One sparkling autumn morning Amelia and I stood on the top of Mount Battie, just north of Camden, in Maine. Looking southeast, down to the water, we saw a single sail, a small boat setting out from the land, leaving the seacoast's cozy, rich and familiar colors for the vast sunlit ocean.
That's not unlike the voyage we take, when our lives have been changed in some important way. Some of those who have favored this journal with their comments and encouragement are beginning their lives as parents; others have experienced their own losses; some have hit sudden squalls and hidden reefs, and though they list a little, they're still sailing; and others are just leaving harbor, their gaze directed toward a bright horizon.
What we all have in common is that we don't know what we'll encounter, out there on the waves. But there are some things we can guess about. It's colder out there than on the land, for one, at least in the northern waters. Even in the dog days of July you need a jacket on the water. So when the comfort of the familiar is left behind, even the air is different. The waves are higher, too, as they roll in from the blue distances to the East. Some are from distant storms, so far away we never see them, only feel their effects. Some are from other boats that cross our path: usually only minor bobbles, sometimes enough almost to capsize us. And when the wind takes the sail, the boat heels over and picks up speed, an alarming feeling the first time. That's the way the old fishermen would rush out to the banks, or in to market--heeling the boat over so far that one railing would be completely under the water, as they sailed hell-bent for riches or ruin. The currents and channels, the winds and waves all seem random, but they are not: they obey deep, mysterious forces we cannot see--the turning of the earth, the flow of magnetic energy, the rise and fall of the temperature on the other side of the ocean, the hidden movement of the ocean floor. It takes faith to set out on the ocean: the sea is as powerful as it is beautiful, at once terrible and entrancing, and our little boats are as nothing to its great strength.
Just some thoughts on a cold January morning. waiting for the ice in the harbor to thaw so we can make for the open sea.
I think I should use a magnifying glass in order to see that super tiny sailboat. That's too small and you guys have a perfect eyes to see that.
Posted by: Used Sailboats | February 10, 2009 at 02:55 AM