My boat and I are sitting at a marina in Hampton (VA), waiting for a weather window to make the off-shore leap, a 1,500 mile voyage from the coast of Virginia, through the middle of the Bermuda Triangle, to the Caribbean.  It’s late November in the fall of 2002. A dangerous time to be embarking on a  ten day voyage around Cape Hatterass, across the Gulf Stream, and into the open Atlantic. The thought itself is scary enough, but the weather fronts march overhead with frustrating frequency, with no opening for us to get clear of the Cape, adding frustration to an already building fear of the voyage. The weather forecasters keep warning . . ”Do not leave today, and don’t leave tomorrow.”  I wait, listening to the off-shore reports of gale force winds and 30-foot seas. These reports only ratchet up my anxiety.

    As the days drag on, I putter on tasks to keep busy, but I’m not focused. The more I listen to the off-shore weather reports, the longer we tarry, deeper into depression I drift. I’m like a diver on the diving board, bouncing up and down, fearful of the plunge, unable to make a move.

    I am drowsy, my mouth is dry, my palms itch. I have a constant desire to pee. I want only to escape this feeling, to slip into sleep to dream of a better time. Fear . . . it sits in the pit of my stomach like a lump of dead meat. I am lethargic; tired of dragging this dull pain around, wondering why I have gotten myself in this situation, promising myself I’ll never do this again. The fear comes and goes, pouring over me like waves crashing on the beach, and then receding only to return when least expected, a punch in the belly. I am free for a few hours, and then what has been chasing me, the Fear, is back . . . the other shoe has dropped. I have felt this fear a hundred times in my life, as a young boy growing up in the dark woods of New England, afraid of the wolves; as a Navy journalist in Vietnam, being lost in a blizzard at the top of a Wyoming mountain, while fighting for survival during Caribbean hurricanes (3 of them), of losing everything I’ve worked for, of losing the woman I am in love with. This fear is a profound emotional experience. Too much of it and it becomes a drug. 

The wait is as bad as the weather off-shore, it’s just safer. I call my wife and hear myself telling her what’s going on with me. “I m scared. The weather forecast is not good. If we can’t leave in the next few days, I may have to cancel the voyage. Leave the boat here and return home.” Failed expectations, a cancelled dream, are these what I’m afraid of? Or, is it losing the boat, my life and those of the crew who will accompany me?  What I say is as much for me as for her: “I’ll not leave because I’m impatient, nor will I stay because of fear.”  Having made these off-shore voyages a dozen times, the fear is an old enemy, one I know well. It’s there to warn me of possible danger, disaster, to keep me vigilant. Too much fear, which is Panic, and we roll up into a ball, and pray. A few days later, December 1, we get the nod from the weather-man for a Sunday departure. We prepare the boat for the voyage; take on fuel, water, ice and make that last call home with a float plan. I tell my wife: “If you do not hear from me within 12-days, you can begin to worry. Call the Coast Guard. Here is what you tell them . . .” I reel of the boat’s statistics, our course, our projected course, speed, and our ETA. Am I writing my obit, I wonder?

As we prepare the boat, the fear I’ve experienced over the last 7 days retreats, replaced with excitement and anticipation of being back at sea. We motor out of Hampton Roads into the shipping lanes, set all sails and turn south-south-east heading off-shore to the Caribbean. We cross the Gulf Stream within 24 hours, and arrived in the British Virgin Islands ten days later, as predicted. It was an exciting voyage, with some strong but favorable winds, two days of motoring through the doldrums south of Bermuda, flying fish, 20-pound Dorados all green and gold as we haul them over the life lines. The temperatures rose daily as we neared the tropics, the sea turn

ed to a deep cobalt blue, as dark as ink, but crystal clear when a bucket is hauled on deck for a salt-water shower. We shed foul weather gear and climbed into bathing suits and t-shirts.  The crew did well, with 3-hour watches. The experience was magical, being at sea, the weather systems stalled behind us as my boat surged south to a winter of warmth and relative safety.  I wondered, as the British Virgin Islands rose above the horizon, what I was afraid of.

Fear–

I’ve been living with and studying fear for years, ever since I was kid growing up in the woods of New England and sailing on the lakes and bays. We lived a mile from the school bus stop, a walk through a deep, dark forest. As the days grew short, it was dark about the time we left the school bus. Fear gripped my 6 year old heart as I entered the forest for the walk home. I told my father of this, of the bears, wolves, and other creatures that would devour me.

