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.

It sharply contrasted with my life in London. I’d been ridiculously happy there, living on my (bigger) boat on the Thames, had the only job I’d ever wanted, a features editor for the Guardian. But I had a growing disquiet – I felt weirdly disconnected from the wider world. Brexit reinforced that. I was depressed by the result, but also by an ugly narrative espoused even by tolerant friends, that Leave voters were racist or stupid. I would go in search of a kinder Britain, I told myself, find some hope to write about. It was more selfish than that. I wanted an escape and my exit was clearly marked – to sea. By August I’d made Land’s End. Stuck in bad weather, autumn drawing close, sailing north into winter lost its appeal. Heading south, on the other hand, well, that was too exciting for words, and experienced friends assured me it would actually be easier, the trade winds blowing Isean and me down the Atlantic coast, the weather improving the farther we went.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘I decided I would turn left at Land’s End instead of right and leave Brexit Britain behind’: Susan Smillie takes the helm. Photograph: Cat Vinton/The Observer

It sounded sensible but intimidating. I had a basic qualification – a day skipper’s licence – but didn’t consider myself experienced. Still, I’d learn along the way, and find crew for longer passages. I would turn left at Land’s End instead of right, leave Brexit Britain behind. If I made Brittany, I’d be happy with that as a winter adventure. A thousand miles later, I blew into Portugal. A year on, I’m in Italy, and still haven’t come home.

I’d worried about being lonely in France. I needn’t have. Brittany is the epicentre of sailing and everyone was interested in my journey. “You are taking on the nose of Brittany!?! By yourself? In this leetle boat?” This reaction became common, so rare are solo female sailors. I laughed when someone in Portugal introduced themselves, “I heard about you in Spain” – and when a harbour-master gestured to the cabin, nodding, “Do you have a man down there?” A year on, I’m more jaded by my apparent novelty factor – men staring, taking photographs – behold the woman, lifting her anchor! – I usually wave, to reduce the awkwardness (for myself; it doesn’t seem to bother them). Sometimes, it goes beyond awkward – the guy circling, by empty cliffs, his jet ski revving, staring, wordlessly for just too long. It’s a sad fact I’ve felt more threatened on an empty harbour wall, drunk men outside, than by dangers faced at sea. But why dwell on that? I’ve had so much respect along the way (and size does matter – I love when sailors emerge from enormous yachts, all thumbs-up in recognition of the challenge of sailing a small boat – Isean is under 8m). And I’ve had untold support – there’s this international community of self-sufficient problem-solvers on the water, almost always ready to help – because everyone knows what it’s like to be in trouble at sea.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘I’m more at home at sea now than anywhere’. Photograph: Cat Vinton/The Observer

I’m more at home at sea now than anywhere. I realised how much my perspective had changed when I posted a picture online, happily anchored on some idyllic empty spot, to find my dad worried about how lonely it looked. Poor Sam. I must be a nightmare. He was in the merchant navy and understands something of the challenges I face. My first, after the Channel crossing (24 undramatic hours, give or take a few ships), came fast: the Chenal du Four, where strong currents run for 30 miles to the notorious passage of Raz de Sein. Nearing the entrance, my engine quit. Not ideal, I thought, but I’ll sail. Then the wind dropped. Then the fog came. After three attempts at clearing the air lock, I got my engine going and made it through.

Fog became a theme. After crossing Biscay, came the aptly named Costa da Morte. A friend, Cat, joined me for her first ever sail. She was a natural, luckily – five hours of fog accompanied us down the coast of death. What started atmospheric turned eerie, then miserable. We hugged the shoreline avoiding ships, foghorn at the ready, the radio transmitting calls for a boat that disappeared here the night before. Gradually, the fog thinned, until we could look back on the thick white halo blanketing Finisterre – beautiful, from a safe distance. By the time we reached the Galician islands, it was mist, making our first glimpse of this stunning archipelago fleeting and magical. “Look how beautiful it probably is,” called Cat, optimistically, as the Cíes islands showed themselves for seconds.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘I like my deep appreciation of simple pleasures’: Susan Smillie onboard Isean. Photograph: Cat Vinton/The Observer

Other moments stand out on the journey south – dawn departures, the last of the stars and fishing boats; finding warmth (Lisbon in October), jumping in heart-bursting joy to tunes on golden sunset sails. But it was hard work. Those trade winds didn’t materialise to push me south. I’d set off late – mid-September – and raced into wind to beat coming storms. I spent winter in the glorious little town of Olhão in the Algarve, learned enough Portuguese to chat to fishermen about the weather, made friends, thought of it as home. I started to notice how tiny my living space was. Isean’s very basic – a toilet, a tiny galley with a sink, a burner and (rubbish) grill. A table to eat at, berths to sleep on. My spontaneous departure meant it wasn’t set up for long-term cruising. Unlike everyone I met, I didn’t even have a fridge (French friends had a sous-vide on board. Of course they did.) The Portuguese winter was mild, but a damp month on anchor convinced me I needed heating. A friend installed a mini woodburner – life changing. Anyway, I could do without basic comforts – I had no business languishing in harbours. Isean is happiest on the move, and so am I. I left in April, for the Mediterranean.

