SPIRIT ON THE SAIL
Chapter Nine
Fluky Winds
The normally calm San Diego Bay has unusually "fluky" gusts swoop down from Point Loma's crest today. They are splattering the surface with a mix of contrasting ripple zones running all over the bay. From Chubasco's helm it is easy to detect the boundaries, direction, and speed of the otherwise invisible fluctuating winds.
Satisfied the hatches, gear, lines, cleats, winches, and handle are all in order, Chubasco and I slip by Ballast Point. In anticipation of first gust I tighten my grip on the jib sheet in my right hand and hold the cleated main sheet loosely in my left while I manage the wheel. With a flip of the wrist I can instantly ease or tension either line the moment a gust strikes.
"Chubby, trust me we are much safer not having a crew." A split second delay between command and crew response could turn a challenging sail, like this, into a risky one.
An evaluation of my personal readiness, I realize I'm unconsciously clinching my teeth. "Why am I so tense?" It might be a residual caution from a deliberately repressed memory. After all, a couple of years ago in very similar conditions, here on this same bay, I almost lost my life.
Satisfied the hatches, gear, lines, cleats, winches, and handle are all in order, Chubasco and I slip by Ballast Point. In anticipation of first gust I tighten my grip on the jib sheet in my right hand and hold the cleated main sheet loosely in my left while I manage the wheel. With a flip of the wrist I can instantly ease or tension either line the moment a gust strikes.
"Chubby, trust me we are much safer not having a crew." A split second delay between command and crew response could turn a challenging sail, like this, into a risky one.
An evaluation of my personal readiness, I realize I'm unconsciously clinching my teeth. "Why am I so tense?" It might be a residual caution from a deliberately repressed memory. After all, a couple of years ago in very similar conditions, here on this same bay, I almost lost my life.
Traumatic Regatta
It happened in one of the most exciting events the charter sailing business offers, a corporate regatta. These events can involve several dozen boats and hundreds of guests. The participants function as crew members aboard sailboats, in a race skippered by U.S. Coast Guard Licensed Captains. Win or lose everyone, including us captains, have a lot of fun.
As is true in most of those events, the participants were for the most part non-sailors. Disorientated by the novelty of sailing, they often become hopelessly confused at the simplest command; “pull” results in a push, “duck” prompts some to standup, “climb to the outside rail” causes a few to slump amidship. The muddle is quite entertaining, so I carefully emphasis all operating procedures, especially jib-sheet winches operation.
(·A Jib-sheet is the line attached to the foresail, which when pulled tight puts tension on the foresail and when eased, releases the tension.
·The winch is a spool shaped device that provides mechanical assistance in tensioning the sheets.)
Responding to the command, “EASE SHEETS” becomes impossible to obey when a sheet is stuck on its winch. Therefore, my instruction that day, as always, went something like this:
(·A Jib-sheet is the line attached to the foresail, which when pulled tight puts tension on the foresail and when eased, releases the tension.
·The winch is a spool shaped device that provides mechanical assistance in tensioning the sheets.)
Responding to the command, “EASE SHEETS” becomes impossible to obey when a sheet is stuck on its winch. Therefore, my instruction that day, as always, went something like this:
“Wrap the jib-sheet only once or at most twice around these small winches, more than twice will causes the sheet to overlap, bind up, and get stuck so tight that it can’t be released on command…so wrap it no more than twice!”
That day, like today, the winds were extremely fluky. As we headed to the starting line an unusually gusty blast flexed its muscles against the fleet. One captain had to return to the dock with a torn sail. Another became so alarmed that he struck his sails, and returned to the marina as well. The rest of us positioned our boats some distance from the starting line so we could cross the line at full speed.
My boat actually needed to reduce its speed to keep from crossing the line before the starting gun sounded. So, I gave the order, “Ease the sheets!”
My boat actually needed to reduce its speed to keep from crossing the line before the starting gun sounded. So, I gave the order, “Ease the sheets!”
Unfortunately, the winch operator could not release his line. Thinking, if two wraps provides some mechanical advantage, surely more wraps would be even better. In his enthusiasm he wrapped the sheet around the winch four times. Naturally, it was stuck tight in an overlap.
