AT SEA

AT SEA

or 

"Sailing Alone, With No One"

“Weigh anchor.” He calls to no one and turns the capstan himself.  First taking up the slack and then feeling the anchor let go of the bottom and start the journey upward to its proper home.  Once secured, he realizes that he is singing “Anchors Aweigh” and acting the fool.  It is not unusual for him to talk to himself and even reply, as he often is the only company he has for a week or two at a time.  Sailing alone is not how he would have it, but both his first mate and second mate are dead and the rest of his crew have deserted, jumped ship or went to sea with another Master.  So, he sails alone into the rising sun.

East.  Always East.  What is it that draws him ever to the East?  His native fresh water home, Lake Erie, is far behind him and the salty Atlantic Ocean is breaking over his bow and washing the thirty two foot deck of his home day after day.  The small uninhabited island that offered shelter thru the night falls astern as the morning wind fills his sails.

The breath of God provides the power to propel his ship and the sun gives him water to drink.  The sea itself offers him food from the set lines trailing aft.  Oh, he has food and drink enough for several weeks at sea; he just likes living off the land where there is no land.  He enjoys the experience of each day’s provision coming as it were directly from God’s hand.  The closeness he shares with God’s creation is more special to him every day.

Even now the charcoal brazier on the stern rail is cooking the sea bass he caught early this morning and the smell of coffee rises from below deck.  The last of the fresh bread will complete his mid day meal.  Even the five thousand that Jesus fed with bread and fish did not have strong black coffee.  He is truly blessed.

With such a steady and gentle wind from the West and the wheel dogged the day passes quickly and it is time for the Captains Log and then to sleep in his hammock on deck.  The stars are so bright in the night sky at sea and even the gibbon moon shines across the water like a path to the stars.  His bed moves to the motion of the ocean.  Roll, pitch and yaw combine to move in a way that is natural only to the seaman.  Sleep comes softly and the sounds of the wind in the rigging the gentle slap of the sea against the hull and the creak of the ship herself adapting to the various stresses of sail combine to make a lullaby for him.

BRAAAAK!!                         BRAAAAK!!                         B R A A A A A A K ! ! ! ! !

He is fully awake before his feet hit the deck running aft toward the wheel.  Intuitively he knows that the next few minutes are those of LIFE or DEATH for him and his ship.  Far from the shipping lanes and with modern radar on the big ships the chances of a collision with another ship is remote and yet bearing down on him is one thousand feet of containerized cargo ship that would run over his and not even feel it.  High and wide in the water it will not be able to alter course at this late time.  Had the lookout been paying attention and the radar set for distance maybe this would have been avoided.  No time to play what if.  So close that the light of the moon is blotted out she looms like the hand of doom over his tiny craft.

As he spins the wheel to starboard he prays that the other vessel does the same.  Having the right of way does not matter at a time like this.  Even if they do not collide, the bow wake and prop wash will try his seamanship and his boats seaworthiness.  His craft is responding smartly to her helm and is already changing course.   The behemoth towering over him will be well past his position before responding to her telegraphs call. The wake from her bow is already pushing him hard to port and causing an upset of his center of balance. As he passes her stern the prop wash combines to push him past 50 degrees.  His mind notes the inclinometer approaching the 60 degree point of no recovery.  Spinning the wheel, this time to port, he prays that the ruder will find purchase in the turbulence and he waits as that is all that is left for him to do.

Then, as if God himself had reached down and touched the top of the mast to set it right, her roll slows, stops and reverses.  Coming over the top and stopping at 45 degrees and the next roll more like 30 degrees and they were past the danger.

Less than ten minutes had passed and yet it was a lifetime.  Thanking God for his and his ships safety he dogs the wheel and goes below to log the event, noting the time, location and the name of the ship that had so nearly sent him to the deep.

“Wonder if there is any coffee left?” he says to no one.

Jim huff©