We Are in this Sailboat Together

I went out to the beach in the rain to maybe catch a glimpse of the small boat that had been reported as “distressed” on TV. The footage showed it caught in a vicious storm with a Coast Guard boat beside it, ready to assist. Then the local news report cut off, falling short of an outcome — no word on whether the captain or the boat had actually been rescued or broken up in the process. It was hard to know what to think until the next day word got around that he was anchored out there, very nearby.

I drove with my uncle and we brought the dog who stayed warm and sleepy in the back. We looked through binoculars from inside the truck. The mast was there, the sail was down, the whole of it bobbed in the swells that hid it from view. The captain we heard was Italian, and we wondered if the Coast Guard had had a hard time communicating with him. It seemed they communicated enough to transmit the message that he was on a solo trip from the Caribbean had already navigated his way north, up the coast. His engine was broken and the weather was raw but thank you, “Grazie!” he wanted more than anything else — to be left alone, to complete this adventurous work gone deep on many levels. This was his trip, and he expected to get up to the New York harbor without any help. Hopefully.

To understand the skill of a sailor, you need to see their ease with uncertainty, their ability to dance in the land of advanced probabilities. Thank you very much!, he might have said one more time, to no one in particular.

We got out of the truck to get a little bit closer, and maybe to share in his existing conditions. My cheeks could feel the wind whipping in circles, the steady rain and the salty mist collected on my jacket sparkling before the beading drops gave way to a general wetness. I couldn’t help but notice how the trim on the boat was lit up by a small pocket of radiance coming from a sky so dense that one white cloud shone like a pearl above and behind him.

I could see by the windows that if he was underneath in the cabin every few to every quite-a-few seconds the only thing in his sights would be steel gray waters mincing around him in frothed white caps. The palette was consistent to the point where its bleakness faded into a harmony, a type of silver water globe. Standing on solid ground I knew we were in the same weather conditions, but we were in very different worlds.

Less than two hundred yards from shore the lone sailor bided his time unable to grab a drink, or pay a visit to the famous bakery. That little distance made all the difference. You could perceive it when you looked out at the boat , wondering how anyone could ride that mixed up, full on rhythm.

We thought the sea’s fierce acrobatics sent the man out on the stern — if that was suddenly him that we saw. It was hard to tell because the sailboat and the surf were picking up speed sideways and spending more time on the downward vertical, blurring the scene. My uncle, a person who knows a bit about boats and oceans noted that if the lone captain was out there, it would mean the man was doing some thinking. If the anchor was giving way, he was safer outside.

I took a final look through the lenses and gave the man a silent wish — that the wind would turn and send him north up into the city where he had most likely planned his triumphant return to life on land. I was rooting for him as a sailor and as a human but I was rooting for him as another creature born into this planet. That day the markets were tanking, and the winds of geo-politics were as unruly as this wild one that stung our faces. The sleeping dog had had a fever last night, and not one neighbor could plant their gardens this spring because for months it had barely stopped raining. The sun was rare, the week was particularly cold, and this man in his boat felt like some part of us all, digging in and persevering because the only other option was a kind of dull defeat.

We got back in the truck and the heat clicked on, the dog opened an eye and closed it with a comfortable sigh. The sailor would be gone the next day, traveling under that same gray, with an adequately favorable version of the wind. The news that had mentioned his predicament days earlier would most likely fail to remark on his well earned victory. He hadn’t even gotten a whole fifteen seconds on hyper local TV, much less fifteen minutes on the major affiliates.

He was left to his struggle as much as his triumph I guessed. He was subject now to the docking fees and the mechanics bill listing parts and service. He was able to go to dinner at some posh place despite it all because who knows what kind of person has the time or the strength to do such a thing these days, to take off so much time from the news and the shockwaves of cultural demise. Maybe he was bringing that boat up the coast for some high-rise kid and was eating a perfect meal and drinking a whisky downtown in some candle lit restaurant despite it.

I don’t need to know what happened to the sailor who got rolled by a storm with so much subtle and conflicting energy that it kind of had a personality. I witnessed that man under that pearl of light, rightfully way too busy to notice himself— and realized he was weighing his life against the gale force. I learned through him that setting one’s internal compass somewhere between agile and stubborn is how we triumph. I witnessed that mastery can be key to decision making.

“Everyone knows where they’re born, but nobody knows where they’ll die.” The old Italian proverb came back to my mind, and that felt about right.

— Bradley Beach, NJ — May 2019

All photos by Ruby Gold