Two of my favorite students and their five siblings were raised on a small sailboat, the Liahona, somewhere between Florida, Jamaica, and Puerto Rico. They didn’t have a house, just a spot at the dock now and again. Admittedly, I loved their essays about the colors of a childhood at sea. Who doesn’t want to hear stories of climbing the rigging, friends on every island, and living a tanned, barefoot, mango-flavored kid life?
At the end of a spring semester, Jacob and Jessica invited me to come with their family on the Liahona for two weeks while they sailed from Florida to the Bahamas. I caught a flight to Ft. Lauderdale. I arrived to join them in a full day of sailor chores – painting and sealing and rewiring and swabbing. And then at midnight we were off.
We headed east off the coast of Florida in the dead of night. There was no wind, so the sails were down and we motored slowly away from the lights of Ft. Lauderdale and out to sea. Without the wind, we knew that we would have to motor (at six m.p.h.) the forty-six miles to the Bahamas. Since we were planning for an eight-hour voyage, we split the night into shifts. Two by two, we took the helm and kept the little boat on course by watching the compass and keeping a bearing.
Contrary to my notions of sailing, the compass was attached to the hull by a wad of electrical tape, and one of the helmsmen would hold a flashlight to illuminate it now and again. There was no cool spray, no breeze from our forward travel, only a lot of rocking and hot, July night pressing down.
At 3:00 a.m. my night-watch with Jessica began. It wasn’t any cooler, but it was breathtaking — all those stars crammed down to the black horizon in every direction. I suppose it would have been the perfect time for the most meaningful conversation in the world. We attempted to talk about education, writing, or what it was like to fall in love. But I couldn’t give Jess my full presence because of the horrendous nausea that had come over me. My head felt like a bowling ball, and each time the boat rocked or pitched up I caught my breath and put a hand over my mouth while my stomach galloped.
Once, when I was much younger, I was given a promise that I’ve kept deep in my heart. “If you follow the promptings of the Sacred Wind, you will have smooth sailing.” And that night, on a flat ocean, I learned that smooth sailing is still sailing. A smooth ascent is still an ascent. A forward walking is a walking.
I have found it useful to examine my expectations and eliminate the unrealistic. Here are a few expectations that I’ve found useful to throw overboard:
- If I am doing good things, I won’t feel lonely or stressed.
- I am a good person, so things should go right for me.
- I should be liked by everyone.
- I should not fail.
- Since I’m trying to do the right thing, things should be easy in my life.
- Walking forward should be an easy road, and never lonely.
- Because I have the gift of choice, I can change habits overnight simply by deciding.
Unrealistic expectations like these have the power to set us up for disappointment and self-hate. In my experience, unrealistic expectations can sink the ship of your heart! On the other hand, compassionate, realistic expectations can lift your heart and expand your sense of humor.
What a relief it is to realize that a little disappointment and a little bit of sea-sickness aren’t indications that something has gone terribly wrong. There’s no reason to panic, to feel cheated, or to turn the ship around. When the sea-sickness comes – in whatever form – my encouragement is to look to the horizon, keep calm, and carry on with a smile in your heart, because it’s an incredible thing to be a sailor.
