Darkness at the midnight hour

Darkness at the midnight hour, a sailboat, 200 miles from shore. The storm has finally subsided somewhat – the rain has stopped. The wind feels more steady, less gusty. The boat more relaxed in her dance across the dark water. I, at the helm, have relaxed my grip on the dodger. My legs, tired from holding my body in place, relax as well.

Then it begins again. Slowly at first. Is the wind rising? It is hard to tell. But then it becomes obvious. The whistle through the rigging grows louder. Vibrations other than familiar ones are felt, then heard.

I can here the waves close by beginning to break on the tops again. "Please not on top of me!" I whisper out into the darkness. Frightened. But the ocean's voice and wind causes my voice to be inaudible; even for my own ears.

The boat lurches forward and leans over on a heeling angle that is comfortable no more. Ocean spray is everywhere. Then the bow slowly rises over the next wave. And... then... CRASH! She drops and smashes down into the wave trough below.

Once, twice maybe three times in fifteen minutes is tolerable. But if it is constant, time to shorten sail or fall off course. Unfortunately that also means turning away from the wind and further out to sea; not paralleling the coastline… turning further from land.

But after another twenty or so minutes..."There", I decide, "It's calming.” I know." As I anticipate a more restful ride.

Then again after a few more minutes; the bow crashes into the next trough.

Steve awakes from his nap. "Has the wind picked up?" he asks. And with that human contact, and the art of speech in practice, I snap out of my dream state and leave my vision of a calming sea. I realize that the wind has picked up. The boat is not under control. I've been wishing too long. We both agree it's time to furl the remaining portion of the jib and rig the inner-forestay for the storm jib. It starts to rain again.

Steve readies himself for the deck. With only the running lights on the bow, I can just barely see the spray and wave tops pounding the bow with every passing crest. This part of the boat is Steve's destination. Then Steve turns on the deck lights and the boat and surrounding water is flooded with light from above. The water a few hundred feet around the boat is visible now; With foam everywhere, crests of the waves are dancing around us like an island native dance, preparing us, the centerpiece, for the feast.

Steve puts on his safety harness and hooks into the jack line leading to the bow. "Concentrate Clint", I remind myself as Steve takes the first step out of the cockpit. He moves around the safety of the dodger’s windshield and out on to the open deck.

My job is to hold us on course, just off the wind. Keep the mainsail full of air. The boat will hold steady if she is full. If I fall off the wind too much, the waves will broad side us hitting the boat and Steve with a hard blow. If I come up too much, into the waves and wind, we will go over the wave at too steep an angle – plummeting the bow deeper into the next wave.

Steve could be washed over board. Even with the safety harness, he could get hurt while banging against the side of the hull...

And even as Steve begins his slow crawl to the bow, I think of these scenarios again. But then I stop. I concentrate and focus. Then in just a mere second or two my blood runs cold. “Just like last year… abandoning ship” I think to myself. Stop it! This time we have a better plan. I focus. The boat and I are one. I feel her presence under my feet. We all three become one again. I can feel each gust of wind affecting my hand on the wheel. I feel each wave’s effect on the hull.

From my much safer vantage point in the cockpit, Steve appears to spend entirely too long on the bow doing the work. Which is easy for me to say! No matter how long it might take. It's still too long. I want him back in the cockpit. Now! I watch as he maneuvers slowly; forestay in one hand. The other hand holds tight to the railing.

The larger jib is now rolled safely around the forestay – the forward most cable on the boat. The idea here is to rig a second smaller forestay with the smaller sail. Now, with sail between his knees, halyard in teeth, I watch as a wave hits the bow and covers Steve with gallons of seawater. Still there Steve? Good.

In a few more minutes, the sail rises into the piercing lights of the spreader bars above. I sheet in the sail from the much more comfortable area of the cockpit. The boat heels back over and picks up speed again. But this time under control. We rise and fall over the waves more gracefully now.

Steve took his time returning from the bow. I could see him retying the dinghy, checking the spare fuel tanks.

"We can handle it", I thought, as Steve made his way back to the cockpit. It’s not like last year.

We can handle it. If the sea grows in her strength, we uncap more of ours to match. We use our heads.

Breaking waves, again, all around us. I feel the bow begin to rise again. The next wave approaches. We lift higher and then down the other side. Again, the boat slides down the backside in controlled gaining speed.

The Gulf is the devil of all bodies of water. Large enough to be out of radio range much of the time but too small and the weather too erratic for the seas to build to larger, rounded swells like out in the open Atlantic or Pacific. Sometimes the days go forever with the seas just like a chaotic, boiling desert of confused waves. We and our small cork of a boat left to rock and roll as if we are really going anywhere fast.

Steve turns off the deck lights and once again we are in total darkness, all alone. But this time, this night, the sea bows to us and is impressed at our competence. She sees that we have learned to work with her, not fight her. She rewards us the next day with a clear sky and calming winds and seas. I am editing this story more than ten years after and I still remember this day like it was yesterday. The storm was gone. The wind had clocked more from the north behind us. So were racing with the wind and surfing down the waves. Still 150 miles from shore. We never saw one other boat that day. As far as we could tell we were the only people on the surface of a planet made entirely of water. The temperature had dropped with the clearing sky.  There was crispness in the air you don’t normally get in the humidity of ocean sailing.

