Many years ago there was a man named Richard Henry Dana. Descended from a family of scholars and overachievers he was accepted into the esteemed halls of Harvard. A case of the measles ruined his eyesight and ended his academic pursuits after three years. Medical experts were of no help.

Young Richard decided upon a rash course of action. In 1934 he signed on to a brig named the Pilgrim, as a sailor for two years. The ship was set to sail from Boston to California. The Panama Canal was not in existence at that time and the journey on a sailing ship with no mechanized power would require the dreaded east to west rounding of Cape Horn.

Cape Horn, in those days, was synonymous with death and destruction. It is the largest ship graveyard in the world where more than 800 ships and 10,000 sailors lie in the depths below the icy gales of the southern seas. Richard, if he had wanted an adventure, was going to get one.

Any moment above deck might be your last if a rogue crest swiped your feet from under you or an unanticipated roll of the ship flung you like a doll into the freezing water of the Antarctic. Death was inevitable should you be lost overboard. There was no turning back to retrieve a man. There was no Coast Guard, there were no life jackets, clothing was minimal. The men remaining aboard would simply continue their battle with the ocean and pray for their own salvation. To cease their work would mean their own deaths.

Rounding the Horn took the ship nine days to accomplish. Nine days of snow, sleet, hail, rain, bitter cold in wet clothing that they could not dry, sleeping in water logged racks while the wind howled and the ship tossed and the frigid sea constantly broke across the decks and washed into every crevice of the ship. Richard, in a spur of the moment action to retrieve the jib in a sudden squall, was nearly washed off the bowsprit, dunked twice to his chin when the ship dove into heavy seas. Upon completion of their task Richard and a second sailor scrambled back to the deck and found all hands below decks to weather the storm apparently not concerned about the two sailors’ fates.

Life was different then. Safety was a foreign concept to the minds of the men who dared these journeys for the simple act of commerce, bringing shoes to California, or leather to Boston. Death was ever present. Providence, prayer, and ones’ own wits were the only defenses against the grave.

And with all of the safety measures, drills, helmets, goggles, protective clothing, and warnings we have today death still takes its due.

Fear is real but safety is an illusion. Either get busy livin’… or get busy dyin’. Your choice.

But what do I know. I’m just a dummygod.