Preparations

"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can."

-Ishmael, Moby Dick-

The natural state of the world is one constantly balancing itself, but never balanced.  When the pendulum reaches its apex its momentum slows, then hangs precariously, before falling again, and this moment is the transitional moment.  It is this moment that balances time by bringing end to one revolution and prepares itself for the next.   Like balance, it is this transitional time that we prepare ourselves for, and yet are never prepared when it approaches.

Sailors of time past, and modern sailors may know more of this than most.  They are in constant struggle to balance themselves between their time at sea, and their time on land.  Others might know this as a balance between work and play.  And for most, the acrobat of time balances upon a tight-wire of 9-5, Monday - Friday, with holidays and vacations.  And, again, for most this is reasonable, but for sailors the drudgery of the daily task of living ashore leaves them unfulfilled.   

Do not be jealous, they hate this about themselves.  How they would love to fit into society.  How they would love to be complete in silent security.  To throw their seabag ashore with never again the pang in the gut to turn back out to sea.  But, most sailors do not do well in society, and society should find relief that there is a place in this world for men as such to go away to, and in some cases, to return from, humbled and exhausted of their demons.  

It is a week before setting out.  I have been home for a month, maybe more or maybe less.  I have transitioned fully to land.  Mountains surround us, the only water in our life is the small rill that runnels off the old man mountain at the head of our valley.  It is full of small brooke trout, and in the summer children splash coyly in its pools, but now its banks are sheeted with ice, and it is devoid of innocent play.  I wake up in the predawn twilight, the sound of water in my head, and in my conscious I am acutely aware of the clock running down.  My time home is coming to an end, the course of the rill is running to the sea.

Then begins the ritual, common to all who head out from shore.  The sailor sets out the empty sea bag, and slowly, over the next week, begins to fill it.  Items come to mind that he would rather not live without, and items he can not live without.  Slowly, like the drain of sand from the hourglass he is transitioning his world, preparing not only his provisions, but his mind and soul, coming to terms with it, accepting it, taking the sand from one chamber, and with it filling another.

Yes, ship's must be stored and provisioned.  This, too, is a ritual.  But that is simple, and once the ship is provisioned the provisioner recounts his list.  Then the mooring lines are cast from the dock, and what has been gotten has been gotten, and what has not been gotten has not been gotten, and the crew will do without.  But the soul can not be at a deficiency.  What is left unresolved will fester.  Yet, it does happen.  Men go to sea deeply in debt, the bills filling their post box while they are away.  Men go to sea having reluctantly signed divorce papers.    Men go to sea leaving a pregnant wife, or a child acting out in school.  Men go to sea with illnesses, not long from the grave.  Men go to sea leaving unresolved what any other person could not, and it dogs them.  What can they do?  It is what they know.  They prepare the best they can, trim sail, and shove off.

Now this sailor has sat for five days away from home awaiting his ship to arrive in port.  He has sat with his seabag and belongings by his side.  His collection of carefully chosen books his companions, and he has waited in limbo.  Finally his ticket comes.  The ship has made it to harbor.  There is a seat for him on a small commuter plane. Monday the ninth, the ticket says.  Seattle to Anchorage, Anchorage to Dutch Harbor.   One crew disembarks, another joins up, and he knows none of them.  He does not know who his shipmates will be.  He does not know what port he will go to first.  He does not know what weather he will see, what ice he will have to break from the ship's bow amid heavy spraying seas.  But he has made preparations, balanced his life as well as could be, and accounts it high time to get to sea.