I was with my dad on his boat, a 20-foot wooden-hull, single-mast sailboat named El Toro. He rarely took me sailing, preferring to be alone, or sometimes, with my brother.

Sailing with Dad was always an adventure, and not always a good one. We would run aground and spend the night on a small beach while a thunderstorm raged and lightning struck the only tree. We would try to go through a drawbridge against the tide and need to be rescued by the Coast Guard. (When the Coast Guard came to rescue us, Dad argued with them. They pulled our boat from beneath the bridge over his shouted objections.)

On this day the sky was a monotone gray, the water in the bay showed just a few whitecaps. It looked safe enough.

We launched the boat from a dock in Atlantic Highlands, not its home mooring in the Navesink River. Dad must have needed my help to get it away from the dock.

Instead of turning up river, Dad headed into the bay, past Sandy Hook, and out into the ocean. I watched the rise of land with the two lookout lights shrink behind us. The Twin Lights were no longer functioning, but I liked seeing them, liked the idea of sailors using them to keep themselves off the rocks.

I asked Dad where we were going. All he said was, “Out.”

I sat in the cockpit and handled my lines (the jib only, nothing else).

Dad checked the sails and then turned to me. “Have you ever been beyond where you can see land?”

I shook my head, then looked again at the raggedy sliver of land behind us. It was already so small.

After the sea swallowed that sliver, all that remained was the mid-gray dome above us, the dark gray circle around us, and our little boat. I felt sick.

What if we keep sailing and don’t turn back? What if we get lost? What if today is the last day I get to be alive?

Twice in my life I had left danger with a plan to walk 20 miles to get home. I couldn’t walk home from here.

Dad thrust the tiller toward me. “Take the helm, Jule.”

I wrapped both hands around the varnished wood, felt some comfort in the pull of the wind and waves.

He pointed to the front of the cockpit, to the compass. “Watch the needle.”

Dad pulled on the tiller, turned the boat, and reset the flapping sails as I watched the white markings slide beneath the red needle. Then he pushed back on the tiller, then held it steady.

“Our heading is 283. Keep it there.”

He took his hand from the tiller and I felt horribly responsible. This small, round, black, white-marked, floating ball was all we had to guide us home.

Sometimes there are no landmarks, no stars.

Sometimes all you have is your compass.

It’s enough.

Chewing the Cud of Good

Thankful for safe travels.