I brought the vessel into the wind to take some of the pressure off the sheet, assigned the only experience sailor to the helm, and sprang to the offending winch. Hoping a sharp upward jerk would free it, I gave it a hard hank, but no luck. However, it did yielded just a bit. There in the gusting wind, I crouched over the device to give myself maximum leverage, wrapped the tail-end of the line securely around my hand so it wouldn't slip through my fingers, took a deep breath, and lunged upward with all my might…
I brought the vessel into the wind to take some of the pressure off the sheet, assigned the only experience sailor to the helm, and sprang to the offending winch. Hoping a sharp upward jerk would free it, I gave it a hard hank, but no luck. However, it did yielded just a bit. There in the gusting wind, I crouched over the device to give myself maximum leverage, wrapped the tail-end of the line securely around my hand so it wouldn't slip through my fingers, took a deep breath, and lunged upward with all my might…
…Suddenly, I was in the hallway of the Norfolk, Virginia church I once pastored. I recognized that hallway because when I blinked my eyes open, my face was pressed firmly against it's unusual navy gray-green color. “It sure is dark in here.” I thought, “The janitor must have turned out the lights.” Soon, I heard a bubbling sound, “It must be coming from down the hall?” As I listened more carefully, I realized, “No, It’s bubbling right in my ear.” It occurred to me that something was extraordinarily wrong…
...The next noise I heard was a strange squishing sound. I recall thinking, “What am I hearing?” Seated, I moved my left foot. “There’s that sound again.” I began connecting my foot movements with the noise. My canvas deck-shoes bubbled with a squishing sound each time I moved my foot. Then I began feeling wet, “Hay,” I noticed, “My sock is wet…both socks are.” Next, I was aware that my knee was cold and my pants clung awkwardly to my legs. Confused I realized, “My pants were all wet too.” My undershirt was soaked as well. I was also wearing an unfamiliar sweater over my wet shirt, but it was completely dry. It was all very odd.
As more sensations awakened, I realized I was shivering. Then gradually, my vision expanded to include shadowy beams of sunlight streaming through ceiling to flower windows. “I’m in some sort of lounge.” It looked like an airport gate lobby, with rows of people seated all around.
More than a few of them seemed interested in me, so I nodded to several of them. However, there was so many unfamiliar faces giving me special attention that I grew extremely uncomfortable. Almost in panic, my eyes darted from fave to face, until they fell on the deep brown compassionate eyes of an attractive brunette seated nearby. For several soft moments I let her friendly gaze calm me. Yet, after a while, I began to blush. It seemed inappropriate to be so absorbed in the eyes of a stranger, so I smiled and look away.
As more sensations awakened, I realized I was shivering. Then gradually, my vision expanded to include shadowy beams of sunlight streaming through ceiling to flower windows. “I’m in some sort of lounge.” It looked like an airport gate lobby, with rows of people seated all around.
More than a few of them seemed interested in me, so I nodded to several of them. However, there was so many unfamiliar faces giving me special attention that I grew extremely uncomfortable. Almost in panic, my eyes darted from fave to face, until they fell on the deep brown compassionate eyes of an attractive brunette seated nearby. For several soft moments I let her friendly gaze calm me. Yet, after a while, I began to blush. It seemed inappropriate to be so absorbed in the eyes of a stranger, so I smiled and look away.
That is when I noticed John Southerland, the manager of the downtown Seaforth Boat Rental’s, seated right beside me. Bewildered I wondered, “What is Southerland doing here in the airport with me, or wherever ‘here’ is?”
Unable to make sense of any of it I turning to John and asked, “John, where are we and why am I all wet?” He told me that this was the second hospital we had visited today and that I had ask that same question over and over again at least a hundred times already. Little pieces of conscious slowly stretched into a more steady stream. It was months before my memory returned to what I consider normal.
Unable to make sense of any of it I turning to John and asked, “John, where are we and why am I all wet?” He told me that this was the second hospital we had visited today and that I had ask that same question over and over again at least a hundred times already. Little pieces of conscious slowly stretched into a more steady stream. It was months before my memory returned to what I consider normal.
I finally understood that when I lunged upward to free the sheet, an unexpected gust hit the mainsail with such force it drove the metal boom at devastating speed across the boat, crashed into my temple, knocking me unconscious overboard. The frantic crew, after several minutes of looking for my body floating in the water, finally traced the sheet, which was still wrapped around my hand. I was penned upside down, unconscious underwater, with my face mashed against the boat’s hull, and my feet dangling at the surface.
