Words by Adrianne Neff
“Ships are safe in harbor, but that ain’t what ships are for”
–from Harbor by Carsie Blanton
Emily asked me to write about an experience that I shared in services this past Friday. On July 13, I rowed in the Blackburn Challenge, a 20-mile race around Cape Ann, Massachusetts. I’ve been training for this event for almost 2 years, going from being barely able to get in my boat to doing long solo open-water crossings. Usually I relish being out on the water alone, and I have a wonderful time. But sometimes when I’m alone and far from land, I do get scared. At first I found this fear paralyzing, and in order to move through it, I developed a practice of singing out loud as I rowed. Anything rhythmic and simple will do: I sing sea shanties, bim bam melodies, Jewish folk songs, Hindu chants. I sing badly, but the seagulls never seem to mind.
I didn’t anticipate being alone or afraid during the race: there were 150 other boats participating, and I knew I’d always be in sight of land. The forecast was for rain showers, gusty winds, and patchy fog. The first part of the course was challenging, but I was making good progress and having fun. Midway through the race the weather shifted, and all of a sudden we were enveloped in thick fog. I couldn’t see the shore, the horizon, or a single other boat. The fog was completely disorienting, and the lack of stationary landmarks to focus on made me violently seasick. I lost all sense of direction, and I became convinced that my navigation tablet was malfunctioning. My subjective sense of direction was very strong but completely wrong; had I followed it, I might still be rowing across the Atlantic. I was as scared as I’ve ever been, panicking, flailing at the water with my oars. I was realistically afraid of being hit by a motorboat in the fog, but also filled with irrational fears such as capsizing and being attacked by sharks. (My boat is very stable and wouldn’t capsize even in much higher seas. And though there were probably a few sharks around, they certainly weren’t going to attack my boat.) As I tried to calm myself, I remembered how I’d learned to deal with unreasoning fear by vocalizing, so I cast around for something to sing. What came to mind was something I’d never sung before while rowing, but that has become much beloved to me from recent Fourth Friday services:
May I be safe
May I be strong
May I be courageous
May my life be at ease
May you be safe
May you be strong
May you be courageous
May your life be at ease
May we be safe
May we be strong
May we be courageous
May our lives be at ease*
At first haltingly, then strongly, I sang this to myself. I sang it again, this time “May we be safe,” and as I sang, I felt the support and power of our community with me out on the water. My heart stopped hammering, my panic eased, and my rowing steadied. I was still sick and scared, but I rowed on through the fog and the bobbing lobster buoys, no longer paralyzed. I finally reached the safety of Gloucester Harbor, finishing the race in 5 hours and 48 minutes, the longest and hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’m proud of myself for persevering, and so grateful to my congregation for being with me.
*This song is a version of a Loving Kindness meditation, also known as Metta meditation in Buddhist traditions. There are many variations, and I’m not sure if what I sang was exactly what we sing in services or just what I needed at the moment. I tried to learn more about this powerful practice, and I found many pieces written about it. Here’s one I liked by Jon Kabat-Zinn: https://www.mindful.org/this-loving-kindness-meditation-is-a-radical-act-of-love/, and another by Rabbi Jill Zimmerman that includes a video of a lovely version sung by Elana Arian: https://ravjill.com/lovingkindness-practice/.
Passing the finish line buoy in Gloucester Harbor, photo by Samuel Lurie
Rowing on another misty (but not scary) day on the Huron River, photo by Pam Shore
