The Sea And Me
Keeping My Mind.
I’ve been out at sea for the past 15 years now; it’s all I do. I wait for the tide to rise high enough to get the boat out of the Scottish harbour, travel five miles out into the North Sea (the most treacherous sea in the world), and then drop my anchor and grab about three hours of sleep.
Of course, I check the weather beforehand, and as much as I try to be careful, the weather can change on a whim. I wish I didn’t have to sleep, but everyone knows that’s impossible. It can be even more dangerous when you’re asleep, not just because the weather can change suddenly, but also because fishing trawlers have a nasty habit of catching fire. There’s a mountain of electrical cabling mixed with a fuel tank containing 2000 litres of diesel, plus other hazards that I won’t bore you with being on board.
Yet, I wouldn’t change the job for the world. At times, the sea can be magnificent. There’s an energy about it that fills the loneliness many people experience. It can almost feel magical when you’re out there on the sea in the middle of the night, with the entire universe above you, filled with stars. It makes me feel alive, contented, and full of awe for the vast ocean I am bobbing about on.
And then there’s the sunset. The glow that casts itself across the ocean like an orange flashlight. It’s like a motorway, which soon becomes silver in colour when the moonlight replaces it.
The worst I’ve had it was when a Force 10 storm came from nowhere. The boat was literally rolling onto its left and right sides. I truly believed that was my last day on Earth. In a way, it taught me something really valuable: life really is held together by a string no thicker than a hair. It’s true, I could have quit after that and kept myself safe on dry land, but I learned that wrapping myself in cotton wool wasn’t going to make me live forever. So many variables could get me wherever I was. I’ve known people who have literally just died there and then, with no apparent illnesses or causes. It’s like when your time is up, your time is up, and it doesn’t matter what you’re doing.
Storms don’t just happen out at sea. They can happen anywhere. I guess I’ve found a way to live with them. They remind me of my younger days when I would feel anxious or worried about something. My mind could literally build a storm in my own mind, and to be honest, those mental storms were worse than the one I thought I wasn’t going to survive that day. The reason being that they could go on for days in my mind. The one that hit me out at sea was gone after a couple of hours.
So, if you’re ever near the sea, take a walk along the shore. Next time you do, remember that whatever is happening in your life, the waves will continually keep breaking, and tomorrow the sun will rise again.
And that’s the thing about the sea: it never promises you safety, but it does promise honesty. It shows you exactly what it is, whether you’re ready for it or not. I think that’s why I’ve stayed with it all these years. It’s unpredictable, unforgiving, beautiful, everything life is, just in a different form. Out there, bobbing on the water with nothing but the hum of the engine and the creak of the hull, I feel like I’m facing the world on its own terms.
There are mornings when the mist rolls in so quietly it’s like the sky decided to come down for a closer look. You can’t see ten feet in front of you, but somehow you feel held. Other days the colours on the horizon are so sharp they look painted on, as if the whole scene has been carefully arranged just to remind you that you’re still here. Still breathing. Still moving forward, even if it’s inch by inch.
And then there are the quiet hours (my favourite) when the sea is a sheet of black glass and the only sound is the gentle tapping of water against the bow. In those moments, everything feels stripped back. Simple. My thoughts stop racing. The storms in my head, the ones that used to tear through me without warning, finally lose their power. It’s as though the sea absorbs them, piece by piece, until all that’s left is the steady rise and fall of the tide.
Funny thing is, after all this time, I don’t think the sea has ever truly tried to teach me anything. It just is, and I’m the one who keeps finding lessons in it. Maybe that’s what we all do with the things that scare us a little but keep us alive. We turn them into teachers.
So when I tell people to take a walk along the shore, I don’t mean it as a cure. The sea won’t fix whatever’s happening in your life. But it might offer perspective. It might show you how small a single wave looks against the whole ocean, and how even the worst storms have edges, beginnings and endings.
Stand there long enough, listening to the rumble of water pulling itself back into place, and you realise something simple but important: everything moves on. Everything shifts. And somehow, without fanfare, you do too.
And when tomorrow comes, and it always does, the sun lifts itself over the water like it’s starting fresh. Maybe that’s the real gift the sea gives. Not peace, not answers, just the reminder that starting again is always an option.
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