September 21, 1998

Will you walk with me?

Please forgive my unsteady gait. My land-legs are still shaky. On the
ocean, I lived without keys, without a wallet and without crossing a
street. In this world of locks, dollars and smog, I have some adjusting to
do. After so many days alone, without communication, I find human
interaction requires concentration.

As I return stumbling from the morass of my own making, I see I am not
alone. I was never alone. I hoped to row beyond the reach. I longed to
stare into the abyss to learn the lessons it might teach. In this
classroom, there would be no honor roll, no records, no "world firsts" to
decorate a resume. The course was charted; the path well traveled.
Philosophers, poets, priests, dreamers, and at least one other rower all
gazed into the abyss before me. Thankfully, a few even left bread crumbs
to help me find my way home.

When I set off the American Pearl's distress beacon, I felt so ashamed.
Two days before I signaled for help, I tangled with the remnants of
hurricane "Danielle." I knew this storm was different from the wicked
stepsisters I'd met earlier in my 3,000 mile odyssey. With "Danielle" my
little boat became a bathtub toy in the hands of an angry two-year old.
The wind howled like a train whistle. My vessel vibrated with its power.
As much as that whistle terrified, the periodic silences were worse. Like
ghostly fingers, the quiet moments pointed to the walls of water that
marched between my boat and the wind. The lull never lasted long, only the
eternity of the few seconds it took for the wall of ocean to reach my boat.


I faced the waves, but my eyes could seldom take them in. My porthole was
too small. It showed me only segments: black bottom, turquoise middle,
white raging top. My ears recorded the approach of each monster. There
would be an avalanche of white foam, followed by the slam of the wrecking
ball. Griping the walls and ceiling, I held on for dear life. The only
things louder than the crashes of the collision were the yelps of my pain
and the growls of my protest.

Head over heals, heals over head: wood, fiberglass, flesh and bone, all
interacted in unnatural ways. As the violent motion slowed, the whistle of
the wind would tell me that I had a few seconds to sort things out before
the next onslaught. In the daytime, I looked for the light. At night, I
felt my way. "Am I on the ceiling or the floor?" "Ceiling." "Roll baby
roll." "Please roll." "Please, please, roll." Upside-down, looking
through the hatches, I was the fish in the tank. "Climb toward the light,
climb." Slowly, painfully the boat would groan its way upright. I checked
for leaks. "Are there any new ones?" The waves came in cycles: five to
seven regular ones followed by one or two giants. I counted: one, two,
three, four, five, six,...silence...brace...crash...pain.

Forty and fifty foot waves somersaulted the blue sea into a fury of
turquoise and foam. The foam looked like snow, but I did not dream of a
white Christmas. After the fifth capsize of the day, I began to expect the
next wave would be my last. I tied one of my two distress beacons to my
life vest, but I resolved not to set it off. I could not ask another human
being to venture into that storm to rescue me. I put myself out there. I
chose my course. I would accept the consequences. I went through six
capsizes holding the distress beacon in my right hand. Keeping my left
hand off the S.O.S. button took every shred of my resolve.

I waited for death. I wondered how the end might come? The sea might rush
into the boat with enough force to drown me. The next wave might crush the
boat into toothpicks and me along with it. What if my vessel was torn
apart, but I survived floating free in the water? It was highly unlikely
that I would find myself outside the boat, still conscious, still capable
of pressing a button, but the thought of it made me laugh. If this
happened, I would push the button. Death by drowning or crushing I could
accept, but I was afraid of being eaten. I laughed about this. I laughed
about many things. It was not hysteria, but honest good humor.

The next morning, as the sun rose, the winds fell. It was Sunday, glorious
Sunday. I bailed the water out of my cabin and celebrated being alive.
The celebration was short lived. In the wee hours of Monday morning, a
cold front swept through. The wind of this front combined with the still
high seas and rolled the boat. An hour passed, the boat rolled once again
and just as it came upright, a second wave rolled it for a third time. I
struck my head. Blood ran into my eye and trickled into my mouth. It
tasted like salt water. The wind was strong, but it no longer whistled.
The waves were big, but no larger than your average mansion. By this time,
"Danielle" was long gone.

"Was now the time?" "Was it safe enough to ask for help?" The ever
present Shakespeare rattled through my mind. "To be or not to be, that is
the question. Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and
arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of trouble."
Push the button and live, don't push the button and take my chances
wrestling with the dark. As I debated the question, the ocean picked up
the boat, twirled it stern-over-bow and slammed its roof deep into the
water. This was enough.

My resolve at its end, I depressed the button. This done, I turned my eyes
within and watched failure dance its tango across the stage of my brain.
Hours later, when the plane from the Royal Air Force flew over I asked the
pilot if I might be allowed to continue. He told me a Force 10 Gale was on
its way to my position.

I was tired, so tired. Could I survive another major storm? I was not
sure. My head pounded. The right side of my forehead was a mass of blood.
"Danielle" had given me a good beating. I did not know what happened to
my right shoulder (dislocated), but my right arm was numb. My left elbow
was swollen to twice its normal size. I wondered if that arm was broken.
My back was a battlefield of bruises and my legs were barely recognizable
as my own. These were my excuses; I simply did not have the strength to
weather that next gale.

I boarded the cargo vessel "Independent Spirit." When I heard the ship was
bound for the American side of the Atlantic, I was pleased. Seven days
cruised by. As land came into view for the first time in 91 days, I fought
back tears. I was standing on the wrong boat and looking at the wrong
shore. It was not the picture I had envisioned.

I hadn't read a newspaper or heard a news report in those 91 days. No
Monica, no bombs, no plane crashes: I just rowed a boat. As the ship drew
closer to land, I braced myself for a storm of criticism. I expected to be
called a "damn fool" for even making the attempt. I reproached myself. "I
quit." "I pushed the big red button." "I didn't make it." "I need help."
"I abandoned ship."

Soon after I stepped off the "Independent Spirit" in Philadelphia, I could
see children waiting at the gate. They were children I'd never met.
Seeing their faces, I stood a little straighter. They didn't care that I
did not make it. Children are forgiving that way. They peppered me with
questions. I spoke the truth. As I compared the awkward moments of my
journey with those of childhood, the gentle laughter of those children
salved my pain. They wanted to shake my hand. They asked me to write my
name on pieces of paper. I told myself, "They are young. Santa Claus and the
tooth fairy still fill their dreams."

I arrived in Louisville still fortified for faultfinding. Despite the
efforts of friends to warn me, the hero's welcome took me off guard. I met
strangers who remember more about what I've said and done than do I. Few
of these people were children. I could not dismiss their admiration as
easily as Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. Still, I found the esteem
infinitely more unsettling than the criticism. You see, there is no
challenge in living up to small.

Perhaps that is the lesson of the abyss. We all have oceans. We all face
waves. We all weather storms. No one escapes fear. Life leads to bruises
and sometimes scars. We take our lumps. All of us are capable of standing
a little straighter for the children who wait at our gates. Each of us
possesses the capacity to live up to large. We need only accept the
challenge. Together, we could build a world in which there are "No
Limits."

Will you walk with me?

Tori Murden