Out on the water, a storm does not ask what boat you brought. Rain falls the same on fiberglass decks and hand-hewn canoes. Thunder does not distinguish between a luxury yacht and a weathered paddleboard. The tide rises for all of us, and the wind lashes without prejudice. In that sense, storms are the great equalizers. They remind us that we share a common sky, a common storm, and a common vulnerability.
Yet the boats we ride are not the same. Some of us face life’s gales in seaworthy craft trimmed with every convenience. Others set out in canoes, light and nimble, but easily overturned. And some are not in a boat at all, but clinging to driftwood, fighting to stay above water. The storm is the same, but our vessels are not.
Sometimes you may feel you are moored in a safe harbor, believing yourself protected from the chaos outside the breakwater. But storms have long memories. Even the most secure anchorage can prove false. A vessel that seemed unshakable one evening may be foundered by morning, lying on her side in the mud. Life is no different. Security is fragile, and the sea has a way of humbling all boats in time.
I have seen this vividly, both in hurricane season and on kayak expeditions. When the clouds break open, even the strongest hull feels small. I have paddled beside yachts that could weather days at anchor, while I crouched under a tarp on a muddy island. I have seen Scouts in borrowed kayaks, holding their paddles like lifelines, learning that the water does not care about your pedigree it cares only that you respect it.
Life works the same way. We all face the storm of hardship: grief, debt, illness, stress, or the quiet loneliness of trying to keep pace with the world. What changes is not the storm, but the craft beneath our feet. And here lies the heart of the lesson. If you are steady in your boat, remember those who are not. If you have a yacht, scan the horizon for the canoeist bailing water. If you are in a canoe, glance toward the swimmer struggling just to breathe.
⚜️ Pro Tip: Carry more line than you think you need. A spare towline or painter is not just for boats it is a reminder that you may be someone’s last chance to hold fast.
I often remind my students that a kayak expedition, like life, is not measured in miles paddled, but in the strength of the group that makes it home together. When one boat capsizes, everyone feels the shock. When one person is hungry, morale falters. The storm is collective, and so must be the response.
In Scouting, we call this cheerful service. In seamanship, we call it good watchstanding. In life, we call it kindness. Whatever the name, it is the choice to act not only for your own craft, but for the fleet around you.
The storm will come again literal or figurative. When it does, remember: we are all in the same storm. But our boats are different. Some gleam with polish, some are patched with tar, and some have already gone under. Be the mariner who throws a line. Be the canoeist who steadies another’s stroke. Be the one who does not pass by.
Because when your own hull cracks and the waves pour in, you will pray that someone else remembers to share the line.
Liquid Rhythm Adventures' Journal 