The year, 1805 … The vessel, The HMS Surprise, a 28 Gun British Frigate in her majesties royal navy with 197 souls on board … Location, rounding The Horn in a terrifying storm … The Captain, J. Aubrey, ‘Lucky Jack’… The mission, “Intercept French Privateer Acheron, (known to the crew as, ‘The Phantom’) en route to the Pacific intent on carrying the war (with Napoleon) into those waters … Sink, Burn, or take her a Prize.”

Swells tossed the ship around like a child’s toy in a bathtub. The sails were no use and had to be gathered up in the face of the vicious wind. The only ship’s mate left in the rigging, Wally, struggled with the sails. He was calling out for help that didn’t arrive.

The wind snapped the mast, already weakened by a previous encounter with the Acheron. Wally went into the raging sea still clinging to the broken mast. No stranger to the perils of navy life, immediate action was taken, throwing in anything that would float to keep him alive as he frantically tried to swim to the ship. 

The frigid water began to engulf the broken mast still tied to The Surprise. Inch by inch the ship began turning on its side coming closer to an inevitable demise. The mast was acting as a sea anchor beckoning crew and ship alike into the deadly waters. A hard choice had to be made. Either cut the ropes that tethered the ship to the broken mast knowing Wally, newly married, affable, and much loved member of the crew would be lost … or all go under. Time was short.

The Captain made the call and axes were brought out to sever the ropes. In a stunning and completely unexpected move, he handed one of the axes to Wally’s best friend. A grave look passed between the two as the dutiful sailor took the handle and swung the ax severing anchor from ship, and friend from friend forever. 

The Surprise immediately righted itself and swiftly moved away with the current as the solemn crew watched angry swells swallow Wally into the deep. A poignant scene from the movie, Master and Commander, The Far Side of the World.

Lately I’ve felt as though I am at sea in a raging storm, hanging over the side of a ship in peril. I am staring at my sea anchor in fear of being drawn into yet another round where I allow my equilibrium to be grabbed and pulled under. The spray already chilling me to the bone with seconds ticking away, a counting down to what feels like an impossible decision. 

My sea anchor is a loved one. She is once again, in the hospital to detox and fill her depleted and ravaged body with the necessary hydration and nutrients stolen from her by her alcohol and drug use. There have been so many of these life threatening episodes that I’ve lost count. I am once again confronted with a need to evaluate my participation with her. The pattern is always the same: increasing off-center communication, strident demands, undeserved insults, and fury directed with uncanny precision at my heart. 

I’ve taken her to treatment and brought her back home more than once. I’ve gone to Al-Anon, read the books, set the boundaries, read the daily devotionals—all aimed at those who love an addict/alcoholic. I know it’s not good for her or me to stay in communication when she crashes through agreed upon limits while hurling abusive accusations.

After these wrenching encounters I watch myself lose energy, my life force slowly being swallowed up in the fury of her storm. From deep inside I hear a voice, “Step away from the madness.” Very sensible. 

I step away. I block her on my phone which is normally how we communicate since she lives far away. Days go by and I recover only to hear from another that she’s sorry. Feels badly about the things she said to me. I can believe that. What I have come to believe is that there will be no change.

I am on my ship with an ax in my hand looking out into those desperate eyes pleading for something only she can give herself. My heart melts and I give her another try. In under 5 minutes it’s an instant replay. I block her again. 

I have a chicken named ZB. She is a gorgeous, healthy Exchequer Leghorn, and a good layer. Only one problem—she goes way beyond typical hen pecking. She’s truly vicious to the other hens to the point of drawing blood. 

I’ve had uppety hens before and did what I usually do. I put ZB in ‘the slammer.’ The slammer is a fully equipped isolation pen where a chicken is taken out of the pecking order, (a very real thing) and has a few days to reset her behavior. In the past with other hens it’s worked beautifully. The offending hen rejoins the flock with gratitude and good manners. Not ZB.

Realizing the depth of her commitment to cruelty I put ZB in the slammer for a full week thinking surely that would correct her behavior. However it didn’t take long before she was back in the slammer. This time for 3 weeks. Confident this would definitely solve the problem I let her out only to see her go back to her old ways, terrifying the sweetest of my other birds within minutes.

I resolved then and there that ZB could no longer be part of the flock. The slammer is her new home. This is spring and it’s working now, but what of the winter months? There is that ax again, however, being tender hearted I’ve never been able to cull a member of my flock.

I’m weary of being at the mercy of another’s dysfunction, even when I love them … I’m weary of mean-spirited behavior whether its’s human or beast … I’m weary of the gray cloud I have allowed to block my sunshine.

I actually do believe my first loyalties and commitments must be kept and made to myself. This flies in the face of early training, when self care was branded as ugly selfishness. Those voices seem at times, impossible to quell. 

I’m confident I’ll find a way to deal with the chicken, but the other? My sea anchor? I’m holding the ax and I’ve taken a few swings. I’m struggling to cut through the last tattered threads and watch as the waves separate us, possibly beyond reach. 

I realize that hard decision is mine and only mine to make.