THE WISE MAN AND THE SEA: EPICUREANS ON SEA STORMS, SHIPWRECK, AND CHANCE

Abstract

The idea that the sea is a dangerous and alien element in which one is at the mercy of higher powers, is deeply imbedded in Mediterranean culture, and has many parallels in Greek and Roman literature. From an Epicurean point of view, however, such higher powers belong to the realm of irrational beliefs which could threaten one's ἀταραξία (‘peace of mind’). What counts in Epicureanism is the rational calculus of all factors in order to minimize the influence of τύχη (‘chance’) on one's endeavours. This article explores how the Epicureans thought about the sea and its many dangers. It tries to establish under which circumstances the sage will travel by sea and gives special attention to Diogenes of Oenoanda's letter (fr. 71 + NF 214 + fr. 72 + fr. 70) about the shipwreck of Niceratus and his friends’ failure to minimize the agency of chance.

Introduction

For the ancient people of the Mediterranean region, the sea was an omnipresent, yet dangerously alien, element, an enchanting place where mankind could not venture without risking to fall prey to the awe-inspiring force of the natural elements.¹ As Socrates says in the Phaedo, they lived around the Mediterranean like ants and frogs around a pond,² ever so close to the sea, but never quite at home within the foreign element itself, let alone that they might ever be its master. Sea travel, then, is a dangerous business: often, one can travel without encountering any serious trouble, but there is always the fear that one day one's luck will run out and that, like Odysseus, one will find oneself beset with divine sea storms, dangerous shores, and horrible monsters from the deep. Yet, even without mythology's many maritime terrors, the sea itself and the unpredictable weather that agitates it have more than enough dangers in store for the unsuspecting seafarer.

It should be no surprise, then, that the Epicureans were also forced to acknowledge the presence of the sea, and to come up with a proper way to deal with its inherent dangers. In what follows, we will first take a look at the ways in which the ancient Epicureans thought about the sea and its duplicitous nature. We will then consider the topic of sea travel and explore whether and under which circumstances the Epicurean sage will travel by sea. Lastly, we will take a close look at Diogenes of Oenoanda's report on the misadventures of the shipwrecked Epicurean Niceratus. As we will see, this passage does not only shed light upon key aspects of Epicurean thinking on sea travel, chance, and friendship, but may also possess an interesting intertextual dimension when read in the light of the famous proem to Lucretius’ De Rerum Natura (DRN) 2.

The sea: calm but treacherous

To start with a positive note, it can be pointed out that the Epicureans liked the idea of the γαλήνη, the calm and placid sea, as a metaphor for the state of ἀταραξία that one should strive to achieve in one's own mind. Γαληνισμός (‘mental calming’) is what Epicurus encourages his reader to pursue in his letter to Herodotus.³ Yet, despite their positive attitude towards these soothing, and at times even enchanting, qualities of a tranquil sea, the Epicureans were also very much aware of its huge potential for treachery. Lucretius’ descriptions make it perfectly clear that there is a significant difference between beholding the sea from the safety of land and actually venturing out on it, having to face all the risks that this may entail. His words in DRN 2.552–9 are telling:

Compare what happens when many mighty vessels have been wrecked: transoms, ribs, yardarms, prows, masts, and buoyant oars are tossed this way and that by the vast sea; floating stern-fittings are seen along every coast – a lesson to mortals that they should resolve to avoid the shifty sea with its snares and violence and deceit, and always mistrust it when with seductive serenity it wears a treacherous smile.⁴

The calm sea offers a false smile with which it lures people away from the land.⁵ Fickle as it is, it may suddenly turn on the unsuspecting sailor and try to crush him with the almost limitless violence of its waves, which are powerful enough to reduce even the most sturdy ships to mere flotsam. As far as the Lucretian narrator is concerned, the people of primitive times were better off without what he calls the improba navigii ratio (‘the presumptuous art of navigation’).⁶

The sea, then, be it calm or by contrast wild and stormy, is a wonderful thing to behold from the safety of dry land,⁷ and if one happens to observe seamen struggling against the waves, one should derive pleasure from the fact that one does not share their miserable fate:⁸

It is comforting, when winds are whipping up the waters of the vast sea, to watch from land the severe trials of another person: not that anyone's distress is a cause of agreeable pleasure; but it is comforting to see from what troubles you yourself are exempt.⁹

