INSTRUCTIONS FOR LIVING: Lessons & Letters is a memoir told in life experiences. Each personal story is followed by a letter to Kalvin and Grace reflecting upon a life lesson.essons.
I am twelve years old, lean and sinewy, and nowhere near a match for the seven-foot waves and twenty-five knot winds of Lake Michigan.
She is angry today.
Her broiled waters, dark and frothy, warn she’s in no mood to support the scheduled youth regatta. Most of the teams don’t show up. I am bundled in sweatpants and a jacket against the cold and my own anxiety as I rig my thirteen-foot laser and vaguely hope the race committee will cancel. I am scared. In order to launch from the beach, I have to build enough speed to punch through the breaking waves, without allowing them to turn my boat and me sideways, bashing us back on the beach. The wind is on-shore, it will work with the waves to push me back and sideways until I can put my centerboard down. I’ve learned the hard way with centerboards, put them down to early and the sandbars will punish me severely, the board catches and stops the boat becomes a sitting duck for the next wall of water. Like Tom Hanks trapped on the island by the pounding surf. Except I have a boat, and a working sail, not a porta-potty. Oh, and I could just go home, if I didn’t think it was a referendum on my character and integrity, if I didn’t have something to prove to myself.
When the go-ahead is announced, I talk nervously with the other seven sailors who look equally distressed. “YOU definitely shouldn’t go, you don’t have a chance,” one says, doing a not-so-subtle-up-and-down evaluation. I’m not sure if he means I don’t have a chance of winning the regatta or of surviving the lunch. I ignore him.
After ten minutes, he decides to de-rig and go home, along with three others, including my lone girl compatriot. Her Mom begs me not to go, “There’s no point, its not worth it honey,” she pleads. She’s probably right, but I can’t leave.
The remaining three sailors have clearly hit puberty, while I have not. They have anywhere from forty to seventy pounds on me. The four of us leave our rigged boats with halyards angrily snapping in the wind, to done wetsuits, dry suits, and life jackets. When we return to our boats and raise our sails, the whistling wind is joined by a cacophony of cracking canvas. I watch the other three launch first, they are pummeled and beaten by the white frothy waves. Their boats slap violently into the troughs as fresh white water breaks into their cockpits. The third guy to launch gets sideways, parallel to the beach and the waves. I’m certain the angry water will capsize his boat. I have a brief flashback to last summer when a similar wave picked up a boat, flipped it over and with some violence, tossed its sailor five feet into the water and broke the mast of the boat against the shallow lake bottom. But this time, by brute force, the sailor is able to keep his boat upright, turn into the waves, and recover. Now the three small triangles are barely visible, bobbing in and out of sight as they head out to the racecourse.
I stand on the beach, alone. My thoughts narrow and focus which quiets the fear for the moment. Speed is everything. Speed will keep me from being at the mercy of the waves. In order to have speed, I must have power from the sail. And a centerboard to drive that power forward. And the weight and strength to keep the boat upright. I will slide until I get the centerboard down. Then as the centerboard catches, I’ll have to fight to keep the boat with the power of the sail moving us forward instead of sideways. There is no middle ground. Either I go for it, or I end up breaking my boat on the bottom of the lake, or worse, I end up breaking myself against my boat. Get away from the boat if it tips. Get away. I am scared of a confrontation with my boat, but more scared of walking away without trying. I firm resolve takes over, a familiar muscle in times of fear and adversity.
