When life gives you a free sailboat named destiny

On the transformative power of a passion project and the "free" boat that ended up saving my soul

I really wanted a boat. I mean I really, really wanted a boat. I wanted to be able to sail out and anchor somewhere where seals and puffins were my only neighbours, and I could spend a couple of nights at sea enjoying the solitude. But I couldn’t afford one.

Then, some cosmic luck intervened and came to my rescue. I was given a small, 50-year-old deteriorating boat for free, by someone who had given up on sailing, annual maintenance and B(ring).O(ut).A(nother).T(housand) life.

Her name was Kismet, meaning destiny. It felt like the universe was telling me something.

Day one of being a boat owner

I was, at the time, a DIY novice who couldn’t tell an angle grinder from a jigsaw nor an alternator from a starter motor. I was also starting to experience severe burnout. Nine times out of ten that’s a combo that leads to a rapid loss of money and boat within a year.

But somehow the opposite happened. It didn’t happen all at once, but slowly at first. A year into ownership I was beginning to learn new things, and solve problems with the view of having more comfort and safety out sailing. A very motivating cause and effect. And Kismet did need a lot of work. When I got her, the old diesel engine would only deign to start every two or three times, the batteries and electronics were questionable at best, and a fire hazard at worst, and years of accumulated paint and growth on the hull—and mould and damp inside—meant that she was… unpleasant to sail.

It’s a very overwhelming feeling realising that what’s wrong on the boat is everything. But she was solidly built, a very sturdy hull, spacious for her size, and a capable cruising boat. I felt she had potential. And she was free, so what’s the worst that could happen?

(read my previous post (Alone at Sea) about nearly losing my mast in the North Sea for an answer to that question)

So I started learning about diesel engines, checking parts and reading manuals, eventually taking it all apart and rebuilding it myself. The electrics all came out and I rewired the boat, new safe batteries, LED lights and general modern comforts. I bought new power tools, finally learning how useful (and fun) an angle grinder is.

The drama and details of spending a winter rebuilding an engine in a cold shed is a story for another post, but to my surprise I found that having this project to work on—learning new skills, working with my hands, and having clear ambitions and goals for the project—proved healing in and of itself. I’d spent so much time fretting and questioning what to do next as I delved deeper into burnout, that the healing qualities of grimy engine work came as a surprise.

Engine before(left) and engine after(right) rebuilding and repainting. Who knew engine work was an alternative to therapy?

A free boat isn’t really free; it came at the cost of aches and pains and many hours of grime, as well as parts and tools, but ultimately I have spent less than even if I’d gotten a cheap beater car (not that Kismet can take me to the supermarket for the weekly shop). And the boat maintenance and DIY skills (not to mention all the new tools) are still coming in handy on an almost daily basis. And Kismet is transformed.

Looking back it does seem like destiny. Kismet carried us around all of Scotland in 2025, through the Caledonian Canal and out west. We sailed with dolphins, basking sharks, puffins, and sea eagles; we crossed seas, slept under the aurora and witnessed some of the most incredible night skies of my life. And ultimately it led me here, and to writing my memoir, and to being healed of burnout.

So thank you Kismet, for saving my soul.

Kismet approaching the Cuillins on Isle of Skye

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