A lesson in resilience...

...from the captain of a whale-watching boat in the Gulf of Alaska

Long before I set foot in Alaska, I had been shaped by the sea.

I grew up in New England—not on the coast, but near enough to spend long days on the water. The northeast coastline holds some of my favorite memories.

York Beach, Maine: Every summer, we drove up to Maine to meet up with our family on my dad’s side. We stayed in a big gray house with white trim, right across the street from the beach, and it was a race each morning to see which of the cousins could jump into the ocean first. Eventually, my parents and my sister Amy and I—and later, our husbands—began staying in a smaller house a few minutes up the coast. I remember sleeping with the windows open each night so we could hear the waves crashing against the rock wall in front of the house, the sound of bell buoys ringing in the background.

Rehoboth Beach, Delaware: When Jerry and I met, his grandfather lived in the house at the beach in Delaware where his father lives now. Jerry and I still travel back there for a few days every September—we love being there as the seasons shift from summer to fall. Early each morning, we watch the sun rise over the water from the boardwalk; when we finish our walk, we stop for iced coffees and stroll the Avenue before heading back to the house to change into swimsuits. I’m the first one in the water, always, and often the last one out.

I love the ocean—I love being in it, on it, or near it. And now that we live in Illinois, time on the water is even more dear to me.

On our first full day in Alaska, we drove from our rental house in Soldotna southeast to Seward Harbor to go whale-watching. Once aboard, I tossed my backpack onto a cabin chair and made my way up the narrow staircase to the front of the boat. As we made our way out of the harbor into Resurrection Bay (isn’t that a beautiful name?!) I stood on the bow and listened to Captain Marcelle and her team as they pointed out sea otters and eagles.

But honestly, I was waiting for the waves.

After a few hours, we were getting ready to leave the bay and enter the Gulf of Alaska. Captain Marcelle came on the speaker again, this time to give us a heads up that the water would be rougher as we made our way farther into the Gulf. If we were up and about, she told us—whether we were downstairs in the cabin or outside along the rail—we had to follow one rule:

“Three points of contact, always. Two feet on the floor, and one hand on the boat, at all times.”

I’m a rule-follower, and I definitely did not want to get kicked off the bow and sent back inside, so I planted my feet and grabbed the rail with one hand. The boat picked up speed as we moved into the Gulf, and I grinned at my friend beside me. This was going to be fun.¹

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Jerry’s brother still likes to tell the story of when I got tumbled by a rogue wave at the beach in Delaware—even though it happened when I was in my 20’s. The surf wasn’t particularly rough that day, but when I dove into a wave, it crashed over me before I expected it to and the resulting undertow caught my feet. I went head over heels…over head…over heels. When I finally stood up, my head was spinning, my ears were full of water, and I was covered in sand.

It’s always the rogue waves that catch us off-guard and throws us for a loop, isn’t it?

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Captain Marcelle’s rule kept us safe on the rough water that day in Alaska. But even now, three weeks later, her words remain with me. There’s a life application in those words that extends beyond that boat ride.

We’re going to get tossed and tumbled from time to time—by a text, a phone call, even a conversation—so it’s important to remain tethered to something sturdy and stable, something that will hold us steady.

For me, I feel safest when my feet are planted in prayer and my hand is holding God’s word. Not literally, of course—I usually don’t stand to pray, and I don’t carry a Bible everywhere. But my default posture is one of being grounded in the practices of my faith. I realize this might sound constraining, but I promise you: it isn’t. It’s actually freeing. Anchored in God, especially in prayer and scripture, I’m free to explore and take risks. I’m free to ride the waves.

When the waves come—because they will—what will you stand on? And what will you hold?

Have a good rest of the week, friends, and a beautiful weekend. Thanks for being here.

Warmly,

Deb

1. The rest of this story is super fun—I’ll share it with you in next week’s letter!