(Thomas Froese Photo)
(The Hamilton Spectator – Saturday, January 3, 2026)
Before something on sailing, here’s a thought on surprises. Don’t underestimate the power of surprise in this world. I’m reminded with every new year because today, January 3, marks my first day in newspapers.
Gorbachev was dismantling the Soviet Union and the Berlin Wall had yet to fall. I was 23 and learning up from down. That’s when I started at the St. Thomas Times-Journal, a Thomson daily that was birthed in 1918 and now had a managing editor, Terry Shaw, who, from behind his interview desk, said in his raspy voice that I’d suffice as a new reporter.
The paper’s publisher, Laurie Beavis, was a large man with a generous smile and several missing digits on one hand. Congratulations,” he said in his office while offering me his good hand. “We’ll take care of you.”
It was a surprise because I’d taken off from home not so long earlier, boarding a Greyhound bus while packing little more than a crazy prayer. Like someone turning a corner and falling down a manhole, I then fell, surprisingly, into journalism school.
“Do with my life what you want,” is how that crazy prayer goes. Crazy, and risky, because it leads to, well, who knows? But you’re desperate, so what’s there to lose? Besides, the other option, like the old Sinatra song “My Way,” is even more tenuous. And less interesting.
In either case, a university colleague recently asked me to share about my vocational journey to her fourth-year undergrads, students about to spill into the working world.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll bring my sailboat.”
So I brought the art piece and started by asking the 40 or so students who among them was smallest. “Joy,” I was told.
“Joy,” I repeated. “Perfect.” From my pocket I then pulled a tiny Ukrainian doll and placed it on the boat. “That’s Joy,” I told everyone. “Or, it’s you.” I continued, “Now remember this is your boat. Not Mummy’s or Daddy’s boat. Not your friend’s boat. It’s your boat. So own it.”
Now I’m no sailor – nobody in that class was – but I explained that like a sail we each have a certain shape. Think of this acronym. S is your spiritual gifting. H, your heartbeat or passions. A, your abilities or skills. P, your personality. E, your experience and education.
And while you’re very small and that sail is very large, you give it everything you have. All your strength. All your mind. Then some. You raise that heavy sail that’s very much in your hands. Your control. With all your wits you raise that sail even with AI, your superpower – everyone got interested now – that is by being an AI, an authentic individual.
What’s not in your hands? That’s right, the wind. Its mystery is timeless. Where will it blow next? Who knows? It’s beyond understanding. So you’re patient. You wait. But when that wind comes, and it eventually will, you hang on for dear life. That’s joy.
It was 25 years ago when after a long season I left the Times-Journal to marry – more joy – and work overseas. But it was near St. Thomas, in Port Stanley, where I used to walk the beach at night and look out at the water, where I found this striking boat just recently. Now the work of art sits in my family’s living room.
And what’s it made of? Repurposed material. The base, a pickaxe to tear apart what needs tearing apart. The sail, an old “For Sale” sign turned blue with hot flame. The vertical support, rebar to strengthen what needs strengthening.
And isn’t this the beauty of surprise? Anything and everything, even what you think is wasted, can move your life forward.
“Come sail away with me,” is how the old Styx song goes. Give it a listen sometime as you wish yourself good things for 2026. No, really. Enjoy the moment.
And I also wish you joy on your journey.