I drag my boat into the water. Immediately the cold water pulls at my legs, tugging my boat away from me. I push the rudder down and trim the mainsail. The boat moves forward and I let it drag me a few feet through the shallow water before pulling myself onboard. I am committed. The first frothy wave picks up the bow, and the laser rears up, like a spooked horse trying to throw me, then slams down, losing all speed. Not good. I yank hard on the mainsail, then pump it repeatedly. It’s too early to push the centerboard down. I try to keep the boat perpendicular as the next wave hits, lifts me up, and slams me down again. All I feel is adrenaline. I need to get the boat moving. I push the centerboard down a little, let out the main a few inches, and pull it back hard. I feel a welcome tug on my tiller letting me know I have power. The third wave steels some of that power as it picks me up and slams me down a third time. The entire fiberglass boat shutters. The next wave picks up the bow once again, but this time, we punch through the lip a foot below the wave’s crest. A wall of cold dark water smacks against me, threatening to tear me from my boat. I grip the tiller and brace my legs against the weight of the water, then bear off to lessen the slam in the trough. The boat skids down the backside of the wave. I’m elated, we’re moving. I head up into the next few waves, and as I reach the crest, I bear off, sliding down the back to lessen the slam. One more wave and I’m through the white water break. I fight hard to keep the boat upright through the chop and incessant wind, but we’re moving. Soon, the white capped waves become regular, I ease off the main and breathe for what feels like the first time in minutes.
I look back toward the abandoned beach. I don’t want to think about the return or how I’m going to get my boat and me back on the sand with giant fast waves pushing from behind, trying to pitch us end over end onto the beach. That’s for later. Instead, I smile and bask in self-pride as it starts to rain.
Of the four sailors that day, I come in third. The fourth sailor dropped out in the afternoon so my third place trophy also represents DFL, or dead fucking last in sailing parlance. And that’s okay. Because what I remember most is being alone on the huge course on Lake Michigan, the other boats far away in the distance, just howling wind and angry water and happy me. For years to come, when I have trouble sleeping, I re-imagine that day, I visualize the fight through the fear and the rough waters, and I feel the freedom of punching through the last breaking surf. Then the rhythmic up and down of the giant dark waves lulls me to sleep.
*
Hi beautiful babies,
Fear is a funny bugger, sometimes its real and sometimes it isn’t, and it takes a while to discern the difference. Real fear comes from the gut, from instinct and intuition. When the skin on the back of your neck unexpectedly says turn around and go back inside instead of crossing a dark and abandoned parking lot, listen. When you get a funny feeling about a friend getting behind the wheel after drinking too much, listen. When your body tenses and you stop breathing before some dangerous dare of a stunt, listen. Real, primal, instinctual, intuitive fear is a natural born gift existing to protect you from physical harm.
But most fear in the modern era doesn’t speak to survival and keeping yourself and loved ones safe from the saber toothed tiger. Most modern fear is a habit of the mind: fear of letting go, fear of being alone, fear of getting lost, fear of outgrowing friends, husbands, wives, parents, relationships, fear of being judged, fear of loneliness, fear of outshining others, fear of making others feel inadequate, fear of deserving, fear you won’t get what you want, fear you’ll lose what you have, fear of rejection, fear of change, fear of not changing, fear of failure, fear of getting hurt, fear you won’t survive another breakup, fear nobody will understand you, fear nobody will love you.
There are so many things, real and imagined, you could be afraid of in this life. If you allow fear to dictate your life, you’ll never gain the confidence that comes from triumphing over fears, confidence needed to break the vicious limiting cycle of fear. But here is the good news, there is very little in the world of which you really need to be afraid. Instead, be afraid of never really living. Be afraid of allowing fear to limit experiences in your one precious lifetime. Be afraid of falling asleep and missing your life. Be very afraid and guard against the habit of fear that limits potential, experience, growth, connection, learning, engagement and adventure.
Here’s the gift of fear: every time you face fear, you gain confidence and self-empowerment. Every time you put your trust and faith in yourself instead of allowing fear to limit your life, you gain freedom. Every time you triumph over fear, you gain courage.
My beautiful babies, I will try to keep you safe, but not so safe you don’t know your own courage. When you’re young, fear and obstacles may be more external. As you age, the really dangerous fears are internal. At whatever age, know its ok and natural to be afraid. Its human and sometimes its healthy. Try to use fear as a motivator, use it to ask the question, is it real? Try to remember to ask yourself if the fear exist to prepare you or prevent you from doing something? Then listen with your gut and listen with the knowledge that freedom lies not in the absence of fear, but in confronting and triumphing over fear.
I love you babies. I promise I’ll try to live with courage. I’m promise I’ll try not to let fears limit or paralyze, and I hope I can give you confidence to do the same. I love you both already, with all my heart, love, Your Momma (2011)