I have to admit, the ocean terrifies me. For readers of many of my past essays, this is obvious – Lake Superior is an ocean in looks and feel, and I fear it, but love it because it is so fearsome, so vast. Mostly in Long Island Sound, I have sailed in it, swam in it, been stranded on a sailboat without motor in it, been lost in it at night, paddled in it with an inadequate canoe, almost been hit by a barge, been caught in storms, come close to wrecking – all sorts of things, on and on. But always, I have known that it could kill me in a minute. Always I have known that there are little crabs that would eat me, and when swimming off the boat miles from shore, have known that big things underneath could at any time come up and eat me. And always the tides and the waves and the weather, which have killed more people over history than most wars, are just a moment away from washing me into dark, cold oblivion.
I often have felt something of a coward over this. My mother, who grew up on the shore, always claimed to have loved it in a maternal way- mother ocean, peaceful, embracing, cup of life, poetic, the source of her joy and inspiration. For me, it has been Shiva, mother of life as well as taker - fecund, yet deadly. When I would say this to my mother, she would titch. Why, you just have to understand her moods! Nothing to fear once you have the basic knowledge and respect.
So she said, but I have seen her scared on a sailboat tilting a little too much with the wind, so I suspect maybe she was not facing a deeper fear. Still, her embrace was always much wider than mine, and I thought maybe my imagination was too large (and my manly courage too small) until I read the quick true-life thriller, A Speck in the Sea by John Aldridge and Anthony Sosinski, who were the prime protagonists in the book. They were (and still are) fisherman and lobsterman out of Montauk, Long Island, which lies directly across from my own ocean stomping grounds in Ct. and R.I. Montauk is where Jaws was set, a small fishing village at the east end of Long Island that becomes a tourist mecca (or hell hole , depending on point of view) in summer, with rich people and celebs galore both there and in nearby Fire Island. It was just during the tourist season in July of 2013 that John and Anthony and another crew member took off at night to check their traps some 60 miles out into the North Atlantic – an area that is the most dangerous place to fish in the US, fishing itself being the most dangerous profession in the world (the next is lumbering, a no-brainer if you’ve ever toppled trees before). They were to arrive at dawn at their traps, so Johnny tended the boat, running on autopilot, while the others slept into the night. At 3AM he started to ready the freezer, and to do so, he had to move several 200 pound coolers also set to hold lobster and fish. While moving one with his fishing gaff, the handle broke off, and he was flung back – and out of the boat, as a lobster boat will often have no wall in the stern, to allow for pulling up the traps. And there he was, all of a sudden, dressed only in fishing boots, shirt and shorts, watching the boat go away on autopilot while his mates slept.
They could not hear him yell over the boat engine, and Johnny knew he was, as he repeated to himself over and over, “fucked, fucked, fucked!’ He was forty miles out from the tip of L.I and left to ride the current. He upended his fishing boots after filling them with air, and that is all that kept him afloat. In the dark. Utterly alone.
We know right away that he made it, for how else could he be a co-author, but he candidly told the world what he thought after going over. Panic, despair, terror. Yes, this seasoned, life-long fisherman felt terror. He knew the ocean and its ways, from the constant presence of predators – it is only near beaches where they are rare – to the shifting tides and rolling waves. He knew that he was invisible in the vastness, a small head bobbing occasionally above water. He knew his chances were slim, and what he had to do to even have a chance for survival was to not think of his situation, for that would bring panic, and panic would bring death.
But for me, the big thing was his terror, this man of the sea. I was not such a coward after all. Rather, fear of the ocean is the only sensible thing to have. It is treacherous no matter how inspiring and beautiful and life-giving. And, more than any other regular thing in our lives, the ocean represents the totality of being for us – from its life to the endless, dark unknown of death.
When I think about, I do not fear driving in rush traffic at 60 or 70 mph, where any mistake by anyone of thousands could mean instant death or agonizing, life- altering injury. I do not fear some hunter’s bullet in the woods, and only fear a little the possibility of running across a bear, which I do from time to time up north. But I fear the ocean, even from the safety of a decent ship, like I fear heights standing against a window pane at 80 stories high.
With only a little thought, I know why - the open space and the great depth both remind me of the ultimate helplessness of being alive. I can raise a shudder thinking of either, but mostly of the ocean, because it is teeming and chaotic, like the universe, and reminds me constantly that we will someday be swallowed like Jonah in the whale – all of us, regardless of strength or ninja prowess – holey, entirely. Inevitably, unavoidably. Into the black and cold of the unknown.
But the fisherman of the boat, of most boats in the US, fish because they want to, not because they have to. I know that feeling, too – that love of something you fear. It is not only because of its beauty – the sense of this beauty itself hung deep in the unconscious – but because of its indomitable vastness. No matter how we despise our small lives trapped in our small rut, the sea tells us that we are not little robots caught in a meaningless social network. It tells us that we are a part of this vastness, and in that, of great, infinite depth ourselves. It tells us that, as small and insignificant as we seem, we share in its mystery and indefinable awe. That we are alive in such a way as to ponder that presence is the greatest miracle of them all.
Fear, terror - thank God for the merciless sea! For without such a vastness at our touch, we could lose the very meaning of our being. But with, we cannot. No matter how jaded a man might be, stick that man out as a speck in the sea and see how significant and meaningful and awesome – and terrifying - life becomes to him.
Within days after Johnny was rescued, he was back at sea. He had put a removable wall at the stern, but all else remained the same. He could not give up the sea, for it was here that he saw his meaning - just as all of us who have the courage find their meaning through and beyond their fear.
