by

Leo Crocker Rogers

Outside my Arizona window, the wind is hustling at bursts of some 25 knots (my back yard windmill is a blur), but the temperature is fine and there are no 30 foot waves pounding my house. Today, Abby Sunderland is on her way home on a fishing vessel after having the mast of her Wild Eyes 40-foot sailboat snap, as you guessed, by a 30-foot wave in 69 mph winds. She caught a good one and Wild Eyes was no more. All her life, Abbigail was readying for her around-the-world sailing venture. She had waves and waves of emotional and technical support as well as hundreds of hours of experience. Yes, her voyage was solo. But that is life, solo.

Until the mast snapped, she had logged her craft half-way around the world on Wild Eyes. They were there for each other on the sea, the open sea, the alone sea, the windy sea, the wave-pummeling ocean of rain and cold – and some sunshine. When she spoke to her mother after being shipwrecked for three days, dead in the water, her mother said that Abbigail had a "small voice" as compared to her normal large voice of confidence.

Today, I speak with a small voice.

All voyages are solo.

There are soldiers who have had a buddy at their side – a buddy with whom they went through boot camp, trained together, endured long uncomfortable transport together, and got to know each other better in six months than anyone else they knew – and had their buddy killed when they were shoulder to shoulder in combat. The void is traumatic. I spoke with one such soldier.

There are those who have been teammates in sport or intellectual pursuits who have worked together for many years and had their teammate depart. Life was never the same. I know such a person.

There are those who have had a mate of trust, of fidelity, of enduring care, of faithfulness and mercy who departed. Solo now. I know such a person.

Separations come in all forms, moving away, getting married, finding alternate interests, death. Regardless of the form, there are cases that drill to the core of the heart the separation – divorce can be worse than separation by death. I know.

Following the separation, the passing of a pet, a friend, spouse, or child there is a life that is thin for a while and can get even thinner if one so allows.

I had a pre-teen friend, Darlene Lewis, die in an airplane accident. After her death, her dad laid on the couch and drank beer until he died, and he did not care. Tough.

I know a mother whose son had three heart operations until the last one killed him. She is now in the spiritual healing business.

I have a cat, Sophia, that spent six months with my beloved Schipperke dog, Skipper, learning everything he could teach her. He passed on. She cries for him every day and sometimes inconsolably.

Life is like that – full of separations.

Without doubt, the only reason separations hurt so is that they times before the separation were so good. Well now, there is a turn-around if there ever were one.

If we are the one left behind, our sorrow is directly proportional to our previous blessing. The question is, "Are we going to allow our selfish sorrow, self-pity, our broken mast, swamp all the good that we have experienced?" That would be stupid, wouldn’t it? Will Abigail sail again? Is water wet?

We can ask, "What brought all that good into our life before the separation?" "Did we deserve it?" "Were we giving back?’ Are those conditions now gone forever? Darlene’s dad was an active radio amateur. He could have easily returned to his hobby. He had a wife who needed some support too. He was a friend to many. He succumbed to separation.

When we are sailing along at 41,000 feet, comfortable in our Boeing 747 first class seat (I wouldn’t know.) and we have to jump because of a problem, ours, theirs, the equipment’s, the weather, whatever, we can jump and say the Lord’s prayer before we splat, or we can say the Lord’s prayer and pull the "D" ring on the chute.

There is life on the ground after the plane leaves us, and we have floated to the earth. If the plane was ours, if the trip was our entire life’s goal, if we never see the plane again, we have our feet on the ground.

What has to happen is that life has to be new. It cannot be the previous good patched back together.

I have been blessed to the core by some friends. They can never know the blessings they have bestowed upon me, never. Now they are parting. It is as abrupt as my leaving a 747 at 41,000 feet. Action is now. Splat or chute?

The wind has died down and my windmill is turning with ease and grace. Abbigail is on her way home, leaving Wild Eyes on the open sea. And who knows, someone may come upon Wild Eyes, put a new mast on her and have the sail of his/her life.

As for Abbigail and me, we will take time to know who is in control of our lives. One thing for sure, we know it is not we.