I stood on the hanger deck listening to wave after wave of the North Atlantic crashing against the side of the ship, a great bass drum boom, boom, booming a like an ancient god wielding a giant war hammer. I imagined each wave as a foreign soldier, splitting rank and throwing himself against our ramparts, the three story steel doors of the hangar bay. What manner of courage is this? What commander’s monologue could convince the sea to pound away eighty feet above the water line? What great poem would immortalize this struggle? I thought about stepping outside to see these great waves but decided to view the battle from a safer perch. Climbing to a level just below the flight deck, a hundred feet above water line, I emerged onto a catwalk just above the fray. I was exposed to the monster that was the North Atlantic. It was neither safe nor wise but, I had to see.

There was wind, of course. And, salt spray. There was no moon. Although we rode terrific swells up and down, there was no rain, nor a cloud in the starry night sky. We were riding the periphery of a distant storm, a flanking maneuver of some great battle being raged a thousand miles away. The stars were numerous and brilliant with no ambient light dimming their icy beauty.

As every sailor who ever looked up to the night sky knows, the stars do not return your gaze eye to eye. When the stars look back at you, they enter through your chest and stare into your heart. To contemplate the night sky is to drop down on one knee and swear fealty to thy king. It is in man’s deepest desire to be a part of their vast wonder. A man is willingly drafted into the glory that is the night sky at sea.

But this night there was more than one royal holding court. For the North Atlantic also sat on her throne. To stare into her black maw is to stare into the void. It is a glimpse of what the universe looked like before God said “let there be light”. No amount of courage is sufficient to quell the dread that arises up when gazing into her emptiness. She rolls up before you a hundred feet high and the stars disappear behind her. As you look up, the fear pours into you like the cold from an open icebox. She is true power, up close and humbling.

As with the stars, a man will feel the urge to drop to one knee, only this time in surrender. For unlike his oath to the stars, this debasement stems from a spirit broken. The heart of a man instantly recognizes that this Archean queen can take him at her whim, and he averts his gaze and begs to be spared, wishing with all of his being to step upon dry land once more. No one who has ever faced the North Atlantic heaving in displeasure is ever the same. He has been taught his place.