The movie In the Heart of the Sea recently opened in theatres around the world. It is a maritime thriller based on the book of the same name, written by Nantucket resident Nathaniel Philbrick. His book is based on a personal account written by Owen Chase, the first officer of the Whaleship Essex that was sunk by an angry sperm whale in 1820.

I have childhood memories of movies set at sea, of being enamored by a sea-soaked Spencer Tracy in the movie adaptation of Rudyard Kipling’s Captains Courageous. I recall a bearded Gregory Peck as Captain Ahab standing on the poop deck of Pequod, when Hollywood retold Moby Dick. The star of In the Heart of the Sea is Chris Hemsworth as Owen Chase. 

But my problem is that these three movies all portray the same thing: that the ocean is most often an unfriendly place. I loved Spencer Tracy, but he drowned. I hated Gregory Peck and he drowned too. I don’t know how I’ll feel about Mr. Hemsworth and his fate.

Other Hollywood movies take the same tack. Jaws made even going swimming seem a dangerous pastime. As for me, I know there are big fish out there, but I don’t think of myself as their meal.

In The Perfect Storm, the fishermen were nearly all portrayed as crazy. But the fishermen I know aren’t wild cowboys who drink a lot and ride their fishing boat through a storm like it was a wild steer. Fishermen I know are smarter, quieter and more highly regarded. Ashore, they hold town office, may appear in church during Christmas. And they don’t ship out from Edgartown when there is an approaching gale.

I prefer the more nuanced depictions brought forth in the books, and still find pleasure in reading the best parts of Moby Dick which, incidentally, isn’t all tied to an evil whale or a crazy captain. The beauty of that book is in being persuaded that I am there on the water. My feet feel wet. My hands are cold and my young friend Herman Melville is on watch for whales at the top of the mast.

Not that I haven’t had thrills at sea. In my early 20s, I recall crossing the North Sea in a rusty old freighter during a horrific storm that lasted days. That was my perfect storm. The wind and waves got so bad everything in our cabins and in the galley took flight. I remember sea water coming down the passageway and into my cabin. We were all too experienced to be seasick, but we were scared. Perhaps that unexpected adventure qualifies me for post-traumatic stress syndrome.

Now when the waves stack up, and the gulls fly in and out between the raging whitecaps, I prefer to stand shoreside to watch the approaching storm. Only later, when there is a light breeze behind me will I sail out of Edgartown harbor heading towards Nantucket Sound on a late afternoon. I’ll pull the plug on conflict, drop the lines of tension and distance myself from the raging voices and high drama of hostile traffic intersections on a hot August afternoon.

And that will be where my heart of the sea resides.