The sun is only a red glow beneath the eastern horizon. Still moist air covers the boat with dew. The wet mooring lines slip through the hawser holes and as they fall away, we bid farewell to the boats that make up our floating neighborhood. The only witnesses to Carrie Rose’s departure between the red and green towers that mark the harbor’s mouth are the fishermen that line its perimeter.
Once in Lake Michigan’s swell our anticipation wanes, replaced by an awareness of the noise and vibration generated by a nine-ton Nordic Tug. Lenore, the sailboat we owned for a decade, was much different. Sails would be raised and adjusted for the appropriate heading, and then off with the engine. Its racket replaced by the sound of wind and waves, and by the boat’s creaking.
This creaking may be why boat owners drink a bit too much. It is in a futile attempt to block out the noise and get a good night sleep. When on board most skippers spend the night in a state of suspended animation, subconsciously listening for any change in the boat’s distinctive sound. I was nearing thirty when my body informed me that drinking to excess was no longer allowed. I conceded and so, when on the boat I am destined to spend the night on call.
It is reminiscent of internship. At five in the afternoon, as opposed to five in the morning, I would pass through an imaginary harbor mouth onto the floor of a foreign place that was, moments before, familiar turf. A hospital at night has rhythms not unlike the lake. Sometimes it is smooth as glass, sometimes choppy and sometimes, large rollers plummet the shore. Plus, there is always the possibility of a squall.
A night intern has a small cell to retreat into. It is analogous to a boat’s cabin. When given the chance, I would settle fully clothed into a corner berth and try to keep the various implements of a uniformed intern from prodding my weary flesh. On calm nights a boat generates white noise that helps initiates sleep. Not so in the hospital. Hospitals exude a sickly fluorescent hum. The attempt to calm a stimulated mind seldom works before the next crisis materializes.
In both cases the modern world is left behind for a primal one. One ruled by meteorology, the other by biology. Neither of these cares for our comfort. This, I think, is why superstitions abound in boating and medicine: never leave the harbor for an extended cruise on Friday; never ask why the beds are empty in an emergency room. Either will bring the wrath of nature, or man, down upon the unlucky protagonist.
No matter the context, eventually we have to leave our comfort zone. We can do it with style or be dragged kicking and screaming. In quiet times I think back to the individuals I have known. Many whom I thought were the least encumbered, turned out to be quite the opposite.
As an example, 1980 found me in a small Iowa town. My classmate Louie (from New Jersey) asked me to help him tend bar. We were Italian-American males separated from our mothers with no reliable source of Parmesan cheese. It was disheartening and because of it we bonded. It was agreed that he would work M-W-F and I, T-TH-S. The tavern was filled with local art and imported beer. It was an oasis of sorts, popular with college kids on the weekends, and thirty-year-old professionals and their staff during the week. Slowly, I noticed the same faces staring back at me on my regular tour of duty.
On occasion Louie and I would trade nights. This distressed the patrons. Unbeknownst to us, our ministrations were unique enough to develop a following. It was then that I realized they were never going to leave, no matter how unpleasant they perceived their circumstances. Leaving was not a choice for them.
Sobered by this, I determined to live a life unafraid of leaving. Leaving the comfort of harbor, home, religion, diet, and profession. Of course, on occasion I have ignored the impulse. But there it will be, hovering in the background of my ill-considered decision until made right.
A harbor mouth is a cliché unless you have left through one and broken your tie with the familiar. Once accomplished, you are forever armed with the knowledge that leaving accelerates time and makes the past irrevocable. Only then are you able to comfortably watch the red of the setting sun silhouetting the buildings to the west without longing to leave.
Volume 5860 (4), 4/3/2010