That day I felt we had conquered our demons from the year before. We were sailors. We were doing something few people ever do. Steve was off watch. I scanned the horizon three hundred and sixty degrees. Not a boat in sight. The clear sky and bright sun made the ocean colors come alive around me. Beautiful.

That night with a star field above our heads was a night like I have never seen. Moderate winds fifteen to twenty knots off our port stern. The wind and waves drove the boat at one time showing ten knots while surfing down a wave.

The clouds cleared further and I was able to steer by a star and give my eyes a rest from the constant gaze upon the compass. Steering by a star... Weathering a storm... It was much calmer now. Sure, the winds were still probably twenty knots. But behind our beam now that we had fallen off from our original course. We were doing substantially better than the night before.

A cloud covered my steering star. I would find another. I was tired. But then a feeling began to overtake me. I started to touch a part of the universe I had only been vaguely aware of until now. Here, a million miles from nowhere, I was closer to the universe than ever before. What was I feeling? It was an inspiration like I had never felt before. The previous night had been a battle to remain relaxed. It had been a lesson in tenacity. A lesson in good seamanship. I had seen how we could take our knowledge and lessons learned and weather the sea. What did it bring to mind?...

It was just like a helmsman of long ago. I heard a noise off the starboard beam. I looked up and saw a dim light. Then the outline of the schooner in the dark. They were on a parallel course.

A wave crossed under the boats and we surfed down the front in unison. I imagined what it was like to be aboard over there. I could feel the wooden wheel of the ship from long ago in my hands. I could hear the creaking of planks below deck.

The helmsman's arms were tired - but he would soon be relieved by the new watch. The crew was jubilant over the blessing of the clear and calm night. I could hear them... just over that wave.

And like the schooner, our boat, Brigadoon, became alive again. Just as in the storm. But this time she was not the tough fighter from the night before. Now she raced towards our destination with the speed and grace of a race horse. Like a victory by a nose, lasting an entire night.

As we sailed along with the schooner, I thought about my first gulf crossing; three years prior. A night I wrote about and will never forget. A night of dolphins one hundred miles from shore; glowing in the phosphorescence and playing like children. I remembered how they played and jumped all around the boat. I remembered the sound as the spray from the blowholes mixed with the sound of the boat through the water. Then the family headed off. As a distant wave lifted them above the surrounding water, I could still see their phosphorescent glow through the wave as they disappeared over the horizon towards the constellation of Orion rising from the edge of the eastern sea.

And then back to the present. Another "good" night was in progress now. How few of us now days know this part of God's world. My pessimistic answer of "No, never again" from the previous night turned to "Yes, I’ll always be a sailor" as the good magic of the ocean reignited. I realized then that the ocean would always be a part of my life. And I felt the spark of inspiration.

Even with long months and years sometimes away from it, the sea has taught me more about myself than I ever learn on land.

A wave approached from behind us again. The stern lifted and we surfed down the crest. I could feel Brigadoon lurched forward. She danced and frolicked across her dark ocean. Our ocean. I could feel the energy flowing from the water through the boat, up the binnacle, through the wheel and into my body. We were all one with God and the ocean. We moved in a dance across the waves. It required the participation of all. Steve, the boat, ocean waves, the stars, wind, and me. The symphony was awesome. The night was more magical than I could ever hope to transpose onto this paper.

I could hear the wooden planks of the tall ship again. I could smell the oil from the lamps below deck. Where would we go now? The tall ship or Brigadoon? Which boat was I sailing? It didn't matter. We shared the same waters for a few hours that night. We were all one now. 

The helmsman spoke to me from across the water. While only whispering, I could still here him over the wind. "You have learned to perceiver. This is what we all learn from the ocean. But don't think last night was your last test. Life is all about tests… and learning. Learning about who you are".

I knew he was right. But I also knew that the ocean had given me a gift I had waited for all my life. The gift of tenacity. The gift of perseverance - and a vision of the things that are possible when these things are put into practice.

Out here, tonight, my thoughts and emotions are more powerful than anything I have ever felt. The ocean tonight is more a part of me than anything I have ever been a part of. I am truly, now, an intricate part of this place we call our universe. I made the connection. And with this attachment to the forces of God's universe, I can see the patterns of life's road now. Even with the bumps in the road. Whether steering a boat across the Gulf or navigating through a tricky business proposal, with forethought, strength and courage, I can conquer.

But conquer is the wrong word. We are not conquering the sea or our lives. We have won the ocean’s respect. Maybe the respect of the universe. We have been touched forever by the gift of insight; by the gift of power applied in the correct manner. Just like the ice skater who lifts his partner high over his head and spins them both in a beautiful maneuver, power and grace are many times one and the same. And while it may not make life back home any easier, it may make things easier to see clearly and understand. I guess it comes down to fear. Some say you should not have fear in your life. But I’m beginning to see the fear can be there. It has to be allowed for. It's never going to vanish. But it can be confronted. And when it is, the fear turns instantaneously to victory. It turns to accomplishment. It turns to magic.

Slowly, the crew from the wooden sailing ship turned and headed away from us. I knew that later the crew would disburse at the next port to live ashore for a while. We would all take home what we had learned from the sea this time. But the attachment to our ocean world out here is like an umbilical cord. An attachment to something that many people cannot even feel. But it is always with us as sailors.

The last lantern light from the schooner flickered out over the horizon and we were all alone again on the dark ocean. But this time it was pure magic.