Okay, here’s the question of the day: How many of you have stood on the deck of your boat, looking into a black and stormy sky, and asked yourself, “What the hell am I doing out here?”
Come on. Fess up.
I can tell you with all honesty that I can recall numerous times when I found myself standing at the rail, gripping a shroud, looking off into dark and angry skies, and wishing I was anyplace but there. There is something about watching a wall of black clouds coming toward you, hearing the wind begin to howl through the rigging and feeling the first drops of rain hit your face that makes you question some of the decisions you made earlier that day. Especially the decision to leave the dock.
Why the hell would anyone want to face a storm? It doesn’t make any sense. You could be sitting comfortably in the marina with a cup of coffee, or better yet, a cold beer, watching the storm from the safety of your cockpit. Instead, you’re out there with a piece of fiberglass underneath you, several thousand pounds of water on every side, and a whole bunch of ropes and metal sticking up into the sky.
And you call this fun?
Yet every time I ever cast off my lines to go on a voyage, I knew there would be days like that. I didn’t know when they would come, how bad they would be, or exactly what kind of stupid situation I would find myself in, but I knew there would be some uncomfortable sailing along the way.
So the question remains: Why do sailors go to sea knowing they will be facing some uncomfortable sailing or, at worst, a life-changing adventure?
Well, I do have the answer. It took me a lot of years to figure it out, but here is why I do it:
To live.
I don’t mean just to exist. There’s a big difference between the two.
For about thirty-five years, I lived aboard boats. During that time, I sailed through pretty much every kind of condition one would expect to find on the ocean. I’ve had plenty of beautiful days, more than my share of miserable days, and a few days when I seriously wondered if I had made some sort of deal with the devil that I had forgotten about.
But somewhere along the way, I started to understand that those miserable days were part of the deal. You don’t get the sunset without the clouds. You don’t get the calm without the wind. And you don’t get that incredible feeling of accomplishment when you bring the boat safely into port if every day you’ve spent at sea was spent sitting at the dock.
After living aboard for about thirty-five years and sailing through pretty much any and all conditions one would expect to find, I eventually moved ashore. I don’t remember exactly how it happened, but before long I found myself living up in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s beautiful up there.
Oh, I am still near water, and I still get out sailing four or five times a year. I even get to do a few extended crossings so I can, once again, throw this overly-large body into harm’s way. And it was one of those trips that helped me discover the answer to my question.
When I first became a “land slug,” I was pretty happy about it whenever a storm came in. Instead of throwing out another anchor, I would throw another log on the fire. I could sit there in my comfortable chair, watch the rain come down, and enjoy the whole thing. I didn’t have to worry about dragging an anchor, chafe, whether the dinghy was going to stay where I left it, or whether I was going to get wet.
I could “enjoy” the storm. And I did. At least for a while.
But then something strange happened. As soon as the thunder stopped and the lightning subsided, it was over. The storm had passed, the sky cleared, and everything went back to normal.
And I found myself missing something.
Where was the feeling of accomplishment? Where was that little shot of adrenaline you get when you see a storm approaching and realize you’re going to have to deal with it? Where was the thrill I used to feel when we’d see a storm like that pass over us, feel the boat rise and fall beneath our feet, and then watch the clouds disappear off our stern?
Sitting beside the fire was comfortable, but it wasn’t the same.
That’s when I started thinking about the difference between living and existing. Living takes sacrifice. Existing does not.
Existing is easy. You wake up, go to work, come home, eat dinner, watch television, go to bed, and do it all again tomorrow. There isn’t necessarily anything wrong with that. In fact, there are days when it sounds pretty damn good. But there is a difference between being comfortable and being alive.
If you want to feel the pride of sailing out from under a dark and stormy sky, there is only one way to do it. You need to live it.
You have to be there. You have to feel the wind. You have to hear the rigging singing. You have to watch the waves build and learn to work with them instead of fighting them. And when that storm finally moves past and the sun breaks through the clouds, you get to look around and say, “We made it.”
That feeling can’t be bought. It can’t be downloaded. And you sure as hell can’t get it sitting in front of the television.
Yes, your friends might think you’re nuts for doing it. Mine certainly did. Some of them probably still do. But just about everyone I have ever met who has crossed an ocean, sailed through a serious storm, climbed a mountain, ridden a motorcycle across a country, or done anything else that required stepping outside the safe little box we build around ourselves seems to get a little more out of life.
Maybe it’s because they know what it feels like to be uncomfortable. Maybe it’s because they’ve discovered that fear isn’t always something you need to run away from. Sometimes fear is simply your body reminding you that you’re alive.
Sailors, for hundreds of years, have known that you cannot become an able seaman if you never face your fears. You can read every book ever written about sailing. You can take every course. You can memorize every rule in the book. But sooner or later, you have to leave the dock.
And sooner or later, the ocean is going to remind you who’s in charge.
Ask anyone who has ever crossed an ocean, or even sailed through a local storm. Ask them about the worst day they had on the water. I’ll bet you anything they remember it.
They’ll remember the wind. They’ll remember the waves. They’ll remember what broke. They’ll remember what they were thinking. And they’ll probably remember exactly what they were wishing they had done differently.
But ask them about the day after.
That’s when you’ll see the smile.
Because once you’ve been through something that scared the hell out of you and come out the other side, something changes. You know you can do it. You are more alive for the experience.
Now, I am not suggesting you take the boat out next time there’s a hurricane in your area. I am not totally crazy!
There is a difference between facing a challenge and being an idiot. I’ve done enough stupid things in my life to know the difference, although admittedly, I learned some of those lessons the hard way.
I’m talking about the next voyage you undertake. Don’t look at every squall as something to be avoided. Learn to respect it, prepare for it and, when conditions are within your ability and your boat’s ability, experience it. See a squall for what it can be: a chance for you to feel alive.
Of course, you need to know your boat. You need to know your own limitations. You need to understand weather, know when to reef, know when to turn around, and most importantly, know when you’re getting in over your head.
There’s nothing courageous about being stupid.
But there is something incredibly satisfying about coming through a difficult passage knowing that you and your boat handled it.
I remember sailing through conditions that, at the time, I would have gladly traded for a nice warm bed somewhere on land. Yet when the wind finally died and the seas settled down, I would look back at where we’d been and feel something I never got sitting safely in a marina.
Pride.
Not the kind of pride where you think you’re better than somebody else. The kind where you know you’ve learned something about yourself.
That, I think, is why sailors go to sea.
Not because we like being cold and wet. Not because we enjoy fixing things at three in the morning. And certainly not because we have some secret desire to spend a fortune replacing equipment that was working perfectly yesterday.
We go because every once in a while, the ocean strips everything away. There is just you, your boat, the wind, the sea, and whatever comes next. And for a little while, you are completely and totally alive.
To feel the wind blowing across your face and the sea spray in the air will do more to make you understand that you’re truly living than almost anything else you might experience.
So the next time you’re standing on deck and you see that black wall of clouds coming toward you, don’t immediately ask, “What the hell am I doing out here?”
Well, okay. You probably should ask that. I still do.
But after you’ve checked the weather, reefed the sails, secured the loose gear, and made sure everybody aboard knows what they’re doing, take a look around. Feel the wind. Listen to the sea. Then remember why you came out here in the first place.
You came out here to live.
And sometimes, living means getting a little wet.
