All the light we cannot see

Scientifically, watch keeping is magical in the way that everyone else on the boat trusts you to bring them safely to the next sunrise. The freedom of honing inexperience into passion. I have known these people for less than a week, but I sleep soundly at the hands of their helm. And I experience that same trust in return. A trust granted regardless of my unyielding clumsiness or the languages I speak or my constant battle with remembering which side is right and left, (I promise I’m working on that).

For those who have never had the joyous albeit mundane experience of being on watch, here’s the gist of it: As a group you are responsible for keeping the boat going where it should be going, by avoiding any dangers sought out in the dark, and all this is done under the sound supervision of your watch officer. It’s about sharing a brief time in space with people who have the same intention as you.
Scientifically, it’s a control measure. Consistency of time, job, motivation. A hypothesis can be drafted and a conclusion drawn. But that moment belongs to just the few of you. A bubble on the tide of empire. But, the inexplicable, pixie dust magic of night watch keeping is harder defined.

As your eyes adjust to the dark, instead of looking outside, you become a part of The Outside. You are susceptible to the same winds that create waves and fills sails. You feel the same rain that cleans the deck and rinses the windows.

You look out for some artificial light reminding you that there is more to the world than this dark and cold bubble you have created for yourselves – other boats, with other people, in their own bubble.  At first, these lights are hard to see; they blink in and out of sight – just as susceptible to the same winds and tides as you. It’s hard to determine what is fact and what is fiction. 

That light could also just be a star crawling out from beyond the horizon.

As I sat on deck last night, a thought occurred that made me feel shameful in a way: How insulting it must be that we sit beneath the blanket of this expanse of sky and stars, and still shift our attention to the artificial light of man. We ignore the stars, forget they are there, maybe even curse them for the confusion they cause our tired brains.

We have only had one night of clear skies all week. I wonder if the stars were insulted by our inattention on the first night and coerced the clouds to help them hide; it probably didn’t take much persuasion. Maybe we aren’t as deserving of nature as we often believe ourselves to be.

The stars are still shining, we just don’t see them – they aren’t performing for us, but rather despite of us – unabashed and uncaring. I would even say it might be naïve to think the stars are at all aware of us. With our small insignificant artificial lights, a mere imitation of starlight. Something about sincere forms of flattery, I suppose. Maybe their absence is making us more appreciative of their existence, and maybe that was their plan all along.

For a brief interim last night there was a break in the clouds, a by-product of winds and prayers, and the stars had the chance to shine a light on a dull watch keeping session. Suddenly, it was all we could talk about, winds and tides forgotten.  Even still mentioned at breakfast, with the sun long since up and about, the stars are being discussed with vigour: The scientific shapes and size and constellations, but also their magic.

Be it their intention or not, the absence of stars did in fact make our hearts and eyes grow fonder, but it is only human nature to repeat our shameful steps… In many languages we say we are ‘beneath the stars’. Scientifically there is no up or down, either way we are being surrounded. So often scientific expression glorifies the human experience. But even put into words, humans are still below the stars, at least. And that is its own kind of magic.