Not so long ago, I had a chance encounter with an old man of the sea. The reason we came together on that rickety boardwalk bench might well have been random, yet the older I become, the less I believe in coincidence. Regardless, our initial pleasantries that cold, fall morning turned to talk of a building storm in the local forecast, already evidenced by the churning waves that crashed before us against the shoreline.

While mostly focusing his gaze across the water, my new acquaintance somewhat surprised me by insisting I tell him of my family. Actually, his request came across in such a commanding, yet compassionate way that I felt somewhat obliged to answer. And, for some unknown reason, the first thing I felt compelled to tell him about was the fairly recent death of my only child.

I could almost feel the old man take his eyes off the water for the first time in our brief chat, as he turned his face toward mine and bluntly asked, “Now, just how ya weatherin’ that storm, laddie?”

I explained to him, or perhaps confessed, that I was doing well, all things considered. It had been a little over a year and I was functioning. I was doing the best I could, anyway. Feeling a strange urge to tell him more, I admitted to actually attending a local support group in hopes of getting a better handle on the nasty waves of grief that still hit me pretty hard.

“Waves, huh? I know somethin’ about ‘em, I suppose. Tell me about yours,” he asked.

It certainly wasn’t hard to explain how I might be at work, driving my car, or even out at a ball game when I’m suddenly overwhelmed with deep longings for my late son. I told him that sometimes the feelings that hit me are ones of anger. Other times it might be guilt, regret, confusion, or something just as painful. And sometimes, far too often, it’s all of them hitting at once…and I’m done. The waves of grief simply push me under, and I just shut down.

Leaning forward, the old man raised his finger and pointed it toward the choppy waters as he responded, “Yeah, son, I know about waves too. They can certainly try to take ya under, can’t they? For me, well, I guess the big ones hit me back in 1974, starting right out there when I was a young Merchant Marine.”

I laughed a little, politely of course, and replied, “Yeah. I’ll bet you saw some rough times out there, mister. But I’m not really sure you get my waves.”

“Well, maybe, laddie. Maybe,” he came back. “But ya might be interested in hearin’ about mine all the same.”

Not wanting to seem rude, and not really in a big hurry, I simply answered, “Absolutely. Tell me about them. I’d love to hear.”

“Good,” he answered, paused for a moment, and went on, “See, I was a young skipper back then…and got an offer for some extra pay if I’d sail a small cargo hauler out solo into the gulf. There was a big squall blowin’ into port, you know. A hurricane them weather folks named Edna. And I was to skirt around her and keep the hauler on the backside until safe to come home.”

Okay, I was hooked. Maybe it was the romance of the sea, but when the old guy briefly paused for another breath, I found myself asking, “So what happened? Did you go off course and wind up in the hurricane?’

“Belay that thought right there, boy,” he snapped back. “I’m never off course. But just as I got around the backside of that Edna, though, a distress call comes blarin’ across my radio. Now, no skipper can ignore a distress call, laddie. And unfortunately, the trouble was right back here in the harbor.”

“Back in the harbor?” I asked, and went on with more, “Where the hurricane was hitting? Was the Coast Guard not around back then or something?”

After a throat-clearing grunt, the old fellow answered, “Well, let’s just say there was no one other than me for this one, kid. So, I had to get back here as quick as I could.”

I already knew the answer, but asked anyway, “And you decided to come back straight through the storm, didn’t you?”

“Decide, son?” he responded. “No, sir. I had no choice…no choice but to sail myself right into the heart of a storm, see. And yeah, them monster waves came, they did. Big, life swallowing waves that could take a lessor captain right down to the bottom.”

With the awe of a child held fast to a bedtime story, I stammered out, “What happened? How…how’d you make it through the storm? I mean, you’re here, right? You made it.”

“Aye,” he said as his gaze turned down to the ground. “I’m still here, alright. But it was bad at first, boy. Real bad. Like going right down into Purgatory.”

Still enwrapped in the story, I exclaimed, “I can’t imagine what it must’ve been like out there. Did you ever think you weren’t going to survive?”

