Squalls and balance

I was reading about a storm and had to stop mid sentence. I started reflecting on when I was sailing on Long Island Sound, in the western part, across from the NYC skyline, and we were caught in a squall. I think I experienced this multiple times, in a Dyer Dow, the dingy we first learned to sail when I was 11; a Blue Jay (13.5 feet with a main and jib), in which 2 other girls and I, age 12, won some junior regatta awards; and in a 210, a 30ft racing boat with a keel and a pointed stern and bow (the 210 is raced primarily by adults,  but sometimes the crew includes teens or elderly, on the weekend, in the “one design” league); and also on various larger sloop type yachts with my family.

The most notable experience was in the 210, when we had the skipper/owner, me at age 20, and two 13 year old boys. As was typical, the squall appeared without much warning (in those days we didn’t have smartphones and real time satellite).  We saw the sky darkening with a yellow hue. Then there was barely time to reef or lower the sail or put on life jackets. It swept our boat into its fury and the rain was blinding. Our focus was on not capsizing or being injured by chaotic boat appendages. Then suddenly, maybe after a few minutes, but it’s hard to know because it feels endless, it stopped and we assessed our location, not where we started or even expected to be, and in this case precariously close to rocks that could sink us (the same rocks we would walk on from shore to explore the tide pools).

This memory exists as two weights, one that is the celebratory survival, but also one that is the precariousness and almostness. While these were temporary events, which of these memory weights is heavier is always a balancing act, just as with any temporary or extended storm in life.

Since this post is about balance, readers may also want to refer to my older post about scales of fairness, a somewhat different topic but also related to finding balance in life.