One never knows what catastrophe has been averted by a little inconvenience, or so I like to tell myself. Of course, one can similarly never know which small disruption has affected the outcome favorably, and which was simply an unnecessary dalliance, but I like to imagine that every distraction has bound up in it the potential to avert a greater disaster. It is in this way that I continually comfort myself and encourage myself to carry on in spite of the way the universe resists my sincere efforts. It is also common for me to find myself pleasantly surprised when friction gives way to smooth operation, and things finally move along as I hoped they would. Invariably, this sensation of unencumbered motion is accompanied by some degree of apprehension, wondering just what calamity I will not be spared this time.
One of my favorite activities in this complex and sometimes vexing world involves walking as far into the Black Hills as my dogs and I have time for each day. I recently expanded this walk from a less impressive three miles or so to a much more elaborate seven miles plus. Now, instead of returning after tracing the ravine of a recently blown out stream to its spectacularly disturbed origin, I climb up and over the rim of the landslide's crater onto a logging road that is perched up on a ridge behind it. At this point I cross into a new region, where the weather changes with each winding emergence, and the views open wide onto the Olympic Mountains to the northwest, the southern reaches of Puget Sound to the north, Mount Baker and other snow covered peaks in the distant northeast, the looming Mount Rainier surrounded by all of its diminutive relatives to the east, and finally beyond the rippling green valleys extending away, the damaged summit of St. Helens; snow covered and cloud gasping far to the southeast.
From this height I can spy an open bit of water in the sound, surrounded by islands and penetrated by the sharp ends and the long meandering coastlines of several peninsulas. It appears to be nothing more than a pond of still water, serene and placid in the distance. The sun glimmers on its surface revealing a slight rippling of currents, like the snow reveals the contour of the mountain peaks. These regions of the sound are shallow and narrow, access is limited to smaller craft or disturbed by the rare incursion of a mammoth, foreign visitor to the Port of Olympia. The remote illusion of this calm water near to the dry safety of land, has been replaced for me now by the savage potential of the wind taunted menace of this inland sea.
I am the classic tree hugging land lover. The only shoes I own are a pair of steel toed, nickel tanned, heavy, black boots. I am most comfortable traipsing through the woods and tromping into streams. No matter the weather, this is where I find peace and feel safe. When the winds howl above me, and the trees begin to bend and crash against one another like enormous instruments of percussion, I feel perfectly secure below them. When the ground gives way beneath me, setting rocks free tumbling down steep embankments, and forcing me to clutch roots and limbs in order to avoid joining them in their descent, I could not feel more capable and competent. It is, as they say, what it feels like to be in your element. This sensation, of strength and comfort in my abilities did not accompany me onto a small craft, soon to be found in the midst of a gale, out on the Salish Sea. Tormented by the wind in that very region of the sound that looks so calm from a great distance on a sunny day.
For many reasons, I have never found myself on a sailing craft before this recent adventure, but as a result of it I anxiously anticipate my next opportunity. In fact it has occurred to me that had this introduction to sailing not been so dramatic and challenging, I would not have much interest in doing it again. Had we, as the experienced sailors aboard explained to me is common, encountered calm wind and tranquil water, I am almost certain I would never want to do it again. Instead what we experienced that afternoon was truly harrowing, and inspiring, and of course enlightening in so many ways. The small craft advisory and gale warning that was issued earlier in the day, only seemed to buoy the spirits of the crew and passengers. As far as we were concerned, the threat of calm winds and cold rain would have been a greater deterrent to our plans for sailing onto the sound for a few hours in winter. Rather than that, the chaotic universe offered us wind with the rain, and Godspeed.
The sail boat, though I am at a loss for the appropriate terminology to describe it, is beautiful, with an unusually tall mast, and an uncommonly shallow keel, each intended to improve its chances at winning a race in light wind. We were warned at the beginning that this was a "tender" vessel, and it would quickly heel to 45 degrees even in light wind. It performed best at 10 knots we were told, though it could handle much more than that.
As we motored out into the water, to a spot where the structures on nearby land offered lee for us to raise and unfurl the sails, the mild apprehension among those of us inexperienced with such things gave way to excitement and even awe. With just the slightest bit of wrangling, the sails filled with air, and the motor fell silent. We were underway under sail. As we passed the nuns and cans that identified a shoal and the shipping channel we followed out of the inlet, great stands of Douglas Fir perched atop high cliffs ringed the sound above gravelly beaches. The sky was heavy, the rain fell gently and occasionally all together ceased. The comfort of silent travel suffused the craft, as the captain and crew encouraged the passengers to take a turn at tasks; winding lines and trimming sails. By the lee the boat moved sharply through the water, and the land lovers among us grew comfortable at sea.
The trees lining the shore many hundreds of yards away beckoned to me as they usually do, but I could not set out on foot to discover what grew beneath them or who made a home in their shade. This craft was the limit of my being for now, to leave it would be to die in the cold water of the sound, at whose mercy we now lived. Driven by the wind we entered the region that appeared so placid from the distant high hills, though now I could only see clouds above, as they grew increasingly threatening. We had traveled a great distance in very little time with the wind at our backs, but the day had worn on, and the return trip would take more time. This fact seemed plain to the experienced aboard, but for me there was little understanding of its meaning.
We were preparing to turn around, as the wind began to pick up. Had I understood the complexity and possible consequences of this maneuver before hand, I might have been more concerned. Instead I was busy taking direction on the proper way to wind line onto a winch, when the forces of nature and the design of the universe suddenly and mercilessly wrenched the vessel from our control. Where the heavy white sky had been above the horizon, in an instant the leaping water appeared, and gravity twisted the organs within me, challenging me to remain standing in place. My leap for the high side of the boat resulted in a violent collision with the traveler attached to the beam, bending my leg below the knee into a most uncomfortable contortion. But I was fortunate to be in the cockpit. Those on the deck, who had been sitting with their legs over the high side, soon found themselves submerged in the cold water, nose to sea, with only the lifeline keeping them aboard. The captain's repeated calls of concern, asking if everyone was still with us, accompanied the realization that something unanticipated indeed occurred. We without warning entirely reversed our course, the wind picked up and shifted, the boom swung and the heel of the boat changed 90 degrees, all in the space of a couple of seconds.
Painfully wet and cold, the wind was now howling to a full 29 knots, and although none of us had gone overboard during the aforementioned event, much of our confidence had. I have not been afraid of death for many years now, so that was not my concern. In fact I imagined the frigid water becoming my grave, and relinquished my attachment to the world with a kind of morbid joy. Beyond that I worried about the others aboard and I wanted to regain the sense of control I'd grown accustomed to in my life, but I had little to offer in the way of expertise. In spite of this, I made suggestions through channels, and tried to help the others find some comfort. In the end, I had little to offer, even as I struggled to contribute in some way. This voyage would not be mine to determine the outcome of.
The journey home would be upwind, with one awkward and unnerving tack after the next testing the nerves of those on board. The challenge was to find the golden mean, and divide the wind which drove us away, so that it might instead bring us home. The black sky and the leaping seas, the gale force wind driving us over so that the mast appeared to be parallel to the water's surface, combined to offer me an image of myself in this world that I will remember until the day that I die. By the time we returned to the dock, the water had grown calm, and those unceremoniously dipped in the water were warmed and dried below deck. My nerves had calmed too, though I never was of much help. Before disembarking I asked the captain if I could join him again sometime, somewhat surprised he agreed. I hope the sea is not calm on that day, or I fear I may lose my enthusiasm for sailing.