About Right

For those of us who live north of the Equator, in climes in which water freezes in winter months, now is the season of preparing boats on the hard. “On the hard” for those who may not know the language of sailors and such, is the antonym to “in the water.” It is, indeed, a sweet season.

Yesterday my wife and I were down doing a little work on Santa Maria. Last month I put in a new water tank since the last one was filling the bilge as fast as I could fill the tank. Water issues have shown up in other places as well, and so my wood-worker wife opted to rebuild a couple of walls that had been ruined. She works wonders, and her carpentry skills were put to task. Yesterday we put these walls in place. She also plans on varnishing the hatch boards, which we have been staining, and while she cut a temporary hatch (so we could take the regular boards home) I cleaned the hull.

I like cleaning the hull. It brings me a deep joy. When my mother (whose blessed memory I honour today!) had me clean anything as a child, I would never have described the experience with the word “joy.” But yesterday I found myself grinning as I wiped away a winter’s worth of grime. As I washed and polished, I wondered about this pleasure: why this joy? Perhaps it is because I do so much work that brings so few concrete results that I see. Perhaps it is because the action itself is a cypher signalling changes in the season. Perhaps it is because I simply enjoy being outside, or the gentle curve of the boat, or the back and forth with my wife. It is probably all of these and more. But as I worked I thought a little bit about the gift of physical labour: how it puts us in touch with our bodies, how it teaches the gift of patience and perseverance, and how it reminds us that those who preceded us knew nothing of the many luxuries we take for granted. There was no heat without wood being hewn, and no food without laboured fields and snare set trails and animal husbandry. Of course, food is still worked for but most of us are distant to the physicality of this truth.

But to return to the mystery of my smile, above all I think this task takes me back to my parents, who valued hard work and meant to teach their children that it is a gift. Of course, I do not want to sentimentalise labour – remembering that many ache from bodies broken by harsh conditions. But still, I am happy for the occasion to remember those who tried to teach me to find some pleasure in work, and so to know that sweat on the brow can be a blessing as well as a curse.

As I caressed Santa Maria with water I imagined the one, after whom the boat is named, caressing her own beloved child, and finding joy in her work. Then I thought on God too, who most certainly – from time to time – cleans this ship that we are, and so I imagined God with a gracious grin and wet hands and a deep joy, and that seems to me to be about right on Mother’s Day.

Who’s in a Name?

My wife and I spent the last two days working on our sailboat, the “Santa Maria.”  We didn’t choose our boat’s name but inherited it. Of course, the name is not all we inherited, and as every boat owner will tell you, buying a boat is rather like purchasing an invoice.  This was doubly the case with the sainted lady; she was in sore straits when we got her, and we have plugged away at healing her.  In order to mitigate the threat of financial insolvency, we have been doing most of the work all on our own: painting the deck and interior, making new cushions, replacing the marine plywood inside, etc.  The repairs are done in a lop-sided fashion.  I am the strong-man who does my wife’s wise bidding.  She is the mind, I am the muscles; she the master planner, I the measure once saw twice man.

 

Each year we tackle a new project.  This year we decided to paint the hull.  This hull has been painted before – not by us – in a piece meal fashion.  Many shades of white cover up bumps and so forth.  On Saturday we bought a power buffer and some cleaning material to strip away some of the crud that has accrued over the years.  I have to say, I love doing this sort of work.  It is mindless, and after a busy week at work I find myself reveling in muscular engagement, the mindless repetition, the fresh wind on the face, the to and fro conversations with my wife and passers-by.  And it always feels good to begin a project that has an identifiable beginning, middle and ending – even if it is only one step in a long journey.  This happened to me with the hull cleansing process, a necessary preparatory stage in painting it.  But sometimes even small steps in a journey are a trip of their own.

 

As I cleaned up the port side of the hull, I noted a kind of shadow emerge; something of a faint outline of a word, a call number, a what?  Slowly, I could see it was an old name.  Santa Maria has not always been named after the blessed virgin.  As I cleaned and peered, it became clear that her name was once Abishag (I had to look it up).  For those of you as poor at Bible trivia as me, Abishag was the young woman who used to keep the aged David warm when his health deteriorated (1 Kings 1:1-4).  The bible is quick to vouch for young Abishag’s good reputation.  It is reported that nothing untoward transpired between the two.

