Susan Smillie quit her job to search by sea for a kinder Britain. A year on, she’s still afloat.
Illustration by Owen Gildersleeve
It is black in the Bay of Biscay, just stars above, and below, the canyons. We’re but a crumb out here, floating beyond the continental shelf where it drops from 300m to near 5,000m. Deeper than I can imagine, this wine-dark sea, no one in sight, or radio range. And silent, but for the waves rushing against my little boat, Isean. Stars shoot overhead, but they’ll have to try harder for my attention. I’m staring down, where dolphins are magically lit by phosphorescence. One wonderful creature spins beside me, a trail of stars in its wake. I’m in a trance, my arm trailing the water. The sails luff, I’ve gone off course and look skywards for the Plough – I’m using stars, rather than compass for my bearings. Later, I will somehow fall asleep while dolphins breach by my window.
I can hardly believe I’m here, headed for Spain on my own boat. I wasn’t even expecting to cross the Channel. I’d quit my job to sail around Britain, an idea that took hold the previous summer, sailing in Devon and Cornwall. It wasn’t just the beauty of the coastline, the gentle pace – collecting mussels, swimming with seals – it was the unique perspective. Sailing alone into harbours seeking shelter, I was invited in, not local nor tourist, but part of an ancient seafaring tradition. I found myself at home chatting with Brixham trawlermen, watching old people in Fowey swing dancing to Erasure.
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