Two Seconds Before The Wave Hits: Facing Our Own Mortality
Mortality and death should be spoken about more. The more we do not speak about them the more we give them power. It will happen to us all, some sooner and some later.
During the row, I did not experience a moment where I truly believed I was going to die. But there were certainly many times when I felt physically under threat, where I knew the possibility of death was very close.
The ocean is a beast. She has personality. Some days she was kind, some days she was not. We spoke to her as if she was the fourth member of our crew and we would wait to see what type of mood she was in, facing that moment of truth every time we emerged from the cabin.
Sometimes she was the brightest blue, glittering in the sunshine with small rolling waves. Other times, a deep, steely grey that would peak up and burst into foaming white, breaking the silence with her roar only to dissolve away again a few moments later. Some days she surrounded us like a city. There was hustle and bustle in every direction and she would tower over you again and again, relentless and threatening.
The nights were the worst. When it was pitch black and the sea was angry, you couldn’t see what was coming. There was the pitch black sky that met an even darker ocean at the line of the horizon, only marginally different in their shade. This line of the went up and down as the waves passed, but it was impossible to actually see the face of the wave. Some of them were rolling and gradual, some of them steeper. When it was quiet, you knew you were probably safe. Then other times you heard the harsh sound of breaking water, just a second or two before it hit and you would hold your breath involuntarily. Those seconds lasted an eternity while you waited to find out if it was the wave that would be your end.
We were always attached to the boat with safety lines. The boats themselves are designed to self right if capsize occurs. But being on deck with a giant weapon of wood in each hand and a line too short to let you find air if you ended up underwater didn’t make it any more reassuring. I would play out scenarios where you could cut the line with the knives mounted on deck, but if you are separated from the boat you are as good as dead anyway.
I would imagine being in the water. The boat initially nearby, but getting swept further away with its own weight on the waves. Then to just be in the water. Alone. Cold. Getting colder. Nothing but waves all around you. To initially be floating over the top of them, but slowly finding it more difficult to stay afloat as your arms and legs tire and more water soaking into your many layers of clothes.
I would wonder if I’d be calm in that moment? Or if the final moments would be panic filled? Would it be possible to just relax and slip away? Or would I fight even in a situation completely futile?
And then, it hits. The white water surrounds you and there’s nothing you can do about it. You stop thinking about the what ifs and are forced to be in the present moment.

Luckily, we never capsized. We never had someone overboard. None of the nightmare scenarios ever played out. But there is something about being regularly in a situation where you feel like your life is genuinely threatened that changes you. I’m not afraid to die. Note that I do not wish to die, but I am no longer afraid of it. I recognise how fragile we all are, and that it easily could come to an end at any point. There is no point dwelling on it, but rather to put it to use.