 

I like the idea that this boat has these two biblical referents.  We have always wondered a bit about whether we should keep “Santa Maria” as a name, since it wasn’t our choice.  Changing, however, isn’t as simple as getting a new stencil – dire omens attend a boat whose name has been changed apart from the proper protocol.  Moreover, choosing a name willy-nilly has not appealed to us, and so when we saw Abishag, we began to wonder whether we should return her to her more original name, which had been hiding under our very noses for a long time.  And so, my ever resourceful wife, took to the internet, where she found that Abishag is not an unknown name for boats.  She did observe, however, that the owners of Abishags tended to be Davids.  It was decided.  I don’t have a David bone in my body, and so, “Santa Maria” she shall remain.  I may, however, take to calling her Abishag when coaxing her through difficult shoals, something to remind me of her humble beginnings.  Underneath every saint is a servant girl or boy, doing the bidding of the king, and wondering what will come of that.

To and Fro

Yesterday afternoon my wife and I went out for our last sail of the year. It was a glorious day: the sun sang splendidly against a cerulean blue sky. Lake Ontario shimmered even though it was a little darker than its summer hue, portending winter’s approach. Soon it will be too cold to sail and so our sailing season winds down. While it is always a little sad to take down the mast in preparation for hauling out the boat, it seems a fitting task in October.

The winds yesterday were solidly out of the east and after bringing down the sail in order to motor to the marina, I set for south and the boat was just off perpendicular to the waves’ roll. A familiar feeling accompanied this: a strange kind of rocking in which it felt as if my body sloshed port and starboard at the same time. You don’t really get quite the same feeling under sail, yet it felt oddly familiar. Clearly I have had this feeling before while boating, yet the familiarity was not of that sort; not an “I remember this from last month” kind of familiarity. No, the familiarity was rather primordial. Not exactly an embryonic memory, yet more that than not.

It strikes me that this is really rather what life is sometimes like: a sloshing back and forth, a kind of moving in two directions at once. Pulled by this, pushed by that and sometimes that duality is calming and comforting – as it was for me yesterday – but sometimes it leaves me a little at loss; “at sea” as it were, and uncertain what to do, where to be, how to act because being pushed this way and that simultaneously is more than I can handle.

Strange this: sometimes a rocking motion is comforting and at other times it is uncomfortable or perhaps uncanny; a kind of eerie experience of my being tossed about in the world. Often it is marked by a loss of control that rattles my sense of well being. Yet, oddly enough, at other times being out of control gives me a paradoxical taste of freedom: since I am not ultimately in control I feel free to do what seems, what feels, what presents itself as right. Why does this sloshing, this tossing to and fro sometimes set me free, and other times unnerve me?

Likely the answer to this last question is too near to me to be seen objectively. Yet I know that when I content myself in my creature-hood I oddly find myself transcending myself, and when I want to play God, I realize I am not, and am reminded that I am dust – sometimes dust in the wind – blown about by circumstances beyond my control if not my knowledge.

The very taking down of our mast in a small way replicates this: I have no choice but to say farewell to a season, yet find the come and go of each season is a genteel reminder that ebb and flow is the way of life and death, and death and life. Each comes in its turn and with the passing over of one to the other I am reminded that it is enough to be in the hand of the One who rocks the cradle, who stays the storm, who paves this and problematizes that path.

The Other the Merrier

The mast went up on our sailboat yesterday.  My wife and I went down to Hamilton Bay in the morning, did a little more work on the mast light and main sail’s halyard.  While we were working on our boat, there were sailors drifting in and out, working on their boats and sharing requisite gibes with one another.  After a quick lunch we got the mast ready for raising by the crane, where we bumped into Paul.