A Spiritual Overlap
Undoubtedly the reason I am grateful we have no crew today is that misguided winch operator. It is somewhat reasonable that he assumed, if a few wraps around a little winch is good, more wraps is better. Yet, with that event behind me, I don't believe my nervous anticipation is much more than game day jitters athletes commonly experience. Yet I do feel the need to check in with God, and all is well.
Still trying to play down any annoying anxiety I convince myself that these gusts pose no serious danger, even if they do restrict focused thoughtful reflection. At least none of today's fluctuating blasts appear to be much over twenty-five knots...well within Chubasco’s capacity. "What sailor wouldn't love to test their skills in an obstacle course like this one?"
Watching gusts rake the surface, I see the first big wind-shift heading our way. It strikes the sails with unexpected furry, leaning Chubasco sharply to one side. I quickly ease her sheets dumping the excess wind from the sails. Chubasco automatically springs back up as if she merely stumbled. With out a doubt, if I am not paying attention, these bursts could unceremoniously round Chubasco up into the wind, while embarrassing, that in itself is harmless.
Watching gusts rake the surface, I see the first big wind-shift heading our way. It strikes the sails with unexpected furry, leaning Chubasco sharply to one side. I quickly ease her sheets dumping the excess wind from the sails. Chubasco automatically springs back up as if she merely stumbled. With out a doubt, if I am not paying attention, these bursts could unceremoniously round Chubasco up into the wind, while embarrassing, that in itself is harmless.
The atmosphere start to glisten as the clouds droop low sponging Chubby's deck and my beard with moisture-thick air. Chubasco is making outstanding progress as she tames one feuding gust after another.
There in the mist ahead, I see a large patch of consistent wind rushing evenly along the curvature of Shelter Island. The stable air along there extends all the way to Harbor Island. Getting into a secure steady wind, does allow time to adjust my rain-gear, clean the oily residue off my boats, and formulate a plan for striking the sails. The marina requires entry under engine power.
As the distant marina entrance comes into view I must face the fact that only half of today’s goals are nearly completed. Thoughts of self consolation surface as I admit my disappointment. "I expected the empirical proof of God's existence would have been revealed by now."
"Have I actually been deluding myself? Was I mistaken to believe God, Himself, set this goal in my heart? Yet, I'm still convinced an actual proof is as obvious as ripples prove the approach of an invisible gust. What am I am overlooking? Maybe what I need is another good hit in the head...a good hit in the head?"
Pulling my foul weather gear close around my neck, I'm reminded that spiritual truth is not detected with the head. Perhaps, like a disoriented winch operator who assumed that if a few wraps are good more is better. I have allowed myself to assume that if a little mental effort is required, more is better. But spiritual truth is not intellectually discerned.
"I bet God's spiritual proof is stuck in an overlap around my mental winch." The mind, like a winch, is meant only to assist. While the intellect is a necessary aid in spiritual pursuits, it is not well suited to the discovery of spiritual reality. Of course it would be unhelpful to completely sweep all mental and emotional perception overboard hoping to see with spiritual eyes, or hear with spiritual ears. Jesus holds to a necessary discernment balance. Only spiritual ears can hear, and only spiritual eyes can see, that which the heart alone can understand.
How then do I "ease" my mental/emotional sheets enough to recognise the spiritual proof I am so confident God wants me to hear and see, along with all of humanity? How do I pursue less with a determined mind and more with an open heart?
There remains a fair amount of maneuvering between here and Chubasco's new slip assignment.
"After all Chubby, we are almost there."
Pulling my foul weather gear close around my neck, I'm reminded that spiritual truth is not detected with the head. Perhaps, like a disoriented winch operator who assumed that if a few wraps are good more is better. I have allowed myself to assume that if a little mental effort is required, more is better. But spiritual truth is not intellectually discerned.
"I bet God's spiritual proof is stuck in an overlap around my mental winch." The mind, like a winch, is meant only to assist. While the intellect is a necessary aid in spiritual pursuits, it is not well suited to the discovery of spiritual reality. Of course it would be unhelpful to completely sweep all mental and emotional perception overboard hoping to see with spiritual eyes, or hear with spiritual ears. Jesus holds to a necessary discernment balance. Only spiritual ears can hear, and only spiritual eyes can see, that which the heart alone can understand.
How then do I "ease" my mental/emotional sheets enough to recognise the spiritual proof I am so confident God wants me to hear and see, along with all of humanity? How do I pursue less with a determined mind and more with an open heart?
There remains a fair amount of maneuvering between here and Chubasco's new slip assignment.
"After all Chubby, we are almost there."
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