Whenever anything would go wrong in our early days in the Foundation, Paula would say “Never mind! Worse things happen at sea.”
We were both neck-deep in the 20 volume Aubrey-Maturin series by Patrick O’Brian – magnificent historical novels based on the British Navy in the 18th century – and we were full of nautical references (things were always happening at “a rate of knots”), invectives (“Avast, ye swabs!”) and a heightened sense of just how difficult life was on the high seas in the 18th century.
Difficult times require clarity of thought, word and action. Decisiveness. And no waffling about with the language. When you are commanding a ship of the line and you need to communicate with other ships passing by you, it is essential that your signals be crystal clear and unambiguous.
There is, in fact, an international code for such situations. You can’t leave it to whimsy and the innovation of midshipmen. Everybody must understand everybody else.
My friend Rachel – another O’Brian Devotee – gave me this linen banner of International Sea Signs a few months ago. I found it again when cleaning cupboards this weekend and I’ve been having fun imagining how I might run some of these signals up the mast and wondering who would respond and how.
This one, for instance, means “Keep clear of me. I am maneuvering with difficulty.” Simple and straightforward. Now wouldn’t that be a useful signal to be able to send out to friends and colleagues on a particularly bad day? No need for long explanations or worrying that someone would get offended or have their feelings hurt.
No need to explain a thing. I’ve got PMS or a migraine or I had a fight with my husband or I’ve just received an unexpected bit of upsetting news and as a result I am now maneuvering with difficulty. Nothing personal. But please. Keep clear of me.
Or this one, which means “Stop carrying out your intentions and watch for my signals.”
At a party or in a bar or on the street, how many women would love to hoist this flag for all those men out there to decipher and act upon.
Watch for my signals. If I’m interested, I will find a way to let you know. Until then: Stop carrying out your intentions.
This one means: “I have a diver down; keep well clear at slow speed.” and it reminds me of those “Baby on Board” signs that new parents hang in the rear windows of their cars. We older parents – or childless by choicers – tend to scoff at those signs, implying by our derision that new parents are overwrought and misguided: What do they think about themselves? Why should anyone care that they have a baby “on board”?
And yet, those new parents have it exactly right.
The hyper concern they have for their new little visitor is the same concern any passing ship should have for any baby on board or in the water. Every diver (and every passenger) is precious. Keep well clear at slow speed.
“You should stop your vessel instantly.”
How many times have I wished I could say that? The power, the authority! Not tomorrow, not later, not next week. INSTANTLY. You are driving down the wrong side of the road. You are ogling at a woman who has zero interest in you. You are being a jerk, you are getting in my way, you have reached the limits of my tolerance.
“You should stop your vessel instantly.” Just stop it. Just stop. You are going nowhere. That vessel you are in has no future. Stop it.
Just stop.
And finally, the reason Rachel gave me the banner in the first place: “I am disabled; communicate with me.”
No moralizing. No pathos. No nonsense about pity or noble-ness or a people set apart.
Faced with a ship of the line which states – clearly and unambiguously – that it is disabled, the natural response would be to do exactly what the signal suggests: Communicate. Find out what the problem is. Deal with it.
We can learn so much from the clarity and the immediacy of the sea. On the water, we can’t afford to mince words or to worry about political correctness.
That ship is coming towards me. I need to understand its situation. “I am disabled. Communicate with me.” That’s all we need to do.
Communicate.