Paul is a bit of a character.  He is probably one of the friendliest guys I know, with a heart of gold, and some of the strangest views about pretty much everything.  We gave Paul a hand with his mast, and he returned the favour.  Rob, Calvin and Matt stopped by.  The language was colourful, as is wont to be the case when sometimes bull-headed men debate the relative merits of a rope being on this side, or that, of this or that.  I chuckle a lot at the repartee of this rag tag community.  The best line (herein edited) went something like this:  “If we could hook this crank up to your mouth we’d get this mast up a lot quicker.”   Feel free to supply the excised expletives as you see fit, should you decide to use it yourself.

The boating community is sometimes quite quirky, and really rather diverse.  Plumber and teachers, doctors and engineers, social workers and businessmen alike gather at the marina.  A common interest draws together some otherwise utterly uncommon characters.  Being together with such a disparate community is half the fun of sailing.  But it isn’t only the difference, or the otherness of one another that makes these communities work.  We gather together around something that we have in common.  Our differences don’t exactly disappear in our common interest, but they are radically re-ordered.  Community arises in a common cause.

In an interesting way, the marina works contra the current of contemporary culture.    Our computers, to advance one example, find out what we like based on sites we visit and flavour advertisements to our presumed consumer profile.  Technology profiles us for efficiency’s sake, and in so doing upends the possibilities of bumping into advertisements, or articles, or people that are unlike us or our interests.    Many forces herd us into communities of the like-minded.

We are, in my estimation, desperately in need of occasions that introduce us to people, or ideas, or worldviews that are alien to us.  Society historically made use of many institutions to draw together disparate peoples.  This still remains true to some extent, but “the times, they are a’changin,” as the bard sings.  But it is still a gift to rub elbows with people who are different, and for that reason, interesting, if not sometimes annoying.  Of course that interaction is gift times two when it involves a boat, or a book, or a whatever.  Where are some places that you meet characters who enrich your life?

Setting Sail on Whitsunday

Santa Maria

Santa Maria

 

Santa Maria went in the water this week. I was down to the marina yesterday to do some work in preparation of raising the mast: a little cleaning, a new light for the mast, pumping out the bilge. There is always something to be done on a boat. Sometimes that something is even sailing this ship.

It is interesting to note that the Latin word for ship – nave – is used for the worship area proper in a church. The church is likened to a boat. The most common reason given is that the ship functions rather like the ark of old: a safe haven while billows rage. Obviously, scribblers of holy writ never sailed with me.

I am a novice sailor and for my few years of sailing, long is the list of things gone wrong. A pair of glasses have gone overboard (along with every sort of tool), our engine has stalled at the most inopportune moments, rocks and shoals have been broached, sheets (ropes for land lovers) have tangled, and once the mast came a-tumbling down. Thankfully no-one has ever been hurt. It was only this last year that my brave wife and I have garnered enough confidence to take passengers on board. So when my legs scissor over the life line and bid land farewell my heart skips a beat: excitement beckons. But it is excitement precisely because an element of risk informs this activity. Sailor knows well the power of water and wind. Ships really do go down.

But even so, there is also a kind of comfort on the Santa Maria. Today I had my first 2013 lunch aboard our boat. I reclined in the cockpit, stretched out my feet, and imbibed my open-face sandwich while watching the long weekend unfold in the marina. I love lounging to the rocking motion of a boat in bay. The sight of cormorants in flight pulls a certain peace from the sky to my eye, to my heart, to my very being. People padding down the docks with ship’s wares – tendering their comforts to vessels of adventure – speak to me of the paradox of life. Just like life, this Santa Maria both animates and pacifies me; it simultaneously satisfies and unsettles me.

Today, “Pentecost Sunday” or “Whitsunday,” is celebrated in churches in the western tradition. This is sometimes called the birthday of the church; the animating and comforting of the church by the Spirit, by the Holy Wind who both drives us beyond comfort zones and soothes our souls. Wild and warm, this Sirocco can be trusted but never second guessed. When we bid land adieu, we broach a new way of being in the world: we sail with a heel, travelling aslant to the perpendicular, wise to the will of the wind, and finding ourselves smiling and glad for the adventure that is life.