The air is heavy with the scent of petrol. I’ve drifted within a few feet of a small boat pitching in a heavy swell. It’s dark, about 3am, I can make out several of 10 men on board; they’ve been at sea for five days, 100 miles from Algeria to here, within 40 miles of the Spanish coast. Some are lying down, sick, others leaning over and, I realise with alarm, smoking – in this boat awash with fuel. It’s a grim scene, but I’d expected worse. I’d raced five miles here after friends on Wilma, a Swedish boat I’m crossing to the Balearics with, issued a mayday. The men had pursued them, panicked and screaming, and in desperation crashed into Wilma’s hull, one of them jumping aboard.

Over the radio, it sounded terrifying. My friend Tjoppe’s “man overboard”, the fastest way to summon rescue, is short on detail, so it was unclear who was in the water – his wife Helena? – or how they’d got there. I imagined the worst. As I changed course towards them, I was shaking so much I could barely turn my engine key. It transpired that two of the men had fallen in trying to board Wilma, and were recovered unhurt. Wilma, undamaged, circled the dinghy protectively. Fear turned to relief, then apprehension – it would be four hours before the coastguard came. The men shouted to come aboard (risky in the swell), twice making for me, but their engine failed. It was a long night. I hadn’t slept in 30 hours; I couldn’t imagine a week in a dinghy. At dawn, the Spanish coastguard arrived. Tears fell as the men lined up on the boat gunwales and touched hearts in farewell to Wilma, safe – for now. This summer, the UNHCR estimated that more than 1,800 people died crossing the Mediterranean, a sharp rise in proportion to numbers setting out, and an indication of the greater risks taken. Italy’s far-Right interior minister Matteo Salvini has said the coastguard should ignore distress calls from migrant boats, a view that’s taking hold across Europe, with humanitarian efforts being criminalised. In June, EU leaders instructed NGO ships to stop rescuing migrants – hours after 100 people drowned off the coast of Libya.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘I could do without basic comforts – I didn’t even have a fridge’: preparing lunch on the beach. Photograph: Cat Vinton/The Observer

The Mediterranean is an unkind sea. Here, the winds, rather than tides, reign supreme. And what monsters: the Levanter, the Meltemi, the Mistral, often heralding their arrival with screeching like a getaway car on a bank heist. I’d arrived with spring’s unsettled weather and, pummelled by steep waves and heavy seas, thought about the Atlantic every day. I didn’t know you could miss an ocean so much. June and July were sunny and calmer, but extreme weather was coming. I wouldn’t get used to storms, but I would learn from them. On my first, I failed to reef (reduce) my sails. The boat heeled dangerously as we powered upwind. I headed out to sea for space and cried.

Last month, I was anchored with Cat in Sardinia when monstrous winds rushed in with thunder and sheet lightning illuminating the full filmic horror of it. The bay, calm moments before, unrecognisable, white foam and torrential rain washing sideways, my dinghy (since named Kite) flying overhead like the house in the Wizard of Oz. A far larger boat, pushed to land, almost hit us in its struggle to get offshore. I worked at Isean’s anchor, letting out chain, so we wouldn’t join them near the rocks. I sent Cat to the cockpit – the rain was so heavy, she needed a scuba mask to see me. It raged for hours.

I hardly recognise myself now. I don’t mean looks (although the sun has turned me blonde). I’m surprised at how far I’ve come, the reserves I’ve found – we humans are so much more capable and adaptable than we realise. I’ve never been practical, but I’m learning – and what satisfaction I’ve found in grasping (very) basic mechanics. I have to, because at sea you solve your own problems, and I won’t give this life up, I’ve a Greek odyssey to think about, not to mention the pull towards Africa.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest ‘For every challenge, there are many more unforgettable moments’: a group of dolphins accompanies Isean. Photograph: Cat Vinton/The Observer

I like how this lifestyle has changed me. I’m more careful with resources, taking just what I need – I’m no saint, it’s pragmatic. When you have to seek out water, you don’t waste a drop. When shops are 20 nautical miles away, you improvise – flatbreads on the frying pan, salting fish – you get resourceful. I’m geekily into budgeting, spending around £60 a week (roughly what I shelled out on travel, coffees, lunch at work). I’m happier, healthier and stronger. Yes, there’s stress, but it’s life-affirming. It’s humbling to be at the mercy of the elements, to focus on what matters. Am I safe? Where can I get shelter, water, food? There’s nothing I miss, other than regular showers (daily swims and washing from a basin doesn’t do much for your hair) – but I like my deep appreciation of simple pleasures – who knew there was so much joy in a hot shower and fresh laundry?

And for every challenge, there are many more unforgettable moments. Sailing towards Africa’s mighty Jebel Musa – the Pillars of Hercules, marking the continents of Africa and Europe. There was the morning I was joined by a pod of pilot whales, and swordfish, a silver vision of pure muscle surging out of the sea. And watching the red moon rise from a quiet bay, or sleeping al fresco under a meteor shower. My back garden is gin-clear water – pipefish and turtles my nosy neighbours. My fiery orange sunsets are unobstructed, my starry skies unpolluted by light. Every single day, I feel lucky to call this wild, unbiddable, impossibly beautiful sea my home.

Instagram: @smillieonsea; email: mailsusan@gmail.com