In July, Eileen and I got away for a few days to participate in a spiritual retreat organized by Bangor Theological Seminary. A group of 22 ministers and lay people spent five days and four nights together on the schooner Timberwind cruising Penobscot Bay. We worshiped together every morning and evening and during the day shared the experience of sailing over one of the most beautiful bays in the world. The Timberwind is a 96’ gaff-rigged topsail schooner and those of you who know what that means (I do now) will appreciate that she is a serious seagoing vessel. Built originally as the pilot boat for Portland Harbor, she now spends her days bringing tourists and the occasional group of spiritual pilgrims into more intimate contact with the sun, the sea, the wind, perhaps themselves--and certainly for me, into closer contact with God; not that God isn’t present everywhere. It’s not that God was more present to me out there on the bay, it’s that I was more present to God.

Part of the experience was in helping to work the ship--hauling sails up and down, rigging the deck tarp and, most fun of all, shifting the headsails during tacks when sailing into the wind. One brilliant, brisk afternoon we cutting across the water at speed, tacking quickly two and three times to bring us down the bay. I was at my station as part of the starboard tacking crew, holding a line with half a bight around a cleat, ready for the command to haul in when the order was given and the ship came about. Just as we began to turn, someone on the port side let go his line completely and too soon; instead of shifting the sail under control, we suddenly had several hundred pounds of canvas and 15 yards of loose halyard snapping smartly in the wind--noisy, disconcerting and dangerous.

My fellow passenger was standing in the middle of that, trying in vain to get hold of the whipping halyard, when the first mate shouldered him none too gently aside, wrapped both arms around the flapping canvas and dropped to the deck, bringing the sail with him and instantly stabilizing the dangerous situation. After bit of extra effort, we got the sails shifted and belayed and continued on our way unhurt if a bit shaken up.

After a few minutes, the mate brought together those of us on the tacking crews and in a remarkably kindly way, explained what had happened and what to do should it happen again.

“If you ever lose a line like that and the sail is flapping in the wind, never stand in the middle of it trying to grab the halyard; it’s too dangerous. When all hell breaks loose like that, just reach out with both arms, grab everything you can and hit the deck. Once you have the sail pinned down you can find the line and then you’re alright.” I’ll report thankfully that we had no further occasion to worry about it; the rest of our maneuvers we carried out pretty smoothly for a bunch of middle-aged lubbers.

It’s occurred to me since returning from our voyage that the mate’s advice might hold in some other life situations as well. Sometimes, all hell does break loose--deep loss, death, disease, tragedy and trauma of all sorts--and most of us, being pretty self-reliant and conscious of our dignity, will do our best to stand there alone in the middle of the chaos trying our best to fix it. But that may not be the time for dignity and self-reliance. That may be the time to grab everything you can--your doctor, your friends, your faith, your minister, your channel to the Holy--and hit the deck. Just sit down; sit down and and cease grabbing and groping for something you probably can’t control and which will hurt you if you persist in trying. Hit the deck, take a breath, realize you’re not alone, and wait for help. We’ll be there for you, I promise.

Steve