“First time in my life, sonny, I was scared,” he admitted, and went on with a low, raspy, whispered tone, “Them waves…they were pure evil, see? They kept comin’, they did. One right after another. Sometimes they’d come from every side all at once, too. And the big ones? See, when the big ones crashed down on me, I’d go right under.”

“Right under?” I asked. “Underwater?”

With the grimace deepening on his face, he answered, “Too much at one time, kid. Them blasted waves would push my ship under for a bit. And I would panic, alright…grab on to anything I could just to keep from givin’ into it all. They kept comin’, I tell ya. Big ones…little ones…from all sides. I thought I’d never catch my breath, ya see. And every time my ship would rise back up under my feet, another of them damned waves would take me right under again.

“Geez,” I said with true sincerity. “No wonder you were scared.”

“Yeah, I was shook-up, alright,” he came back. “For a while there, I wasn’t certain I was gonna make it…sure the storm was gonna take me.”

The old man paused, took his hands out of his pockets to lay them across the boardwalk rails, and peered out across the shore.

“You’ve gotta tell me,” I said as I broke the silence again, “How the hell did you get out of the storm?”

Still looking over the water, the old man responded, “Well, seemed like I fought the early parts of my storm forever, son. But eventually, see, the waves grow a little smaller, and they come a little farther apart, you see. And before too long, I was actually able to catch a breath…for a while, anyway. And my ship no longer took on so much that we weren’t below the waterline anymore. Now, there was still a lot of chaos goin’ on, you see, but at that point, I knew it was time.”

The old man stopped and went quiet again. I couldn’t. “Time?” I blurted out, “Whaddya mean, it was time?”

With a slight grin growing now, the old fellow oddly looked up into the dark clouds above and replied, “Aye. It was time, son. Time for me to move forward again. Time to reset my course knowing I could handle anything else that damned storm throws at me. Sometimes the big waves still come, ya know? But I learned to watch for ‘em…anticipate ‘em too. Either way, each time they come, I take a deep breath, grab onto something solid, and just let ‘em hit and wash over me.

Then there was another long moment of silence between us. Of course, I was busy imagining what he’d gone through during that storm. The fear, the torment, the uncertainty of not knowing if he would even survive the hellish trauma. How amazing he even had the strength to move forward at all.

This silence ended when I couldn’t stand it any longer and asked, “That hurricane must’ve left you pretty beat up, right? With all the hell you went through, mister, there’s no way you made it to that ship out there in distress, is there?”

“Son,” he started, laying his hand lightly on my shoulder, “I never said there was another ship in trouble out there.”

Confused, I was almost gasping as I ran off my next series of questions, “The distress call? The monster waves? Going under? Afraid you’d never make it through the hurricane?”

The old man softly chuckled and shook his head. Then, surprisingly, he turned and started to walk away, as if dismissing my need for answers. He stopped though, thankfully, and turned back.

“Edna was a hurricane….not the storm,” he said, and then suddenly asked me, “That distress call I told you about, laddie?”

“Yeah?” I came right back, begging for an answer.

“It was the Port Master’s office relaying a message. A message for me…from the doctors down at the harbor hospital.”

“Oh my gosh. What was it??

“Seems that while I out was out tryin’ to pocket an extra dollar, my precious bride had to bring herself in for help. She was still three weeks due with our first child, see, and I was told she was in trouble. They both were. Big trouble. And I had to get there, ya know. Why, I should’ve been there all along.”

“And….?”

“Well, I blasted through ole Hurricane Edna like she was a spring shower, son, and ran that cargo hauler aground right there in front of the hospital…just when another radio call came from the Port Master.”

Knowing, and yet afraid of the answer, I still had to ask, “What was it?”

“That I had just entered the eye of the storm, son…I had just entered the eye of…my storm. So yeah, my fellow skipper, I think I get your waves, alright. Mine still come, by the way. They just no longer stop me from moving forward…sailing on to my final port someday.”

The old man then turned and walked away. This time he didn’t turn back. I really didn’t expect him to, either. And I never saw him again. I figure I’m not supposed to. After all, I’m meant to weather my own storm, right? I’m learning to let the waves hit, wash right over me, and keep moving forward as I navigate through life with peace and purpose.

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