The Soul of the Sea

A soul healing sailing voyage around Scotland where myths and legends come alive

Jun 27, 2026

This is a mythologised account based on real events from when I sailed around Scotland last year. For those unfamiliar with Scotland, the journey follows a real and occasionally treacherous path: I sailed from Edinburgh into the unforgiving North Sea; passing through the dark depths of Loch Ness to reach the Atlantic out west among Scotland’s tallest mountains; threading the treacherous rushing waters of the famous Corryvreckan whirlpool, before ultimately heading home along the remote, northern coast – past the cliffs of Cape Wrath and the ferocious tides of the Pentland Firth.

The Soul of the Sea

I look out across the water from the shores of the Firth of Forth as the tide rushes in, filling the Forth with the icy North Sea. The water is opaque, unknowable, made almost obsidian by the heavy clouds, reflecting off the waves. The harbour, lined with wood, rock and black iron, is a gateway into the unknown. I stand on the brink and ponder what is to come, of entering this wild abyss. My own soul is lost to me, eroded by burnout, hollowed out by trying to contort myself to fit a life that is not for me. Maybe at sea I can find a way to rejuvenate it; perhaps if I get to know the soul of the sea, I will find a way back to myself as well.

So out towards the abyss I bear. With heavy thuds I walk down the slipway, gazing down at my feet. With every step my determination grows, as I leave my old life behind for what the sea has in store. I leap aboard Kismet, my trusted, seaworthy little ship, spurning land-based life. The strong breeze whips ropes and canvas as I set the sails, just outside the mouth of the harbour. The texture of the sea is like my thoughts: dark and foreboding.

The tide turns and brings us with it, out towards the North Sea. Eventually my mind goes silent, filled with the movements of wind and waves. The salty spray runs down my hair, stinging my eyes as I fight with rudder and sails, navigating the churning water. I clasp the wood-grained, weathered tiller handle with white knuckles, keeping us just in control as we are tossed by steep waves. The chaotic sea is vicious, straining against us, not letting us in.

I sail through moonless nights, and thick fog, unseeing, into another world. A world of myth and legend. In the dark, unseen shapes move just beyond the edge of my vision. Swirling spectres. I cannot tell if these shadows are from the unknown depths, or from my own mind. Through the dark and fog I sail until I reach the gateway to the ancient west. A world of elemental powers: water, air and earth. The treacherous soul of the sea still eludes me. Overnight the storms ease and shards of deep blue, dotted with faint stars, break through the heavy sheets of cloud.

The passage opens up before me, a great glen – a deep murky loch, bordered by weary mountains. In its dark depths, an ancient leviathan lies waiting. I set off before the break of dawn, as the creature lies sleeping, careful not to disturb her. I sail quietly, crouched down in my boat, avoiding looking over the edge into the black deep. The surface barely stirs as we glide in light winds. As the sun rises I see the distant shore, a break in the mountains. We make it through the mythic passage, Kismet and I.

In the west, surrounded by snow-capped mountains and deep sea lochs, something in the air shifts. I begin to hear the whispers of the ancient mountains, and the low rumbling voice of the sea. But they are still too faint, drowned out by my own mind. I sail past verdant isles, through narrow sounds in the shadow of jagged peaks, still searching.

Mythical isles and mountains (Loch Sween)

Then before me approaches another trial, a boiling cauldron of water. A ship-swallowing maelstrom of legend. The Corryvreckan. The waters surge and rumble as the fierce currents thrash, a ferocious river at sea. One misstep and we drift into the chaotic gaping depths of this ancient force, empowered by the heavens. I struggle and force the tiller as I am pulled and pushed around the roaring waters, but to no avail. I am unable to control Kismet. As we are pulled ever closer to the deep thundering abyss I hear another voice ringing through the roaring water. I listen closely to the voice of the sea and the still whisper of the wind. And they tell me where to go. They guide me to the safe eddies and currents that carry us past danger.

As I reach the safe waters past this hurdle, I look out at the remote, untouched world towards the horizon. Beyond these gates all time exists as one, there is no past, no present, no future, but all here together, intertwined. As I sail, I start seeing and hearing the hum of all the different strands of time, resonant in the textures, scents and colours of this place. I become attuned to the sea, sensing its eternal, ever-moving soul, that ebbs and flows, hearing its ancient voice. Within it echoes the voice of mountains, creatures, ice and fire. A voice that sustains and also deprives. That has existed for aeons and will remain, beyond the edge of time.

Out here her voice is loud and clear. My mind eases into the rhythm of it. The winds and waves carry us with ease, as I begin to understand their cadence. I spend my days communing with water and wind, a being no longer shackled but made free. I stand upon the bow of Kismet taking it all in, as we glide together over glassy seas, accompanied by creatures that also know the soul of the sea, the sleek dolphins jumping through waves, the curious seals observing from afar, the great basking shark slowly cruising the surface, and the myriad of birds surfing invisible currents.

I remain immersed in this world until the seasons change – until the temperature drops and the voice of the sea grows cold and harsh, and the wind biting. The time comes to turn back home. Winter’s dark already begins to set in the early evenings. Cold, clear air reveals the cosmos, beyond sea, earth and air.

I sail more urgently, pushed on by eager winds, fearful of winter’s claws. I face unseen dangers all around, sharp rocks and whirlpools; dangerous currents and stormy capes. But I still listen to the quiet voices, and the sea sends me her guides to help me navigate. The lost souls of ancient mariners show me the way, their bewinged forms now soaring through air. The knowing dolphins lead me past the treacherous rocks, gliding gracefully in grey seas.

Through wind and rain I sail, past the wrathful cape, stormy and remote; past the treacherous Swelkie, faceless and churning, until once again I spot the outline of a familiar place. The welcome embrace of the Firth of Forth. Of home. As I enter the gates of the Forth – sailing past guarding gannets – a pale autumn sun welcomes me onto cerulean waters. I reach the wooden docks in the light of the setting sun, and say farewell to the sea, thanking her for helping me find a way back. I say farewell to Kismet too, my bewinged vessel. As I take my first steps back on land, back towards another life, she sits perched on the water, wings folded, resting peacefully. I return to shore made whole, a being of earth and water, finally belonging.

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Note: All photos by me unless otherwise stated

If you missed my companion poem that goes with this essay you can read it here: