I’ve already admitted in an earlier post that I was not a great sailor.
Sensing the wind never came naturally to me. Some people could feel it instinctively, the subtle shifts that told them how to trim the sails or change course. I could learn the mechanics, but the wind itself never quite spoke to me.
What I did learn was another kind of navigation.
I learned to read a room. I learned when to speak and when silence carried more weight. And over time, I began to understand the power of language, how words can move a situation toward clarity and strength, or quietly obstruct both.
That lesson started early at the Naval Academy.
During Plebe Summer, one of the first instructions we received was how to respond when spoken to by any superior. Plebes were allowed only five short responses to any command:
Yes, Sir.
No, Sir.
I’ll find out, Sir.
No excuse, Sir.
Aye Aye, Sir.
Each one carried meaning beyond its brevity.
In Reef Points, the small handbook every plebe carried, there was a page titled “Sailing Directions.” Traditionally, sailing directions guide ships through unfamiliar waters. For us, it was more like a guide to mindset.
You are beginning a demanding life.
Standards matter. Responsibility matters.
If you didn’t know an answer, the correct response was “I’ll find out, Sir.” Ignorance wasn’t the issue; failing to pursue the answer was.
If a mistake was yours, and you can be sure it was, even if you didn’t know it yet, the proper reply was “No excuse, Sir.”
Not explanations. Not deflection. Just ownership.
At the time, these phrases felt like part of the discipline of plebe life. Later, I realized they were also lessons about language, about how responsibility sounds when spoken aloud.
For women at the Naval Academy in those years, language mattered even more.
We were still new to the institution, still something of a living experiment. There were not many of us, and we were often aware that we were being watched, sometimes with support, sometimes with doubt.
In that environment, every word seemed to carry extra weight.
You learned quickly that speaking too much could be judged. Speaking too little could be judged too. So we listened carefully and learned the language of the place: concise, direct, accountable.
But women were also quietly expanding that language.
We were learning how to hold strength without losing gentleness, how to take responsibility without disappearing, and how to speak clearly in spaces where our voices were still new.
I never became the sailor who could instinctively sense the wind.
But I did learn something else.
I learned how words move through a room, and how, sometimes quietly, they help change the course.