Deadly Focused

On surviving a shipwreck

On New Year’s Day, 1897, the SS Commodore crashed on a sandbar near the coast of Florida, suffering massive damage to its hull. The steamboat gradually took on more water than the crew could bail out, and finally, after dozens of hours of grueling work, they realized the situation was hopeless, and began to abandon ship.

The next morning, after all the lifeboats had deployed, the captain and three others remained, with only a small dinghy to take them to safety. They then attempted to traverse 16 excruciating miles in the tiny vessel, facing heavy wind and waves.

One of these final four to depart was American author Stephen Crane. The incident inspired his short story, The Open Boat.

The story is riveting. Part of that is the story itself—the desperate struggle to survive the aftermath of a harrowing shipwreck. But mostly, it’s the way the story is told—in just under 10,000 words, Crane conveys one of the most hellish experiences known to man. You might imagine that he accomplishes this with elaborate descriptions and deeply personal introspections. But Crane takes a different approach. 

Cast adrift on the merciless sea for nearly 30 hours, these men were worn ragged—physically, emotionally, spiritually. During this interminable period, Crane and his companions entered a state of consciousness that I can only describe as deadly focused. The men are so threatened at each moment that they have no choice but to ignore some details of their situation, in order to attend to the necessity of their survival. Crane manages the impressive feat of conveying this through his writing style, using prose that is similarly stark, severe, and detached.

Moreover, many critics have interpreted the story as an allegory for life: We are all lost at sea, adrift on a wimpy lifeboat, tossed here and there by the merciless forces of nature, never knowing at any moment whether we will live or die. 

The crisis of The Open Boat reveals a crucial aspect of human nature. Even if we’ve never actually been stranded at sea, we’ve all experienced this deadly focus at different times, and it’s caused us to miss the sublime beauty all around us. But it doesn’t have to be that way.

Hopefully, in reading and studying Crane’s story, we can learn this lesson without undergoing the same nightmare.

Paying Attention

The story commences by highlighting this motif of deadly focus. Notably, David Foster Wallace called them the "most beautiful opening lines in Western Lit."

“None of them knew the colour of the sky. Their eyes glanced level, and were fastened upon the waves that swept toward them. These waves were of the hue of slate, save for the tops, which were of foaming white, and all of the men knew the colours of the sea.”

From the beginning, we see the world through the eyes of the sailors. But note how blunt the description is. Yes, there is some beautiful imagery here—Crane vividly depicts the motion, color, and texture of the waves. But there is something more profound about the lines: the strong contrast between what is noticed and what isn’t. The crewmen know the color of the sea, but not of the sky. Why? Because they don’t have that luxury.

Their situation is dire. Their lives are at stake. Every passing wave threatens to swamp the boat and murder them. They know, in a distant way, that the sky is gorgeous. But that is not important right now and that is not what they must attend to. 

“Viewed from a balcony, the whole thing would doubtlessly have been weirdly picturesque. But the men in the boat had no time to see it, and if they had had leisure there were other things to occupy their minds.”

To me, this is the crux of the story: the intense focus on certain aspects of the situation while remaining oddly detached from others. As humans, we simply don’t have the mental capacity to concentrate on everything at once. The question, then, is what do we pay attention to? How do we focus our limited awareness? What really matters?

Although the stakes are generally lower for us, we face this same problem every day. Sadly, we often act like these sailors—we are so preoccupied with the tasks of surviving that we fail to truly appreciate the beauty that is all around us.

“As the boat bounced from the top of each wave, the wind tore through the hair of the hatless men, and as the craft plopped her stern down again the spray slashed past them. The crest of each of these waves was a hill, from the top of which the men surveyed, for a moment, a broad tumultuous expanse, shining and wind-riven. It was probably splendid. It was probably glorious, this play of the free sea, wild with lights of emerald and white and amber.”

It’s all too familiar, isn’t it? Yes, the sunrise and sunset are there every day, and they are probably glorious, but who has the time to watch them? There are jobs to do, bills to pay, family to care for, a home to clean. When all that’s done, we have our shows to watch, books to read, hobbies to pursue. Our lives are a storm, an endless battery of waves, and though we are amidst breathtaking scenery, we never notice. 

Crane continues to have these detached reflections throughout the story. This passage, for example:

“The January water was icy, and he reflected immediately that it was colder than he had expected to find it off the coast of Florida. This appeared to his dazed mind as a fact important enough to be noted at the time. The coldness of the water was sad; it was tragic. This fact was somehow so mixed and confused with his opinion of his own situation that it seemed almost a proper reason for tears. The water was cold.”

The narrator is so occupied and so exhausted that he can’t even keep up with his thoughts. They merely pass through his mind like the clouds above him pass through the sky—they are there, and then they are gone.

But notice the depiction of the water, so straightforward, yet so powerful. When I read that passage, I feel like I’m there in the boat, shivering as the freezing water splashes against my face and soaks my clothes. 

If I were the writer recounting such an experience, I could wax poetic about every sensation. I could tell you that the water was “glacial” or that the spray was “insufferable.” 

But notice what Crane actually says about it. Just this: "the water was icy.. the water was cold." So direct, so bare, and yet all the more impactful. The narrator doesn’t have the mental bandwidth to give any more than this stark description. And what more is needed, really? Bleary from fatigue in a life and death situation, what does it matter? The water is cold. Nothing else needs to be said.

But this example stands above all the rest in my mind:

“In the meantime the oiler and the correspondent rowed. And also they rowed. They sat together in the same seat, and each rowed an oar. Then the oiler took both oars; then the correspondent took both oars; then the oiler; then the correspondent. They rowed and they rowed.”

