Years ago I was fortunate to experience the wonder of sailing. My brother-in-law was a master sailor, having sailed in Americas Cup, Southern Ocean Circuit and English Channel regattas. He worked for a crusty boat builder in Rye, New York and from time to time we were to experience the privilege of taking out a sailing vessel for a test run. We sailed on everything from small blue jays to 47 foot yawls. I fondly remember one outing with a couple who had sailed over from Australia. True sailors these, and the accents—“Coming about mate” (also known as "tacking"), or “Man the helm mate,” certainly enhanced the romance of the experience.
I recall especially one weekend outing on a 47 foot yawl named Caroline, newly decked out in teak and holly, with new bright work in the galley. She was magnificent, all wood hull and streamlined. We met before sunset at the boatyard and I watched, always amazed, as my husband and brother-in-law worked almost as a choreographed dance, adjusting rigging, and the multitudes of details required before setting sail. As we motored out of the boatyard, into the open water, there was a magic moment when the motor shut down and the only sound was a buoy off in the distance gently clanging a melancholy melody. I moved to the bow of the boat, clear to the end and sat as the sun set and the motion of the sea rocked me back and forth. The solitude was breathtaking.
Suddenly, the crew of two set the sails and in a swift motion, the 60 foot high mast became alive with dancing white canvas and as the wind caught the canvas it cracked and lifted the vessel up and away like a kite barely touching water on the tops of the swells. There is nothing like it in all the world.
The following day my brother-in-law began instructing me in navigation. I wasn't a believer at that time, but the lessons seemed to have embedded themselves into my memory to be retrieved later, when I would very much need them. He stood behind me at the helm as I steered and talked seaman language which I did not understand—tacking, leeward, windward, etc., (most of which I can't remember), but when I asked him how to know, in that vast ocean, which direction to steer, he showed me a tiny light on the horizon—a distant light on shore—which he had found when setting the course of our trip, and he said that I must keep my eyes on that light, focusing only on that and steering only towards the light. He had set the course by compass, as it matched that light. He then left me alone as I attempted to steer the vessel. The light bobbed in the distance, barely visible and at times it seemed to disappear altogether. When the light disappeared, I looked at the compass and could see that even though I could not see the light, I could tell that we were still on course and then the light would reappear and I felt safe again.
Tacking involved swiftly changing the direction of the sails from one side of the craft to the other, throwing the boom across the boat to the other side and you ducked or you were thrown off the boat. And then, you must find the light again, because the wind has shifted, but you must stay the course.
Keeping eyes fixed on the light. When the light disappears, check the compass to make sure you are still on course. When the wind shifts, duck and stay the course.
Isaiah 26:3 tells us that "He will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is fixed on Him because he trusts in Him." Keeping your eyes on the light equals perfect peace. Keeping your eyes fixed on the water, or the boat, or anything else means you lose your peace.
When the light seems to have gone behind a swell, check the compass—the Word of God—to regain your bearings and to remind you that you are on course even during the storm—even when it feels like your whole life just turned upside down.
When the wind shifts, hunker down because things are going to shift and everything will seem confused for a time. But the light never moves and the compass is always accurate. Those things are absolute. Even in a squall which rises suddenly from seemingly nowhere, tossing you to and fro, those things are absolute.
I loved sailing. It seemed to put everything into perspective.
