Those of us who go down to the sea in ships know that our chosen path is not an easy one. As tranquil as the sea can be on a beautiful sunny day, it can quickly become terrifying when waves and winds rise in a tempest. People who say they have never be afraid at sea have not been out long enough; it is hard to keep calm when faced with the merciless attack that seas can inflict upon ships in a storm. To be the leader in charge of mission execution, asset safety, and the life of your crew during such trying times takes a special kind of character. Many books and movies have attempted to capture the specific traits of successful saltwater leaders. I will not try to best their words of wisdom, as I am not and have never been the captain of a seagoing vessel. Instead I will relate my perspective as a junior member watching the actions of those in command during difficult situations and what I have learned from them.
This is a story of three captains. The three ships they commanded are quite different, but each found themselves in similar situations in dangerous storms. To protect identities, I will not name the captains or the vessels, and I ask that you do not try to discern them. As these stories will hopefully convey, it’s not their initial actions that are so important; it is what we can learn from them.
The first story is about the captain of a wooden schooner. Built in the traditional clipper style, everything about the ship’s design exuded speed, from the delicate shape of her bow to the sharp rake of her masts. The captain was a taciturn individual who was well-respected for his experience and leadership in the sailing community. I crewed aboard his ship prior to joining the military and felt lucky to be chosen, as the company had a renowned reputation for professionalism and performance. A short time after I came aboard, the ship departed port for an off-shore race of several hundred miles. It was two days into the race, and the crew was pushing the boat hard. Twilight was approaching, the winds were brisk off the starboard bow, and the swell was long and rolling. Over the last half hour my watch had been observing a squall approaching from windward. The captain was on deck and ordered us to remain at full sail, though to be ready for quick action if needed. We anxiously waited and watched as the black line drew nearer. Then it struck. The winds doubled in intensity and the vessel heeled over dramatically. At the captain’s order we struck the head sails and the schooner was able to right herself as she turned up into the wind. After the squall passed we reset the sails and resumed our course. My fellow deckhands all chuckled at the event, riding high on a surge of adrenaline. The captain remained on deck, but offered no words of explanation, praise, or guidance for his or our actions.
It was not long before another squall was seen approaching, and we prepared ourselves in much the same manner. When the line hit, however, the boat did not react the same way. Instead of heeling over under the power of the wind, the bowsprit suddenly and violently tore away, followed shortly thereafter by the foremast and the mainmast. Tons of rigging (masts, spars, irons, stays, and lines) fell around us, splintering and puncturing the rails and deck. The sudden quiet that replaced the horrible noise was soon broken by our shouts as we tried to locate all hands. By some miracle, we were all unharmed. The captain took charge and over the next five hours we hauled up what debris we could. The rest was cut away, and we hobbled into port under engine power. Without a doubt, the captain’s calm presence and decisive direction during the aftermath enabled the crew to control their own reactions and work together to preserve the ship.
I admire the captain for these traits and have tried to adopt them into my own leadership toolkit. But I also noted what actions the captain didn’t take. He never discussed what happened with the crew, and what we could have learned from it. After the first squall we could have reflected upon what happened and what we may have done differently before the second squall hit. After the dismasting, we could have analyzed what went wrong. But he didn’t kindle that crucible for learning, and we were left to draw our own conclusions.
The second story is also about a sailing vessel, though this one was built for size and strength rather than speed. I was a guest onboard during a voyage, and was standing the 4-8 watch on deck to help out. The night was warm with a moonless sky making the seascape so dark you could barely make out the horizon. A moderate sail plan was up, and the canvas flapped lazily in the light breeze. On the radar, however, a strong line of storm clouds was clearly approaching from shoreward. As they got closer, lightning appeared on the horizon and the wind began to increase. We called the captain several times as the storm crept toward us. Though never appearing on deck, he assured the watch that we were rigged with a conservative sail plan and would be fine. Just before the squall hit, the wind died. The ship slowed and fell off course. We were nearly stopped and beam-to when the winds came down on us like a gale. Our canvas and masts acted like a lever arm, and all that force translated into heel as the ship leaned over and submerged its bulwarks. The crew clung to railings before the ship gained enough momentum to fall off and run before the wind. By that time the captain was on deck and relaying orders to the helm and the crew to strike sail. Before they could comply, however, a loud crack sounded as the pinrail holding the staysail sheets gave way, leaving the sails flogging and the deck covered with splinters. Eventually, the squall passed. The untethered sails were struck and the deck cleaned up, with no injuries.
Once again, the crew stood together nervously laughing at the event, sharing stories about where they were and what they did. But no one talked about what we had learned from the experience. The captain, assured that operations had returned to normal, returned below. The crew scattered, either to sleep or to resume their duties. The next day, I waited and hoped that we would gather and reflect upon what to do next time, but that never happened. The moment passed, once again without learning from it.
The third story is about the captain of a medium-endurance cutter. The ship was steaming down south to start a patrol in the middle of winter. A series of storms were rolling off the coast, producing heightened wind and sea conditions, which escalated the further offshore you went. The captain was faced with a decision: travel the long way around close to shore with the seas off the beam, or cut through the storm with the seas off the quarter. There was also a third option (take shelter in a lee), but with a mission to perform and the extended forecast not showing any improvement, that wasn’t a practical alternative. He chose to venture out into the storm. At first the ride was better. The ship was making good time and not rolling nearly as heavy as she was when the seas were off the beam. But the farther out we went, the more the seas built. After 12 hours of pounding, he made the decision to turn around and head back toward the relative safety of shore. By the time we returned 24 hours later, some of the crew had suffered minor injuries and the ship sported a few pieces of broken equipment. The captain had made a mistake. Just writing these words gives me pause because it is not a phrase you hear often in either the military and maritime communities. I feel empowered to state it here because the captain was confident enough to tell us about it. After the seas calmed he gathered his junior officers for a discussion. He brought forth all the relevant data that could influence our decision-making and asked us to consider the options and the impacts of our potential choices, as if we were the ones that needed to make such decisions. Our roundtable discussion about the storm was open and extremely educational, as we each learned from what the others had to say.
What I learned from these captains is that when you are in the position to influence others by your actions or inactions, do not be silent in your own mistakes. Alexander Pope is quoted as saying, “A man should never be ashamed to admit he has been in the wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that he is wiser today than he was yesterday.” The first step in learning from a mistake is to admit that you were wrong. This is never easy to do, and it doesn’t take much imagination to understand how much harder it must be for a commanding officer to make that admission to his subordinates. In the armed forces, under the public eye and political pressure of our society, the aftereffects of admitting to mistakes can have wide-reaching impacts. That often leads many of us to underplay our failures. But, and this is important: Failure is instructive. We rarely learn when things go well. We grow through learning from our mistakes. And when we share those lessons with those around us, it means less mistakes need to be made before we all collectively learn the lesson.
There are many attributes I admire in my leaders. Decisiveness. Patience. Conviction. Courage. However, from my collective experiences, the trait I admire the most is insightfulness. An insightful leader can be humble enough to learn from their mistakes and strong enough to share the lessons learned with others. This is the leader I want to serve, and the leader I want to be. If we can all go forward with the admission that we are going to fall sometimes, and yet rise together through our collective growth, then that is success for our service, our people, and ourselves.
