As a child I grew up hearing my father tell stories about sights he had seen during his time in the Merchant Navy – I used to imagine him battling with pirates. No doubt inheriting his wanderlust, I was intrigued by this lifestyle and the camaraderie of crew life. Being the youngest child in my family by 15 years, I was particularly close to my father, but tension with my older siblings often led to a lot of solitude. I was comfortable with travelling solo from a young age – often holidaying or volunteering abroad and making friends along the way. Alone but never lonely.

 

With my father’s encouragement, I discovered that some container ships accepted passengers. Having been raised by his sailor stories, I was keen to find out what life was like on board. In my late 30s and now firmly rooted in the seafaring nation of Greece, I found a travel agent that could book me a voyage from Athens to Hong Kong: 27 days with roughly 30 crew members – and me, the only passenger.

 

For me, this wasn’t so much about the destination as the journey.

​

When I told my friends about the trip, their responses ranged from admiration to horror.

​

“Are you crazy? You’ll be the only woman among all those men!”

​

Their doubts started to sink in. Was I romanticising something I hadn’t properly thought through?

​

But my father, quietly reassuring, simply said, “We took a nun once on our West Africa route. She seemed more than happy to keep us company on the bridge.” If a nun could do it, so could I.

​

The day of departure arrived with cloudless blue skies – no ominous signs. Subconsciously rubbing my evil-eye pendant to calm the nerves, I hugged my cats goodbye and headed to the Port of Piraeus. The ship towered over the dock like a small city. But the nerves that had built up dissolved the moment a smiling crew member appeared beside me and offered to carry my case. He turned out to be Nelson, the Chief Steward, who would look after me on board with an easy kindness that I would come to treasure.

​

My cabin was 30 square metres with four massive portholes and an en-suite bathroom. Larger than my living room at home, it was instantly a place I could exhale. Later that day, over breaded shrimp and kiwi slices in the senior crew’s dining room, I met Captain Stefan, who made it clear I was to feel welcome. “With men away from home for so long,” he said, “we have to keep them happy on board.” The food, I quickly learned, was going to be anything but basic.

​

Throughout the voyage, meals became an anchor – a space where stories were shared, laughter found its way between time zones, and the loneliness I’d imagined at sea never arrived. The crew was a mix of European officers and Filipino sailors. Though the latter were more reserved, they slowly pulled me into their orbit, even inviting me to a karaoke night mid-journey where I found myself singing ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’ with the cook.

​

We stopped in ports like Genoa, Valencia and Singapore, with long enough stays to explore – or retreat for a siesta in my cabin when I needed one. Evenings brought basketball on deck, reading at the bow, or watching sunsets from the bridge. Once, we sailed past Stromboli as it fumed quietly on the horizon. Another time, dolphins danced alongside the ship.

​

Crossing the pirate zone near Somalia brought a temporary shift in energy. Armed guards joined us, and for ten days I felt tension ripple through the tight-knit crew. But even this passed with good humour – when I admitted I’d pictured them as Arnold Schwarzenegger types, they burst out laughing: “You’ve been watching too many Hollywood movies!”

​

By the time we reached Hong Kong, I had shared sunsets, barbecues, karaoke, and daily routines with people I now considered friends. I had also discovered something far more valuable: proof that I could still travel solo – in unconventional ways, on my own terms, and without apology. “I had choices,” I realised. “I needn’t explain my lifestyle to anyone – whether it’s on a container ship or by a hotel pool.”

​

And yes – I’d do it all again.