Watching a Migrant Dinghy from a Cruise Ship: A View I’ll Never Forget

As a French public service interpreter based in Manchester, most of the people I interpret for are asylum seekers and refugees, many from francophone Africa. Much of my work is with the Home Office during asylum interviews, where applicants give detailed accounts of why they are seeking asylum in the UK.

I’ve heard stories that would sit heavy on anyone’s conscience. Some asylum seekers arrive by plane with false documents given to them by smugglers—often not even knowing the identity written on the passport they’re holding. Others try their luck in Calais, hiding in refrigerated lorries or clinging to their undersides. Many take to the sea in flimsy inflatable dinghies, at the mercy of smugglers who cram in as many bodies as possible.

I’ll never forget the teenager who told me he had watched fellow passengers drown during the crossing. He had already lost his family back home to a brutal regime. Now, he carried more loss on his shoulders.

These stories shaped how I viewed an encounter during a recent cruise holiday.

A Red Dot On The Horizon

A few days before the end of the trip, I messaged my husband to say I’d saved him a sunbed and was watching a film on the big screen out on deck. His reply came back quickly: “I thought you’d be trying to spot the migrant boat.”

Moments later, I found myself rushing to the deck, where passengers were peering through binoculars. I’d missed an announcement saying we’d stopped because a migrant vessel had been sighted.

At first, I saw nothing. Just endless sea. But others pointed out a tiny red dot in the distance. A crew member speculated it was “just two men,” but from my experience, it was far more likely to be a full dinghy.

We were in Spanish waters, so James, a fellow passenger, suggested they could have come from Algeria—over 500 miles away. My interpreter’s instinct kicked in: I imagined the range of nationalities and languages onboard, and thought of the French speakers almost certainly among them.

Our ship circled, waiting for the Spanish coastguard. Regulations prevented us from intervening. Under the International Convention for the Safety of Life at Sea (SOLAS)—the treaty that underpins modern maritime rescue—ships must assist anyone in distress at sea. But cruise liners rarely take migrants onboard unless their vessel is sinking or visibly unsafe. Instead, they are expected to wait for the nearest national coastguard.

It felt voyeuristic—hundreds of well-fed tourists with binoculars, gazing at people clinging to survival less than a kilometre away.

James, holding a beer, muttered: “I feel guilty drinking this whilst watching what’s going on.” I nodded. We were on a five-star ship where you couldn’t want for anything. They were on a rubber raft with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Did they even have water?

As the dinghy drew closer, I sheepishly borrowed a pair of binoculars. Through the lenses, I could clearly make out around 20 people on board, all wearing life jackets. At least they’re wearing life jackets, I thought, a small comfort amid the enormity of their journey.

The Brutal Contrast

Just the day before, we’d gone ashore using one of the ship’s tender boats — the bright orange lifeboats that double up as shuttles when a cruise ship cannot dock directly in port and has to anchor further out. The sea was calm, the ride barely moving, and yet one passenger still became seasick.

I couldn’t begin to imagine the nausea, fear, and exhaustion in that dinghy. With no engine power beyond a small outboard motor, and no stabilisers, every ripple of the sea would be amplified a hundredfold.

I went to Guest Relations to offer help as an interpreter should the ship intervene. The answer was polite but firm: unless the dinghy was visibly in distress, the cruise ship could not board them. We had to wait for the coastguard.

One man near me muttered: “Ten idiots in a dinghy.”

I couldn’t stay silent. “I don’t think they’re idiots. In all likelihood they’re fleeing their countries to save their lives. You don’t sail across the ocean in a dinghy for fun.”

He shrugged and walked off after saying, “I don’t think we should be having this conversation. In any case, they should be saved.”

That phrase lingered. Because saving lives at sea is not optional—it’s a legal and moral duty. And yet in practice, rescues are political. In the Mediterranean especially, disputes between European countries over responsibility have delayed rescues, leaving NGO ships stranded offshore with hundreds onboard.

The Mediterranean is one of the deadliest migration routes in the world. The International Organization for Migration (IOM) estimates that more than 2,300 people died or went missing there in 2022 alone. And those are only the recorded cases.

Relief Or Fear?

As we circled, I couldn’t help but wonder what the passengers on the dinghy thought when they saw our towering cruise ship. Did they feel relief, knowing help was near? Or fear, suspecting that rescue could also mean being returned to the country they risked everything to flee?

The irony of the scene struck me hard. Just as the Spanish coastguard came into view, an announcement went out that the cruise ship’s ice sculpture had been completed. Applause erupted for a frozen swan, while real lives hung in the balance outside our portholes.

Later, when I recounted the morning to a fellow passenger at the buffet, he quipped: “So that’s why they were selling binoculars.”

Capitalising on someone else’s misfortune. What a twisted world we live in.

More Than A Spectacle

For me, this was no spectacle. I hear these stories every week in interview rooms back in Manchester. Behind the statistics are people with names, families, grief, and hope.

We often talk about asylum seekers in terms of numbers, policies, or headlines. But what I saw that day on the horizon was not an abstract “migration crisis.” It was a handful of lives, fragile as the dinghy that carried them.

And I couldn’t help but think: next week, or next month, one of them could be sitting across from me in an interview room, telling their story in their own words.

That morning reminded me of something simple but important: compassion should not stop at the shoreline.

UK Channel Crossings In Numbers (2025):

•Over 50,000 people have crossed the English Channel in small boats since the Labour government took office in July 2024.

•73 people died attempting the crossing in 2024, the highest annual toll recorded.

•Iran, Afghanistan, Iraq, Albania, Syria, and Eritrea nationals made up 70% of arrivals between 2018 and 2024.

•68% of small boat arrivals were granted asylum in the UK between 2018 and 2024.

•Around 5,000 people who arrived by small boat had been returned from the UK by the end of 2024, making up 3% of all arrivals.

References

International Maritime Organization, International Convention for the Safety of Life at Sea (SOLAS).

Human Rights Watch, Europe:

International Organization for Migration (IOM), Missing Migrants Project – Mediterranean.

The Guardian, More than 50,000 people have crossed Channel since Labour took power, says Home Office. (Aug 2025).

Migration Observatory, University of Oxford, People Crossing the English Channel in Small Boats. (2025).