Nothing Is Impossible (15 page)

The Lighthouse

I have always loved sailing. I loved being out on the water, in harmony with the boat, feeling the exhilaration of slicing through waves, leaving land behind. The most precious moments were shared with friends, working together to bring out the best in the boat and in ourselves.

In the late fall of 1978, I helped deliver a forty-eight-foot sloop from Connecticut to Bermuda. There were five of us onboard for the journey down the Connecticut River, eastward on Long Island Sound around the point at Montauk, then due south in search of a tiny island 564 miles off the Carolinas. We expected a passage of four to five days.

Casting off just before midnight, we caught the ebb tide that would push us quickly downriver
and out into the Sound. With a bracing 15-knot breeze behind us, we sped past the houses on the shoreline and watched them go dark as people settled into their cozy beds. We had on thermals, sweaters, and foul-weather gear to protect us against the 38-degree October night. Clutching our mugs of coffee, ducking now and then to avoid the stinging spray from the bow wave, we embraced the adventure ahead.

By daybreak we had rounded Long Island and Montauk lay astern. As it disappeared over the horizon we knew we would not see land again for the next four days. The wind shifted to the west and picked up to 20 knots; the boat was “in the groove” as we sped southward at nearly 15 miles an hour. We shifted into the routine of offshore sailing, each of us on watch for four hours then off the next four. All of us were experienced sailors but we hadn’t met before the trip. Three were from England, one was a Canadian friend of the owner who lived in Toronto, and I was the American.

The next two days passed quickly as we enjoyed good weather, took turns preparing reasonably appetizing meals, and started to get acquainted. Although the boat was equipped with
radar and the most advanced electronic navigation system of its time, we still tracked our progress as sailors have for centuries—with a sextant and dead reckoning. Every few hours we tuned in to the weather reports on the high-frequency radio. On the afternoon of the third day we didn’t like what we heard.

The storm came from the north and reached us just before dark. We were sailing directly downwind with the mainsail and jib full out at right angles to the boat. The rain came first, then the following seas rose until they towered above us. Suddenly the wind gusted to 30 and 35 knots; all hands came on deck to take down the jib and put two reefs in the main. Even with the reduced sail area, we were now sledding down mountainous waves, the bow crashing into the troughs below as the storm turned into a full-blown gale.

We couldn’t see anything beyond the dim glow of the running lights. Adrenaline rushed through our veins as we fought to stay in control of the situation. I was afraid that the electronic systems might fail if water flooded the cockpit and found its way below, making it impossible to determine our position. We weren’t maintaining a course; we were just trying to survive.

The gale pursued us through the night and into the following day. When we came off watch we stumbled below, grabbed a few crackers to keep something in our stomachs, and crawled into our bunks. The only relief was that with the dawn we were able to see the chaos around us. Even though the helmsman’s compass was swinging wildly back and forth, now we knew that our average heading was south. And then we saw the light.

It was dim and distant; we could only see it when the boat was lifted on the crest of a wave. Every time we came up, all eyes strained to find it again through the blinding rain. Soon we realized that the light flashed for two seconds at ten-second intervals. Someone went below to check the charts. Dead ahead of us, forty miles away, was Gibb’s Hill Lighthouse at Southampton, Bermuda.

Lighthouses—tall, sturdy, and built to withstand the pounding surf and raging winds—warn passing ships to avoid crashing into rocks or dangerous reefs near shore. Lighthouses have guided sailors through troubled waters for as long as anyone can remember. Seeing that lighthouse was like being held in the arms of a parent or a long-lost friend. Now it didn’t matter if our modern
equipment failed. All we had to do was not lose sight of it and let nothing keep us from reaching its warm embrace.

At some time, often when we least expect it, we all have to face overwhelming challenges. We are more troubled than we have ever been before; we may doubt that we have what it takes to endure. It is very tempting to give up, yet we have to find the will to keep going. But even when we discover what motivates us, we realize that we can’t go the distance alone.

When the unthinkable happens, the lighthouse is hope. Once we find it, we must cling to it with absolute determination, much as our crew did when we saw the light of Gibb’s Hill that October afternoon. Hope must be as real, and built on the same solid foundation, as a lighthouse; in that way it is different from optimism or wishful thinking. When we have hope, we discover powers within ourselves we may have never known—the power to make sacrifices, to endure, to heal, and to love. Once we choose hope, everything is possible. We are all on this sea together. But the lighthouse is always there, ready to show us the way home.