The Red Scarf

Not every letter carried home from the sea brought news of a man's death. Some were written because a sailor was coming home, and he was afraid the people waiting for him may no longer see the man that he once was. While this letter is fiction, the core principles hold true. I'm Captain John Harlow, and this is Letters from the Sea. It was written by Captain Amos Gray to the mother of the youngest sailor aboard his ship. Her name was Margaret Hale. Dear Mrs. Hale, your son is alive. I thought I should put that first, because captains have an unfortunate habit of hiding the most important things beneath a mountain of unnecessary words. Samuel is alive, and he is coming home. There was a storm three weeks ago. A line became fouled high in the rigging, leaving us unable to turn away from a reef. Someone had to climb. Samuel went before I could order another man to do it. I know he once told you that he was not afraid of heights, but that was a lie. He was terrified. I know because I saw his hands shaking before he climbed. And because he admitted it afterwards. But courage is not the absence of fear, Mistress Hale. It is deciding that something else matters more. Samuel reached the line and cut it loose. The ship turned, and thirty-one men lived because your frightened boy kept climbing. On his way down, a spar broke free and struck him. Our surgeon saved Samuel's life, but he could not save his left leg below the knee. There is one more thing I believe you should know. Samuel still carries that red scarf you knitted for him. The other sailors teased him about it when he first came aboard. Samuel complained that it was too bright and too warm, and that it was long enough to tie up a horse. He never once sailed without it, though. When he was injured, that same scarf was tied around his leg and pulled tight enough to stop the bleeding. So, in a manner of speaking, Mistress Hale, you helped bring your son home. Samuel asked me a question while he was lying in his bunk. He said, Captain, will my mother still know me? I told him that mothers recognize their children by considerably more than the number of boots they wear. But he needs to hear that from you. Meet us at the harbor on Thursday morning, and when you see him... Do not look at the crutch or the empty trouser leg. Look at his face. Your boy left home hoping the sea would make a man of him, and it did. Though between you and me, I believe the man was already there. Respectfully, Captain Amos Gray, Master of the Providence. Margaret Hill was waiting when the Providence entered the harbor. Samuel came slowly down the gangway on his crutches, with the faded red scarf wrapped around his neck. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Margaret walked over to her son, straightened the scarf and said, You're right. It is much too long. Samuel smiled, and then he put his arms around his mother, and they went home. This has been Letters from the Sea. I am Captain John Harlow. Join me next time when we open another letter and hear another story carried home by the sea. Until then, may the wind be kind, and may it always carry you home.