Courage to be afraid, that’s what it is. It might be the cornerstone of human life, for without the courage to be afraid, to step before the unconquerable vastness of reality, we sink into our interior selves, living lives of quiet desperation.
I know you really feared the sea, Mom, just like me. I know because that is where your joy and art came from. It is where it comes from for all of us – at the threshold of fear, where we are opened to the terrible yet wonderful fullness of our being. FK
I often have felt something of a coward over this. My mother, who grew up on the shore, always claimed to have loved it in a maternal way- mother ocean, peaceful, embracing, cup of life, poetic, the source of her joy and inspiration. For me, it has been Shiva, mother of life as well as taker - fecund, yet deadly. When I would say this to my mother, she would titch. Why, you just have to understand her moods! Nothing to fear once you have the basic knowledge and respect.
So she said, but I have seen her scared on a sailboat tilting a little too much with the wind, so I suspect maybe she was not facing a deeper fear. Still, her embrace was always much wider than mine, and I thought maybe my imagination was too large (and my manly courage too small) until I read the quick true-life thriller, A Speck in the Sea by John Aldridge and Anthony Sosinski, who were the prime protagonists in the book. They were (and still are) fisherman and lobsterman out of Montauk, Long Island, which lies directly across from my own ocean stomping grounds in Ct. and R.I. Montauk is where Jaws was set, a small fishing village at the east end of Long Island that becomes a tourist mecca (or hell hole , depending on point of view) in summer, with rich people and celebs galore both there and in nearby Fire Island. It was just during the tourist season in July of 2013 that John and Anthony and another crew member took off at night to check their traps some 60 miles out into the North Atlantic – an area that is the most dangerous place to fish in the US, fishing itself being the most dangerous profession in the world (the next is lumbering, a no-brainer if you’ve ever toppled trees before). They were to arrive at dawn at their traps, so Johnny tended the boat, running on autopilot, while the others slept into the night. At 3AM he started to ready the freezer, and to do so, he had to move several 200 pound coolers also set to hold lobster and fish. While moving one with his fishing gaff, the handle broke off, and he was flung back – and out of the boat, as a lobster boat will often have no wall in the stern, to allow for pulling up the traps. And there he was, all of a sudden, dressed only in fishing boots, shirt and shorts, watching the boat go away on autopilot while his mates slept.
They could not hear him yell over the boat engine, and Johnny knew he was, as he repeated to himself over and over, “fucked, fucked, fucked!’ He was forty miles out from the tip of L.I and left to ride the current. He upended his fishing boots after filling them with air, and that is all that kept him afloat. In the dark. Utterly alone.
We know right away that he made it, for how else could he be a co-author, but he candidly told the world what he thought after going over. Panic, despair, terror. Yes, this seasoned, life-long fisherman felt terror. He knew the ocean and its ways, from the constant presence of predators – it is only near beaches where they are rare – to the shifting tides and rolling waves. He knew that he was invisible in the vastness, a small head bobbing occasionally above water. He knew his chances were slim, and what he had to do to even have a chance for survival was to not think of his situation, for that would bring panic, and panic would bring death.
But for me, the big thing was his terror, this man of the sea. I was not such a coward after all. Rather, fear of the ocean is the only sensible thing to have. It is treacherous no matter how inspiring and beautiful and life-giving. And, more than any other regular thing in our lives, the ocean represents the totality of being for us – from its life to the endless, dark unknown of death.
When I think about, I do not fear driving in rush traffic at 60 or 70 mph, where any mistake by anyone of thousands could mean instant death or agonizing, life- altering injury. I do not fear some hunter’s bullet in the woods, and only fear a little the possibility of running across a bear, which I do from time to time up north. But I fear the ocean, even from the safety of a decent ship, like I fear heights standing against a window pane at 80 stories high.
With only a little thought, I know why - the open space and the great depth both remind me of the ultimate helplessness of being alive. I can raise a shudder thinking of either, but mostly of the ocean, because it is teeming and chaotic, like the universe, and reminds me constantly that we will someday be swallowed like Jonah in the whale – all of us, regardless of strength or ninja prowess – holey, entirely. Inevitably, unavoidably. Into the black and cold of the unknown.
But the fisherman of the boat, of most boats in the US, fish because they want to, not because they have to. I know that feeling, too – that love of something you fear. It is not only because of its beauty – the sense of this beauty itself hung deep in the unconscious – but because of its indomitable vastness. No matter how we despise our small lives trapped in our small rut, the sea tells us that we are not little robots caught in a meaningless social network. It tells us that we are a part of this vastness, and in that, of great, infinite depth ourselves. It tells us that, as small and insignificant as we seem, we share in its mystery and indefinable awe. That we are alive in such a way as to ponder that presence is the greatest miracle of them all.
Fear, terror - thank God for the merciless sea! For without such a vastness at our touch, we could lose the very meaning of our being. But with, we cannot. No matter how jaded a man might be, stick that man out as a speck in the sea and see how significant and meaningful and awesome – and terrifying - life becomes to him.
Within days after Johnny was rescued, he was back at sea. He had put a removable wall at the stern, but all else remained the same. He could not give up the sea, for it was here that he saw his meaning - just as all of us who have the courage find their meaning through and beyond their fear.
Courage to be afraid, that’s what it is. It might be the cornerstone of human life, for without the courage to be afraid, to step before the unconquerable vastness of reality, we sink into our interior selves, living lives of quiet desperation.
I know you really feared the sea, Mom, just like me. I know because that is where your joy and art came from. It is where it comes from for all of us – at the threshold of fear, where we are opened to the terrible yet wonderful fullness of our being. FK
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