Three Sheets to the Wind

Three Sheets to the Wind

The wind rattles the window tonight. The old tin roof groans the way it always does when the north pushes in. There’s a soft hum in the stove pipe, the kind that sounds like memory. My coffee’s gone cold, and the lantern’s down to its last breath. Nights like this, you start to think about how wild and unpredictable life really is.

They used to say “three sheets to the wind.”
Most folks think it means a man’s drunk — stumbling, swaying, talking to ghosts that aren’t there. But it came from the sea, long before we had roads or rules. Back then, a sheet wasn’t a sail at all — it was the rope that held the sail steady. When one sheet came loose, the ship wobbled a bit. Two sheets, and she’d start to swing. But three sheets? That ship was gone to the wind — sails flapping, bow veering, no direction but wherever the wind pleased.

Sound familiar?

We’re taught this life is solid — nailed down, mapped out, something you can chart like the stars. They say tighten the ropes, stay in line, follow the course. But maybe the old sailors had it right. Maybe life ain’t meant to be held so tight. Maybe we’re meant to drift a little — feel the wind, lose our footing, and realize control is just a story we tell ourselves.

Out here in the cabin, the wind tells the truth if you listen long enough.
It doesn’t ask permission. It doesn’t need a plan. It just moves.

Maybe that’s what being “three sheets to the wind” really means. Not drunk, not lost — just free.

So if tonight feels off course, let it.
Pour another cup. Watch the fire dance.
And remember — even a ship adrift still moves forward…
just not the way you planned.