The iceberg breaking hull was a master chef’s knife, wasted and gliding deftly through calm, buttery arctic waters. Clouds were pulling themselves apart and winter’s night sky constellations shone torchlights across scattered icebergs safely in the shadowy distance. This polar expedition passed quietly as the crew laid slumber and the captain handed over the night’s watch to his first mate.
The young lad stood stewing at the bow, blood hot from an earlier disagreement at the evening’s charter briefing. And as young lads do, he took it as personal assault that the old weathered captain overruled his course. Undermining him in front of the other officers, asking him to reserve his aggressively chartered course, given the icebergs. This spat had devolved into fiery tempers and defiance. Then it ended with the young man’s dramatic denouncement of the captain’s orders and his condescending advice disguised as restraint. He buttoned up his winter coat and stormed off to begin his nightwatch command.
The old captain bided his time to let the young lad cool his blood, before following him outside for a private conversation. And as old wise men tend to do, it was the captain that took the initiative, approaching his first mate at the ship’s bow and making the first gesture of peace. They both leaned silent, elbow to elbow on the rail, as the captain pulled his ornate golden compass from a wool coat pocket and checked their bearings. The young lad folded his arms tight for warmth, closing himself off from the night. But he could not help to sneak a peek, seeking reassurance for his course. And then, with a gentle calloused hand on this young man’s shoulder, the raspy old captain broke the silence.
“I’m not going to make you change your course. Bold as usual, but I trust we’ll be safe. And it’s not your brashness that I aim to tame, I hope you know. Only your stubborn insistence on being the smartest person in the room, no matter the advice. You say you prize free will and independence above all else. All the while, you deny the opportunity for guidance, help, or any surrender to providence. While you might be right most of the time, for you are after all a very capable sea skipper, you will never command the respect of your officers by going at everything alone. So I plead one last time for your attention.
“Look at this pretty old thing, this golden compass I’ve had since I was a cadet. There’s a lot to be learned here about old school navigation, you know. Even more, there’s wisdom here about fate. Consider for a moment, that this is you. That your whole body is an instrument, a compass. And what you call free will is the needle. You find comfort in, knowing your needle points in the right direction. You feel fulfilled knowing your vessel serves a purpose.
“Steadfast and reliable, always right, always there to serve you. Your purpose is self-contained, every answer you’ll ever need, boxed inside you. And you feel in charge of the direction ahead. Confident in your ability to navigate your direction and your future, closed off from outside interference. A perfect, self-governing, self-calibrating golden compass.
“Now consider, what truly runs the compass. Is it you? Do you wind it, do you power it, do you maintain it? Does it not work on its own? But by what force of nature? Your will or something grander? I can see you know what I’m hinting at.
“We’re chartered here on this bleak winter night, at our mighty ship’s bow, deftly making our own way through the threatening icebergs. We’re on our own in these harsh waters, are we not? Independently on the course, you’ve decided upon. And yet, looming overhead, regard the majesty of a clear open Arctic night sky. High above, watching over us. Ancient stars and glimmering planets clustering into patterns, secret maps of truth and whispers from our forefathers who deciphered them.
“And up in this dark blustery corner on Atlas’ shoulders, now regard the northern lights, shimmering with electric greens and pinks. A sight of pure miracle and rare revelation? Or just a reminder of the magnetic field protecting us. And without that field, that golden compass of yours would point nowhere. Without the poles of the earth, there would be no purpose for your compass. It would be an empty vessel. There would be no draw, no pull, no meaning in the direction which that needle points.
“Can you see now, my son? Your own compass, this determination you so covet, it’s an instrument of attraction towards something larger than yourself. It is the force outside the vessel that imbues us all with purpose and direction. It is the tent poles of the world that orient us. Guiding us, protecting us, reminding us of a higher force beyond our own egos.
“I can see you staring now at the lights, even if you will not look me in the eye. And I hope my words do not cause despair. This lesson should not cancel your free will or opportunity to seek a special and unique destiny. Especially for a capable man like you. He heard me correctly. Man, not boy, not any longer and I regret ever calling you otherwise. If you heed my advice, you’ll find only a relief in not working to be so self-contained. So alone in your journey. Your mind, your intuition, your reason – they are all charged by something larger than us. Accepting that allows us to be more than a body. More than a vessel. More than the sum of our instruments.
“You are a good first mate, one of the finest. And someday you will be a better captain than me. But take heed not to allow self-reliance to corrupt itself into obstinance. Do not close out the underlying connection to the invisible whispers of the world. That would be like breaking the glass of this compass, and pushing the needle any which way you desire, then calling that north. This is not the point of free will.
“Understand this one truth, from a barnacled old man: free-will does not exist inside your small head, but is contained in the universal. When you accept that, you will learn to follow these intuitive nudges. These are the nudges entangled both in your will AND fate. And only when your mind is still and surrendered can you accept them. Put your faith neither in your determination nor in the stars, but rather, understand that they are wrapped up in each other.
“This is the wisdom of the sea and the heavens, my lad. Putting your faith here is not an abandonment of your ability. It is an acceptance that you are not just living in the world, but you are the world. Accept this, and you will have peace. And the way north will be clear and full of grace.”
***
The captain took his leave but not before turning to place his own antique golden compass on the palm of the young man’s hand. The young skipper could not deny that he had often coveted his mentor’s prize compass, and would often wonder if it would be given someday as a present to his promotion to captain. His longing and eagerness faded quickly as he looked down at his palm and felt its heaviness. Heavier now than the sum of its parts. Heavy with the pull of the earth. He felt the pull of those invisible forces from the north, and for the first time felt connected to them, drawing him forward.
Pulling his wool peacoat a bit tiger against the westerly winds, this young night-watch commander felt the fear of icebergs and loss melt away, seeing a new illuminated channel opening before him. Clouds were waning to the prominence of Orion, Taurus and Gemini. The aurora borealis roared a burning beacon ahead. And an impossible gravity folded into this new captain’s hand, pulling his anchored feet and the full ship with him north.
Was he doing the pulling, hand over hand like on a rope lassoed to the north pole? Was his anchored feet pulling the ship? Was the ship being pushed by the collective wills of the crew onboard? Was their destination a gravity well, locking the ship into an inevitable descent?
In this moment, the man did not measure the greater power, whether from the poles, from the tides, from the ship, from the crew, or from his outreached hand. It mattered not who was pulling whom, for it was all connected. The parting clouds now revealed a full snow moon, bathing him in white light. And the man never felt alone again.
Paul Carreo 