There was a time I found myself sailing into a place where the chart gave only suggestion—and the rocks gave no second chances.
The fog came in early that morning, soft at first, a gentle veil brushing across the deck. But it thickened fast, swallowing the sun, the land, even the sound. And with it came the hush—of uncertainty, of alertness, of fear.
Somewhere beyond the veil lay a narrow inlet I’d studied on paper a hundred times. Jagged rocks flanked both sides of its mouth, and beneath the water, the terrain shifted like memory—unseen, unpredictable. The currents spoke in tongues, pulling and pushing in ways no tide chart could predict. I had only a small handheld GPS, a compass, and my own sense of the sea.
And I had the fear.
Not the kind of fear that makes you freeze—but the kind that sharpens. That invites you into presence so deep it becomes prayer. I remember how the wind shifted—sharp, urgent—and how even that felt like guidance.
The fog, the rocks, the unknown waters… they weren’t enemies. They were relations.
I breathed with the boat. Every movement of the rudder, every tick of the divider, every mark of pencil against the chart—became a conversation. I wasn’t commanding the sea. I was asking it to let me in.
And it did.
Not because I conquered fear, but because I let it transmute into intimacy. Into respect. Into attention. The coastline didn’t change. The fog didn’t lift. But I was no longer moving against the hazard. I was moving with it—guided by an intelligence deeper than thought.
In that moment, I understood something ancient.
The East isn’t where the danger is. It’s where the relationship begins.
Expeditions for Life 