I’m staring at a seahorse. Near the small spines on its head. A spiky crown. Like a unicorn underwater. Such observations are always precious, but this one feels unique because I have convinced myself that he is in labor. I watch them every day, these skinny little fish, their tails curling the twigs, gently fanning, as they perform their sunrise greetings (my heart!). This little guy turns this way and while he’s bubbling, or maybe thousands of tiny seahorse babies ejected from his pouch take off around him. It’s hard to say, but who needs proof? The possibility is magical enough. Life is magically special. If you choose to see it that way.
We are in Northern Greece, the seahorses and I, a few kilometers southeast of Preveza, in the Ionian Sea. But you can also find them in your own watery backyard, even in London. Hippocampus-hippocampus breed in the outer Thames and along the south coast of England.
When I think of the thousands of miles I have sailed, the most life-changing and heart-opening experiences have been in Britain
A few years ago I accidentally sailed to Greece. I had quit my job in London and set off on a small boat with a loose plan to navigate Britain. But at Land’s End I became involved in my own adventure and sailed across the Channel to France. A few years later I ended up in Greece. No regrets, of course. It was the thrill of exploration that carried me away, the cultural appeal of foreign lands. But when I think of the thousands of miles I have sailed, the most life-changing and heart-opening experiences have been in Britain. To really see it, you often have to leave the house. I remember how beautiful the British coasts are. The Atlantic, North and Irish seas. The smell of seaweed, colonies of seals. The rhythm of the tides. How I miss the tides!
I will always remember my awakening, a newfound freedom, as I wound my way at a snail’s pace along the rural south-west coast of England. The floating landscapes, the limestone hills and beautiful harbors of Dorset, the drama of Durdle Door. But it was the changing seas that really held me as I headed west. The water clarity increases, the colors change, from sedimentary green and brown in the east to deep blue in the West Country.
By the time I crossed Lyme Bay, the 40-mile gateway between Dorset and Devon, my mouth was open as I saw turquoise water lapping over Salcombe’s white beaches. Shockingly beautiful. Certainly not Britain, I remember thinking. But perception is a strange thing. We associate such scenes with remote places, even though we have many of them in Britain too. I felt a rush of childhood memories, of encountering cold, clear waters with the silky white of Mull’s Calgary beach in the Western Isles.
In the south, the Jurassic Coast draws visitors during the day for its beaches casually littered with beautiful ammonite fossils. But it is also a place of wonder at night, often full of light. Where the River Lym flows into the sea you can find small mussel-like shellfish – common piddock – that glow in the dark. Bioluminescent bivalves. The Romans loved them, judging by Pliny’s stories of hedonistic parties. At late-night parties, people would pull piddocks from the rocks and cover each other in their glistening sap – ‘fire-breathing’ fun.
I stayed at sea – no shiny clams for me – but as I sailed across Lyme Bay and darkness fell, I was confronted with something even more special. Suddenly I saw glowing streaks of light coming towards me. Dolphins, lit green by bioluminescence, flashing like tornadoes beneath the boat, a wake behind us as starry as the sky above.
I will forever remember my awakening, a newfound freedom, winding at a snail’s pace along the rural south-west coast of England
Not long after, I had the most extraordinary wildlife encounter of my life, just five miles south of Dartmouth. I took two friends for a sunset sail, and we were joined by common dolphins. I had often enjoyed their playful company, so encouraged my friends to watch them while I helmed. Then I realized there were half a dozen on either side of my boat, Isean, and dozens behind it. I looked around. Near, and as far as I could see, were dorsal fins. Dolphins everywhere! A superpode – perhaps thousands of animals, and impossible to count.
There were so many of them around the boat that they lay in layers, weaving, tumbling, bumping each other. We completely lost our cool and all three of us were screaming hysterically. And the dolphins seemed to respond to our screams with jubilant leaps. A somersault sounded in the distance. I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw one next to the boat, propelling itself on its back. On his back! It was harder to determine which group – human or cetacean – was more joyful.
Finally, as the sun sank below the horizon, the hundreds of dolphins swam further and faster, back to their offshore world, leaving us behind. Since then I have been accompanied by dolphins, on the Atlantic coast, and all too rarely in the Mediterranean. It’s never not special. But that experience, just outside Dartmouth, was an extraordinary experience.
To be held in this cold, soothing sea while seagulls circled above. It was a reminder of the other life I had created
Not that I’m complaining, floating here on the sun-drenched Greek seas. That’s where I was at the end of the second lockdown, in my dinghy when the call came. The kind that slows down time. My father, taken away in an ambulance. However, we were lucky. He would recover. A few days later I was in Scotland waiting for his return from hospital.
I would stay for a year, eternally grateful for the opportunity to help him come back to himself. And for precious time with him – the longest since I left home at nineteen. Still, shivering in a particularly Scottish drizzle and looking at the gray clouds above, I thought about my boat in Greece and wondered how I would adapt.
Life throws us in unexpected directions. I turned towards the sea. I was lucky. My father lives in a pretty town on the west bank of the Clyde – Dunoon, once a popular ‘doon the water’ stopping point, with its Victorian pier, vast western bay, valleys and hills. Where before I would rush in and out on week-long visits, I now had time to get to know the place and found a lot to like; the rhythm of the ferry coming and going, the porpoises in the bay and gannets in the sky. Gantocks Lighthouse, just off the coast, is often shrouded in mist. The decent fish and chips and the cheerful dog walkers I met during my freezing daily swims. Oh yeah. I became one of those swimmers. I was definitely not a fan of cold water and hadn’t been to the Clyde since I was a kid. I arrived in April when it was at its coldest – around 7 degrees Celsius. Baltic. But this was the only sea I had. Inside I went. I lasted one minute.
But I soon became obsessed. I loved everything. The sensation. The hot coffee next. The meditative self-awareness – that warmth in your core. And gratitude – how amazing our bodies are. The feeling of achievement.
Related: The Half Bird by Susan Smillie review – a life less ordinary
Eventually I realized I needed it, time that was just mine. To be held in this cold, soothing sea while seagulls circled above. It was a reminder of the other life I had created. Living back in my father’s house, I regained that same sense of independence, excitement, and wonder that I had experienced when I set out on my boat. Perspective. Making something special out of the ordinary. Create something that’s yours, anywhere. Finding adventure.
Bad weather no longer worried me. If it was raining or hailing, I would enjoy it even more to run into the winter sea alone and feel very daring. Not the adjective the audience chose. “Are you off?” they would scream.
“It’s wet in the sea,” I shouted back, confirming their suspicions that I was quite angry.
When it snowed, I would jump out of bed in a state of great excitement, my feet frozen between soft flakes. “The water is warm in comparison!” I would reassure my father. I barely missed a day that whole year. Every now and then the sun shone, and such days were all the more special for their rarity.
On a warm evening at low tide I cycled towards the village of Innellan. As the sun set, I walked through the intertidal zone, to the water’s edge where Atlantic seals migrate. Half and half a world. From a distance and without disturbance, I folded my clothes and placed them on a rock. I quietly slipped into the water and bathed in a forest of slippery kelp, listening to the seals singing. I saw the sea return to claim its territory. The boulders shrink, the land disappears, the mammals hunt. Another water world. Truly magical.
• Susan Smillie is the author of The Half Bird (Michael Joseph, £16.99). To support The Guardian and Observer, order your copy at Guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply