Story K

SEA CHANGE 

It is one thing to be in your home and hear a voice on the phone giving you the marine forecast for the day: Small craft advisory. Wave heights up to 15 feet.

It's another thing to be in a small craft, struggling through the waters outside the shelter of Marblehead harbor, and look up to see 15 feet of water heading your way.

That first big wave quickly took over the job of being the horizon from the horizon, which just a moment ago had held a tiny, far off version of the city of Boston made out of blue smoke. And land.

Not 10 minutes ago the Hunter 33 that we were sailing on had seemed like a really big boat.

It was George's boat. Ed, Hugh and myself were George's crew. When you added us up we had almost 100 years of sailing experience between us. And when you divided us back down, Ed and Hugh had almost 50 years each.

Our job was to help George deliver his boat from it's unprotected mooring in Marblehead to it's winter dock in Chelsea, tucked into one of the folds of the Mystic river.

That morning we had driven George's van through the chilly streets of Marblehead. It was the week before Halloween and just before we reached the harbor we passed a house decorated like a cemetery with tombstones and a grinning skeleton holding a sign that said: Turn back before it's too late.

As that first wall of water bore down on our boat I had a feeling 'too late' was on the other side of it.

And I really, really wanted to turn back before we got there.

But the wave got to us first. And I invented a new word inside my head. Mountaining. That wave was mountaining over our boat. It looked absolutely impossible up there, looming over us, but what happened to it next was even more impossible.

The wave disappeared.

"Hey," I said. "Where's the wave?"

At that moment the boat grew a pair of feet and stepped onto a watery escalator. Up, up, up we went onto the shoulder of the wave. We could see for sea miles. And then down, down, down the back of it into an alley surrounded by tall, green buildings with frothing white roofs.

But buildings don't usually stampede.

Up, up, up the next one we went. Then down again. We did this six times, and each time up I looked behind us and could see Marblehead getting farther and farther away.

There was no turning back now. We were on a dead run in front of a storm swell. The muscle of the sea was behind us.

Hugh was at helm. Hugh was one of those salts who had sailed everything in everything. He was so happy he was humming.

"Did you know," said Hugh cheerfully, "that every 7th wave is bigger than all the others?"

No, I did not know that. Until I looked over the stern and saw lucky number 7 heading our way.

At first it didn't seem different from the other waves. Until I realized that it was making a noise that was so dense you could actually feel the pressure of the sound pushing ahead of the wave before you heard it.

Shhhhhhhhh, went the wave. Like it was asking the sea for quiet.

"Yep," said Hugh. "It's the ones you can hear coming that you have to watch out for." He looked like he had just won the lottery.

Suddenly the shhhhhh became hssssssss and the wave shook off the rest of the ocean and began pulling itself up to its true and frightening height. It was like watching Medusa rise up from the sea. With hair, a hissing snarl of white sea snakes, and a terrible green face rolling across the water towards us.

"Oh, hey, Raelinda," said Hugh. "Do you want to try the helm?"

"No," is what I wished I'd said. But I as it turned out, I could go even worse than, "no."

I said, "I can't."

It was the miserable truth. I wanted the courage to take the helm. But it was too late, I'd already turned back.

Up, up, up the biggest wave we went until, perched on the hissing, churning crest, we shot forward like someone had just floored the accelerator.

Did you know that sailboats can surf? Well, they can.

As I clutched the life lines I found I had the perfect view of my heart's desire. And it wasn't the sea like I'd thought.

Luckily for my ego, I can remember other moments from that trip. I remember eventually getting so used to seeing walls of water bearing down on us that I was more concerned with where I'd packed my cheddar cheese sandwich. And when we approached Deer Island Light, and the seas settled down to under 10 feet, I remember my confidence creeping shamefully back. And I was able to take the helm and sail us the rest of the way to Chelsea.

Believe me, it's a lot more flattering to myself to remember the moments like those. But I find they just don't do it for me anymore.

Because it was that moment I was riding the head of Medusa, gulping for breath and blinking salt out of my eyes. It was that moment I was looking down, down, down at all those wild churning sea miles, and out, out, out across them to a horizon holding a far away city made out of blue smoke. It was at that moment when I felt something under my thoughts shift and slide open. And a hidden room had appeared.

It was like a secret chamber in my mind that I had never known existed. Had not even known that I needed.

It was a place for holding memories that was half alcove, half alter.

Because it is one thing to remember those moments when you're already pulling yourself back together.

But it's another thing to remember moments like this.