Anchored in the Ocean

Mist sprays my face then quickly dries in the sun and ocean breeze. Normally I’d feel seasick, but today I’m okay as the fast moving catamaran skims the waves. 

A couple sits near my husband and me. I smile at them and we start a conversation. Xavier and his wife both grew up in Jamaica and came to the Caymans to work. Today they celebrate 6 years of marriage.

When Xavier asks how long we’ve been married, I answer: 32 years. He looks at me more closely and says, I’m 32. He doesn’t expect the 5 kids answer either. They didn’t bring a camera, so we take pictures to commemorate their day.

I’m happy to know the boat doesn’t carry tourists only. It reminds me of a conversation right after we’d moved to St. Louis. My 13 year-old son was riding the bus to his basketball game across the city. A teammate asked if he’d ever been in the arch. He said he had on a previous vacation. Although the teammate had always lived in St. Louis, he hadn’t been to the top. Unlike tourists in the city a few days, his family figured they could do it anytime. So they never did.

I lean into my husband and turn my head toward the boat’s hull, not sure where we’re headed. Nothing but the ocean and distant shoreline and the feel of his chest going up and down. 

The boat slows then stops, still rocking, in the middle of the ocean. The captain kills the motor. I look over the edge to see black coral below the water’s surface. It’s supposed to be great for snorkelling and viewing sea life. 

A crew member walks from the back of the boat. I watch him unroll the anchor and mooring until it disappears from sight. He says the anchor will go deep into the sand. We’re secure and stable in the boating world. 

My husband and I grab snorkels, masks and fins before we slip into the warm water. We float easily. (The crew member who talked us into light life jackets is a genius. It’s nearly effortless.) I have a clear view of coral, seaweed and rainbow-colored fish. Water muffles sound. 

I look at my husband. We swim alone together from the boat. We don’t need words or touch to feel connected. More than 3 decades of calm waters and monster waves, gentle breezes and gale-force winds have done that. Tears and laughter, disappointment and happiness. Things we didn’t know if we’d survive.

Who can predict all of the things when their love is new? When smooth sailing is the only expectation? 

We (mostly my husband) learned to sail a 14’ Hobie. A Jamaican sailor made it look easy with a 10 minute lesson. We dropped him off near the shore where he sent us off alone together in the open water.

Sitting on a canvas with no sides, looking into the ocean spray, always aware of the movement of the sail, it was at times exhilarating, slow, incredibly freeing and a bit scary. Slow when we didn’t adjust the sail correctly to catch the wind and we sat there. Scary when our skills seemed inadequate. Freeing when it was the two of us alone together. Exhilarating when we moved effortlessly across the ocean.

Kind of like marriage. No one trains you for it, at least not much. It’s the two of you facing the world. Although if you’re smart, you keep God in the mix. It’s real life, the stakes are high. But if you hang on and stay in the boat, it can be an exhilarating ride with the most beautiful views. 

Later in an email to Xavier, I send the pictures along with unsolicited advice. Hold onto each other through the ups and downs. You’ll never regret it. I click the send button and remember the ocean. 

Floating, I am anchored. Alone, I am centered. Present with my husband, our rhythm matches the ocean. I connect to myself, to my husband and to God who created it all.