At sea, the shift from day into night is a time of caution. As the sun drops below the horizon in the tropics, darkness is almost immediate—different from the northern latitudes, where twilight allows the day to linger. For sailors far at sea, this is a crucial time.
The day is visual. The night is not.
For me, it’s often time to slip below to grab a jacket and turn on the navigation lights. The cabin is dark, quiet and warm. I’ll be back down soon to prepare dinner, but first, I have to prepare the boat for night.
Back on deck, I take a tour: tools put away, lines coiled, fish line retrieved. I look up at the main—shall I tuck in another reef? No, the forecast is for light winds, east northeast. The masthead light is aglow up there; red and green running lights reflect off the stainless-steel pulpit. All is secure. One more look around the horizon for shipping traffic, and then I retire to the cockpit to get ready for another night at sea, alone.
A night watch means we have to shift senses. Instead of our eyes, we now rely on hearing, smell and especially the physical sensations we feel as the boat moves and the wind swirls.
There is one more sense we use: our intuition. All day, the left side of our brain dominates our thought processes: analyzing, calculating, considering options, figuring time-rate-distance problems, planning contingencies and making rational decisions. Much of this information comes in through the portal of sight, but at night, there’s little to see. The right side of our brain, which is intuitive, wakes up and becomes fully functional.
It takes years of nighttime sailing to trust these senses. A puff of breeze on the cheek that feels cooler than before: Is a squall approaching? The mainsail rattles: Is the wind shifting?
We can hear or feel the engine’s regular beat falter. We are instantly alert. We check the gauges: oil, temperature and revs on the tach. A clogged fuel filter? We wait for the next hesitation. The slap of a wave on the bow, the rhythmic swoosh of the sea as it rushes past the hull, the feel of the boat’s heel. All’s well.
I’ve been sailing for 50 years, and many of my voyages have been solo, relying on all my senses as well as my intuition. I’ve also established a summer conservatory in a village on Maine’s coast, devoted to helping my fellow creatives advance their careers, master their craft and discover their inner voice.
The development of intuition is a major part of the curriculum. Intuition responds instantly—you know what to do without even having to think about it. And what intuition comes up with is as often as much a surprise to me as to anyone else.
You probably drive your car with intuition. Most of the time, I sail by intuition. I don’t think about sail trim; I just do it. It comes naturally. Seamanship is mostly intuitive.
How does intuition do its thing? Good question. Years of working with my fellow creative artists, photographers, filmmakers, writers and producers have taught me that intuition learns best from mistakes we make. As we stumble through life, messing about in small boats and ashore, we acquire experiences that are stowed in our brains. Gaining access to these lessons requires a particular mindset, an openness to the intuitive process. The “creative brain” is wired to use these stored experiences, to make a connection instantly. Creative people see relationships and make connections where others do not.
Often, decisions we make intuitively appear to be mistakes, but within a few hours, days or weeks, we realize the intuition was right, even when all those around us thought we were nuts.
When I first started sailing, I was 8 years old, and I found doing it alone was the best way for me. Too much instruction can screw up a young boy’s mind. Being alone on a small boat meant I could learn from mistakes, and no one would yell at me.
If you have a problem making mistakes, then don’t call them mistakes. Chalk it up as a trial run. It’s all just practice, having fun. We often take ourselves too seriously.
When I was older, I still single-handed, often because I couldn’t get anyone else to come along, but mainly for the lessons I’d learn out there on the sea alone. Celestial navigation, anchoring, storm survival—a lot of lessons, including about myself. I learned what I was good at and not; what felt good and what didn’t.
It can be difficult for people who have lived a rational, thinking life to trust their intuition. Some don’t even know they have it.
Sailing offshore for years, there are a few things I share with a new crew about tapping into intuition. For starters, everyone in the crew stands a three-hour solo watch, twice each day, one in daylight and the other at night. Ample rest in between is key. The body needs a fixed sleep routine.
Crew new to offshore sailing should hand-steer to get in tune with the boat. And steering a sailboat in a seaway, with waves throwing the boat off course, is a learned skill that every sailor needs to acquire. Being able to anticipate the boat’s roll, steering to compensate, and keeping the boat tracking on a compass take time to learn.
No earbuds or earphones are allowed on night watch. Listen to the wind and the sea. No reading on watch, either, but journal writing is permitted.
The night watch can be the best watch of the day. Those two late-night watches—midnight to 3 a.m., and 3 a.m.to 6 a.m.—can be great on a long voyage. Alone at last with no cockpit full of people. It’s just you, the wheel, the glow of the compass and the night. You are left with your thoughts, as other sailors have been for centuries, even on ancient ships.
It’s this time of night when the subconscious awakens. It’s a time when dreams come. The imagination is the most active.
I prefer the 3 a.m. to 6 a.m. watch, as I also get to experience each day’s dawn.
