, exit plans, safety notices at every entryway. Crew areas might be basic, but everything is designed to make safety easy to follow.

While reading, I can picture the metal walls and narrow corridors – yet the atmosphere feels unfamiliar. My ships are large and functional; the book’s ship is curated, intimate, and designed for a very specific kind of luxury.

And that contrast – practicality versus performance – reminds me of another part of ship life that rarely gets portrayed accurately.

“It was the graphic illustration of the gap between the haves and have-nots that made me feel uncomfortable, a modern upstairs-downstairs in action.”

While the guest rooms sparkle with wealth, crew quarters are cramped, and utilitarian. I could relate immediately – not just the space, but the invisible hierarchy that defines life onboard.

Behind the polished guest experience, crew carry their own rules, pressures, and boundaries. There’s an unspoken expectation to keep yourself “fine enough” to work; any sign of struggle can be interpreted as not coping, with the possibility of being sent home. It’s a subtle but constant pressure embedded in crew mental health at sea.

“There’s a reason why we keep thoughts inside our heads for the most part—they’re not safe to be let out in public.”

The line wasn’t written about ship life, but it fits. And it’s not only a crew thing, either. Most of us have thoughts we don’t voice: the darker ones, the impulsive ones, the ones that sound too dramatic when said aloud. The mind is rarely as tidy as the face we show others. Some thoughts are simply safer kept inside, where they can be acknowledged without consequence.

And when I think about the world Ruth Ware writes about, the protagonist and I really share just one thing: we both board ships for work. But the similarity ends there.

She arrives as a passenger with a job to do; I arrive as crew. Her assignment lasts a week; mine stretches into months. One moves through curated spaces designed to feel exclusive. The other works in the hidden guts of a vessel built to keep thousands of people safe and fed.

The setting may look the same on the surface, but the realities couldn’t be more different.

Is The Woman in Cabin 10 worth reading ?

As psychological thrillers go, it’s… fine. Not unforgettable, which might explain why I finished it years ago and promptly forgot the title (though, to be fair, I forget a lot of things). Still, it’s a decent pick if you’re crew and want something ship-adjacent without feeling like homework.

The latest paperback calls it “the unputdownable thriller”, and to its credit, it is easy to sink into.

If you’re curious about how it compares to the Netflix adaptation, some readers have pointed out differences in tone, pacing, and even a few plot points. This breakdown offers a good overview if you’re deciding whether to read the book or watch the movie first.

Overall, it’s not a life-changing read, but it’s solid, especially if you enjoy thrillers set in enclosed spaces or stories that play with isolation, paranoia, and the odd mental fog that travel can create. It won’t reshape your reading life, but it’s a satisfying page-turner when you’re in the mood.