That brief passage communicates an eternity of agony. Every infinitesimal moment is pure misery, an endless string of unendurable impressions: the shock of the initial shipwreck, the exhaustion of paddling for days without reprieve, the excruciating hunger of starvation, and the total destruction of their backs.

“The correspondent wondered ingenuously how in the name of all that was sane could there be people who thought it amusing to row a boat. It was not an amusement; it was a diabolical punishment, and even a genius of mental aberrations could never conclude that it was anything but a horror to the muscles and a crime against the back.”

Every time I see people rowing in a lake, I recall that passage. Rowing for leisure is fun; rowing for survival is excruciating. It's funny how something enjoyable can become so dreadful in a different context. Running for exercise is fun; running for your life is terrifying.

Nevertheless, in both scenarios, the same sensation occurs to us: a deadly focus. We notice some things, and ignore others. 

What We Miss

As they are tossed about by the ocean for 30 hours, the emotions of the men change drastically. Optimism turns to doubt. Frustration turns to exhaustion. Celebration turns to outrage.

And right before the end, they are hit with the strongest blow of all. As they approach land, they begin to wonder why no one notices them, why no one is coming to save them. They feel terribly alone. 

“This [lighthouse] was a giant, standing with its back to the plight of the ants. It represented in a degree, to the correspondent, the serenity of nature amid the struggles of the individual—nature in the wind, and nature in the vision of men. She did not seem cruel to him then, nor beneficent, nor treacherous, nor wise.

But she was indifferent, flatly indifferent.”

In the last three days, the sea has become their most hated enemy. It represents all the forces of nature and of order and of God. How can it be so hostile to them? How can it be so unfair? What did they do to deserve this?

But the truth is even more depressing than that. Near the end, when they are completely depleted, they face this last appalling revelation: it’s not that the sea hates them; it simply doesn’t care.

Do we not also feel this way sometimes? Lost at sea, alienated from the world, forsaken by nature, and forgotten by God. That is hell on earth.

And yet...despite all that, there is something redeemable in the experience of The Open Boat:

“It would be difficult to describe the subtle brotherhood of men that was here established on the seas. No one said that it was so. No one mentioned it. But it dwelt in the boat, and each man felt it warm him. They were a captain, an oiler, a cook, and a correspondent, and they were friends, friends in a more curiously iron-bound degree than may be common…

There was this comradeship that the correspondent, for instance, who had been taught to be cynical of men, knew even at the time was the best experience of his life. But no one said that it was so. No one mentioned it.”

No one would ever want to undergo the sufferings of those unfortunate men on that terrible sea. Nevertheless, something amazing happened to them. And we can learn from their experience without having to repeat it.

The story of The Open Boat is fraught with constant dread and uncertainty. Their deadly focus on the waves keeps the crew alive, but it also distracts them from the magnificent glory of the scenery and, most regrettably, from the wonderful camaraderie that emerges during their shared battle against the elements. 

Yes, we sometimes feel alienated from God and the world. But we cannot forget that, in the end, we always have each other.

Finally, as the men approach the beach, they are faced with yet another calamity—the waves are crashing hard upon the coast. It’s too dangerous to land, and yet, the men are down to their last reserves and cannot hold out any longer. They must attempt it.

Just a mile from shore, the ship is overturned and the castaways are forced to swim to safety. Through it all, they survive. One by one, with feet firmly on the ground, they embrace. But suddenly the notice that someone is missing…And then they lay eyes on him. 

The oiler, Billie by name. Floating, face down. 

He didn't make it.

Conclusion

For Crane, this was not just an interesting story; it was a permanent memory. And his ability to convey such an ineffable experience is a testament to his talent: after so much time together, they way these sailors bonded, what they felt for each other, and then the crushing realization that not all of them made it. It’s impossible to express. Yet Crane comes remarkably close.

Sadly, despite surviving this tragedy, Crane died from tuberculosis only a few years later, at age 28. But in his short life, he was recognized as one of the greatest American authors. And his legacy lives on in his writing, most notably The Open Boat, which H.G. Wells said was "beyond all question, the crown of all [Crane's] work."

The story is a powerful one. And despite its unique subject matter, deeply relatable.

It depicts the sensation of deadly focus with a remarkable clarity. For the final departing crew of the SS Commodore, that mindset was a necessity. But too often we find ourselves slipping into the same attitude, though on dry land.

Every day the sun rises and the sun sets. It is “probably splendid…probably glorious,” but who has time to appreciate it? How can we afford to glance up at the sky when all our problems are directly before us?

Those problems are not as dire as waves crashing into an open boat. But they often feel just as serious. And like the sea, they can feel relentless—crashing against us at every turn.

In the face of these endless problems, it’s easy to feel like we have to focus on them. And at our lowest points, we can even feel forsaken—by nature and by God. But the truth is, even when everything seems hopeless and bleak, we still have each other. And that is a miracle.

Deadly focus kept Crane alive that day, because breaking focus for a moment spelled certain death. But for us, it’s the opposite. Deadly focus isn’t keeping us alive—it’s keeping us from truly appreciating the beauty of the world and the people around us. It’s a way of dying even while living. 

“I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary…” –Henry David Thoreau

But it doesn’t have to be that way. We can look up and know the color of the sky, even for a moment. We can reach out to the people around us, talk to them, laugh with them, cry with them, be with them. And thank God for that.

If you want to read The Open Boat, it is available for free in the public domain here.