There was no refusing my friend’s invitation.
He and his wife were about to take their brand new to them 38-foot motor yacht from their home on the Tennessee River in northwest Alabama to a boat repair facility in St. Petersburg, Florida, a run of about seven hundred miles.
The boat was in excellent condition, but because it had logged only a few miles during the previous two years, it would also be a shakedown cruise. That was part of the main reason he wanted me, an experienced boater, to come along as an extra hand. I had cruised that route in my own boat, so I knew the water.
The only concern was that because of the repair yard’s schedule, we had to leave on January 30. Although I had done no winter cruising, I knew that at that time of year, even there in the Mid-South, it could be brutally cold out on the water.
That made me think of a fellow boater who while winter cruising for the first time, forgot that frost is invisible on white fiberglass. Stepping out on the deck early one morning, he slipped and did a mid-air somersault, only to be saved from going overboard by a quick grab of the rail.
The first four days were difficult due to sullen weather and unexpected mechanical problems. After those were fixed, however, we were able to settle in with the reassuring drone of the engines while watching the shoreline slowly move by and our wake flatten out behind us.
With the leaves gone, only the evergreens showed color. Bluffs and distant buildings normally hidden in summer by dense foliage, loomed upward to meet us, then settled back into the gray background as we passed.
Most striking of all, however, was the winter light — not only the quantity of it but also the kind and quality. Until then, I had only seen it in summer under a high and hot sun that made everything bright on land and dazzling on the water.
Now, however, and especially during the afternoons, the sun was riding lower in the sky and bathing everything it touched with a soft light tinted with touches of yellow and tan. Not all that noticeable on things closer, it richly rewarded anyone looking across more open expanses of water rimmed with trees and hills.
At times, it was easy to imagine all of it as being inside a huge cathedral with each compelling glance connecting the viewer to Mother Nature, maybe even to God. Never had I seen the hills and the water appear to be so warm and inviting.
The light had caused the earth to take on a timeless quality with everything tending to blend together rather than contrasting with one another — a panorama interrupted only by shadows of brown or black in the darkest recesses. It was enough to cause even the most hardened soul to imagine and dream.
It wasn’t that way all day. Nature pays no attention to anyone demanding such exclusiveness. Rather, that condition lasted only from early afternoon until the beginning of dusk. As the sun sank lower, the yellow tint dulled, became almost mysterious in its appearance as the earth entered a time of wintry suspense lasting until the next dawn.
For four days and more than 200 miles, we cycled through that sequence — winter light on display in a seemingly endless natural environment only occasionally interrupted by human works. Had you been there, you would have seen it too.
Being on a boat in the middle of both nowhere and winter is only an example. Find your own place, pick your own time, and allow your senses to engage what has always been there, just waiting for you to show up — even if it is only winter light.
Being alive is one thing. Having a life is quite another.