    “David, everything in the woods is more afraid of you, than you are it. Have you seen any of these terrible animals in the woods?”

    “No. But I know there are there.”

    “They are in your head, young man. That’s where they reside. The reason you do not see deer or other animals, other than squirrels, is they can hear you coming a long way off, and they move away and hide. They fear humans.”

    So I walked through the woods at dusk, repeating to myself: “They are more afraid of me than I am of them . . . . They are more afraid . . . .” I arrived home unharmed. I did this for a week and when the mantra became boring, I dropped it. It seemed to have worked. There were no terrible monsters in the forest, not that I could see. After a few weeks, the woods became a joyful place, even at night. To walk the trail at night required that you look up, not down at the trail, which you couldn’t see anyway, but to look up at the narrow avenue of open space of the night sky defined by the parting of the trees on each side of path.  As an artist, a writer and photographer my fear of physical death has been a metaphor for the artistic fears of ego death, of not living up, of making a fool of myself,  of losing my self-respect, of running away from the challenges of the work I do. These artistic fears are just as powerful as those fears I faced under fire in Vietnam, awakening to sirens and screams of “In Coming!” as I dived into a mortar pit clad in olive green underwear, my helmet and flack jacket, clutching my weapon; or fighting a hurricane or being loston the side of a Wyoming mountain in a blizzard. In recent years I had to deal with the fear of losing everything I built, of losing The Workshops, of financial ruin, and the loss of my integrity. We are all built differently, and our abilities to cope with fear are different. You may call me insane for the situations I get myself into, and out of, but there are others who can sustain a much higher level of fear than I. By coming through the fearful events in my life, I have acquired some valuable some insights to share. Over the years I have incorporated these discoveries into my lectures, workshops and writing, and now share  them here. What we do to scare ourselves is amazing.

Where does fear come from? 

The fear I experienced while waiting in Hampton was of my own making. We were completely safe waiting at the dock. The gales and the rough seas were a hundred miles at sea to the east. It was my anticipation of what would happen were I foolish enough to venture out and put my crew, self and boat in those conditions.  I was fearful that by waiting too long, my personal window of opportunity would close and I’d be forced to store the boat in Hampton for the winter. I was afraid of losing the dream, and of losing the boat, caught between a rock and a hard place. My fears were of what might happen, not what was happening. I have used that realization many times over the years to deal with all kinds if storms I’ve been through then and now. 

Fear is of the anticipated, seldom of the actual experience.

Fear is there for good reason–it’s a warning that danger is near. There are a hundred things for us to fear…but most of what scares us is manufactured inside our heads. When involved in the process of survival, when actually working, doing something, the fear is reduced and often ignored as we get on with the business at hand. Fear is a necessary emotional state, if we are not confronted by fearful situations,  we go out and find them . . . we ski down mountains, read Stephen King, ride a roller-coaster or go to the movies, all to be scared. Why do we seek out fear, why do we embrace it? Because it makes us feel alive, it fulfills some need within. Fear is a challenge to overcome, a demon that needs to be expelled. Some of us go to extremes to confront our fears, other shy away, hiding, refusing to let fear in the door.

Going Too Far Into Fear

When all hope appears gone, all options have been exhausted, and we feel there is nothing more we can do to save ourselves, we enter a state of panic, a primordial experience. Like a small animal caught in the headlight of a car, we freeze, we roll up into a ball and pray to what ever we believe in to deliver us from this living hell. We promise, if they will deliver us and we are still alive on the other side, we will never get in this situation again. And, some of us will never venture forth again; others will embrace the experience, live with the fear and go through it, coming out the other side wiser, braver, and more aware of one’s self and the process.

Fear stands for:

False Events Appear Real

Literature is full of stories of bravery, of heroes overcoming external and internal demons, to slay the dragon and save the princess. These stories give us us hope, hope that we too will be brave, overcoming the fears, real and imagined, and go on to win out over the external and internal demons that confront us. All superheroes have dual personas, with the alter-ego being the hidden, masked superior side, the stronger darker side that needs an outlet. For many of us that’s also the inner artist, that powerful, creative self that is hidden, trapped and unfulfilled. That’s the side I’m talking to in this book.

This is only the beginning of this chapter .. .  if you want to read the rest, email me and I’ll send you a PDF.