Moods The saltof the sea TEXT Isabelle AutissierILLUSTRATION Prudence Dudan* Saint-Briac, Côtes d’Armor shoreline, early 1980s; 6am one Saturday in winter. It’s not quite dawn, but there’s already a glimmer in the east. At the bow, ready to raise the anchor, I sniff the air. The bitter wind carries the inimitable musty smell of mud and seaweed, sea spray and salt, a reminder of the land I’m leaving and the ocean ahead. I relish the smell, which for me conjures up freedom, adventure and commitment. Above all, it’s synonymous with the passage to new destinations. People on land are still sleeping, oblivious and trusting. Here, I’m on full alert, my senses primed. On land, they’ll continue with the somewhat predictable course of their lives. Here, I am geared up for every eventuality, every encounter, every surprise. This unusual heady odor portends new experiences. This novelty, which brings me face to face with myself, is called life. And I savor its force. North Pacific, 2000s, midday. The warmth of the sun intensifies the scent of the sea that’s so familiar to me. But why doesn’t it bring me a sense of peace anymore? I can no longer feign ignorance. The smell of life has morphed into the smell of death. Somewhere beneath the hull of my boat, billions of plastic particles are drifting and frag- menting. Each one is a tiny sponge that absorbs both the chemical particles of pollution and those that create the odors. Each one will be deadly bait for zoo- plankton, fish, birds and whales, even in the ocean’s deepest depths. Lured by this marine scent associated with life, they will gorge themselves and be poisoned. The cause I’m fighting for? To reinject life into the smell of the sea. *Navigator, writer and president of WWF France. The first woman to single-handedly sail around the world (1991). 190