The Young Woman and the Sea

The first time a sea became alive for me was during winter in a small village town in Cinque Terre, Italy, on the edge of the Mediterranean. Change and Challenge had worn me to the nub and I was wrapped in iron, a spiny heaviness I had built to protect myself from what life might throw at me. The sea knocked at my door days before I let her in. The iron had been too thick for me to hear her, but her gentle persistence finally persuaded me.

One day, sitting on the pebbled beach, I let go. I imagined the grieved and painful part of myself, rising from my body and walking out to the sea. I watched her slowly wade in, first to the ankles, then the knees, hips, waist, chin, and finally her head dipped below the surface. I then envisioned her underwater. Sea creatures guided her, seaweed wrapped itself around her, water filled her lungs. She was pulled down, down, down to the depths into peace. Here is where I would forget. She had taken my pain to the sea, so I could move forward. I felt lighter, despite the fact that I was still wearing my heavy coat as I sat there. It held firm towards the cold, pushing the winter breezes away from me. I wondered when I’d meet a sea again so powerful to engulf what I could no longer carry.

Not long after, on a surprise trip, I was back in Italy. A high, blue summer sky had replaced the silvery winter one.  It was also not the Mediterranean that greeted me but her sister the Adriatic. This time, I was full of joy and glee to be there. This was not a time to heal, but rest, make light with friends, eat good food and take in the sun.  A sailing day was scheduled and I was excited to get to know this sea—not from the beach, but under the sails, flying across the water.

For some reason, I knew I wouldn’t become seasick. I knew I would not need to bring much. I don’t know why. I’d never been sailing before. I resisted all my normal urges to “over-prepare.” Not this time. I trusted the sea. I wore a swimsuit under jeans and a tank top. I made sure to have my camera and sunglasses, and just showed up at the dock.

I was brought aboard by one of the two captains. Captain Peppe had recently sold his boat to Captain Paulo, but the former was still schooling the latter on this specific boat. Both men were immensely passionate about sailing. They spoke of their pastime as a Zen-like religion to be respected. I couldn’t help but wonder, “With this kind of passion for sailing, why did one give it up, and why did one take it on?”

Captain Paulo said he fell in love with the wind, the speed, the light and the silence. His very first time he set out on a sailboat, he knew deep into his bones that he had to keep doing it—he had to be out on the sea. It was a change he had needed. He was from a small town in the area, and struggled with how his life had become so similar. He wanted a new adventure. He was looking to start over. Captain Peppe felt the same. He was also in a rebirth of sorts. He had chosen and crafted the boat in marriage, but now divorced, saw the boat as something of the past continually reminding him of what was no longer alive. He would never give up sailing, but he would find a new boat and let this one make a new man happy.

Captain Peppe yelled out calls to Captain Paulo, his voice effortlessly rising over the waves and the sound of the sail. He was a master sailor. It was evident that he had been raised by the sea, and had learned to dance with her like old friends. Captain Paulo and crew responded with ease. Only a few mistakes were made. I didn’t notice. I was transfixed on the sound of the bright yellow sail pulling me across the salty blue, and from time to time I would slip into thought, sometimes into a semi-sleep, with air filling my lungs more deeply than it had in years.

I pulled myself further away from the crew and planted myself like a barnacle up along the side of the boat. I began to notice what made each little sound that created a type of silence I had never heard before. I could hear the foam from the rustled waters, as thousands of tiny bubbles popped open to the light. I could hear the sail against the wind and the Italian voices at the stern.  I could almost hear the sun, soft and caressing, lulling me in and out of consciousness. My mind went quiet.

I eventually meandered back to the others. I wanted to learn more about the crew. One of the shipmates had Native American tattoos, although he was an Italian businessman who spent most of his time in Moldavia. Some were of birds and lizards aflame, and another the face of a stern and focused Indian.

I told him I was Native American. His eyes lit up and he smiled. I then told him that his tattoos represented a warring survivor. He said, “Yes, I’ve survived a lot of battles in my life.“

The second shipmate never said much, but smiled with ivory teeth that contrasted with his bronze skin. He was a good worker, taking in his experience, rising when needed, sitting when not.

And what of the passengers? I was one of two on the boat. The second was Captain Peppe’s son, who was trying to accept that his family no longer owned this boat. He needed the sails, the wind and the time in the sun. Work in the big city had been beating him down. He had grown up with the lullaby of the Adriatic, and although his boundless energy may be too much for quaint towns on the Italian coast, this is where he refueled and remembered his roots. I could see dreams of a boat of his own in his eyes. I knew it would come someday.

When the sun began to set behind the western hills, we were already in the port. My sailing day was at its end. I looked around at the men’s faces. Manhattan seemed far away, my worries somehow forgotten.

The sea has been often called “The Great Forgetter,” and now I knew why. That’s the secret these men knew. Like my ancestors who could “talk to horses,” they could talk to wind and sea, and from them, they learned the remedy to Change and Challenge: You just aim the sails and let go.