The proem to DRN 2 is arguably one of the most famous passages of the entire poem. The description of the observer who enjoys the sight of the roiling waves is the first of three pleasant situations: (1) watching the sea from safe land, (2) watching a battle from a safe distance (DRN 2.5–6), and (3) observing the misfortunes of all sorts of fools with a thoroughly ataractic disposition, as it were, from the safe haven of Epicureanism's elevated and reinforced temples (DRN 2.7–13).¹⁰ The third option is, of course, the best of all, because it offers the sage pleasure and tranquillity at all times. The Epicurean observer looks down upon the foolish endeavours of his fellow human beings and rejoices in the fact that his wisdom allows him to make the right choices and to steer well clear from such precarious situations.¹¹ It would, in any case, seem that sea travel is put into the same category as being in a battle and the fool's pursuit of money and power. In fact, one could say that the former two bad life choices are often motivated by the foolish desire for unnecessary things like wealth and influence, as exemplified by the lives and deaths of greedy merchants who perish at sea and Roman generals who risk their lives on the battlefield in an attempt to win the fame and political prestige of an official triumph in the streets of Rome.¹² The fact that sea travel and military battle are put on equal footing is yet another indication that, as far as the Lucretian narrator is concerned, there is no such thing as a risk-free sea voyage.¹³ In battle one always suffers a high risk of being wounded or killed, even though some soldiers might be lucky enough to emerge more or less unscathed from any number of confrontations. In the same way, some seamen might spend their entire life at sea without any serious trouble, but one would be very unwise to forget that, although these people have been lucky, disaster is always ready to strike. The soldier who goes to war is well aware of the fact that he is partaking in an endeavour in which numerous others will do their very best to kill him in whatever way they can.¹⁴ Very few people would casually decide to go to war as if doing so were a perfectly safe activity. Yet, countless people embark on sea voyages for the most trifling of matters, never even considering that they are, in fact, putting themselves in peril.¹⁵ They are, no doubt, misled by the sea's deceptively calm surface, which falsely reassures prospective travellers that it has absolutely nothing to do with the terrible shipwrecks one may sometimes hear about. To the mind of Lucretius’ narrator, however, venturing out on the open sea is no less dangerous than going to battle, because, as we have seen above, the calm sea's alluring smile is never more than a mere subterfuge, hiding the promise of extreme violence soon to be unleashed upon the unsuspecting seafarer.

Will the sage travel by sea?

Does this mean that the Epicurean sage will never travel by sea, thus drastically limiting his own mobility? Epicureanism is a qualifying philosophy, where most practical precepts leave room for additional conditions and provisos.¹⁶ It is to be expected that in the case of sea travel, Epicurus’ philosophy once again refuses to deal in absolutes when it comes to the daily life of his followers.

In De morte, the later Epicurean Philodemus (fl. first century bc) offers us an insight into this aspect of the Garden's practical thinking:¹⁷

For what need is there to mention those who put to sea out of the love of learning, or the wise men who sail for the sake of friends? On the other hand, it is certainly natural both to criticize and to deem wretched those who spend their whole life on the waves through love of profit, and are sometimes plunged into the sea as a result, but it is their life that is pitiable, not their death, when they do not exist; while for those who sail on essential business, but meet with an adverse fortune, neither (is pitiable), especially as death at sea does not necessarily confer more violent sufferings.¹⁸

In this passage, he responds to the popular belief that it is somehow worse to die at sea than on land, on account of the fact that in the former case one's body is swallowed by the sea and cannot be retrieved by friends of family.¹⁹ This is of course ridiculous, so Philodemus argues, considering that there is no life after death and whatever happens to our body once we are dead is of no concern to us at all.²⁰ The question of whether someone who dies at sea is pitiable or not does not depend on (the place of) his death as such, but on the reasons for which he chose to travel by sea. Wrong reasons are, for example, those of merchants, who face the unpleasantness and the dangers of sea travel for the love of money.²¹ Although the Epicureans do not deny that it can be a positive thing to have a certain amount of wealth, it is no end in itself, especially if it involves toil or hardship, which makes it detrimental to the Epicurean goal of the pleasant life.²² The merchant who dies at sea is therefore a pitiable creature, but so is the one who survives, on account of the wretchedness of his misguided life. Yet, there are also good reasons to brave the sea. Educational pursuits, for example, can be an important factor in one's progress towards Epicurean wisdom.²³ If one is faced with the choice between staying at home where there is no Epicurean teacher at hand, or taking a risk to travel to where capable teachers can show the path towards true happiness, a sea voyage is a justifiable risk.²⁴ Travelling for the sake of one's friends is another reason for which one may take that risk. Friendship is, after all, a crucial part of Epicurean ethics, and the sage's willingness to take risks to come to the aid of his friends is well attested.²⁵ There are of course still other situations imaginable in which the urgency of essential business might outweigh the dangers. Philodemus himself, for instance, travelled not only from Gadara to Athens for educational reasons, but also from Athens to Italy, in order to avoid the turmoil of the Mithridatic War.²⁶ It seems, then, that the sage will brave the treacherous waves, but only if a rational calculus of all relevant factors shows that he has sufficient cause to do so. It should therefore be no surprise that Diogenes Laertius reports that Epicurus himself rarely travelled, and even then only for the sake of visiting his friends.²⁷

Yet, even then he cannot rule out the possibility of being shipwrecked. Epicurus himself is reported to have made a narrow escape from such a fate, as we read in Plutarch's Non posse.²⁸ Apparently, the School's master was sailing for Lampsacus,²⁹ presumably on a trip to one of his friends there, when disaster struck and his ship was almost engulfed.³⁰ Unfortunately, Plutarch does not give us much information about this near disaster, nor do any of our other sources offer us something that might help elucidate the Plutarchan testimony.

Rational calculus gone wrong: the case of Niceratus

A much more detailed account of an even narrower escape is reported by the late Epicurean Diogenes of Oenoanda (fl. second century ad) in a letter to a group of fellow Epicureans who, apparently, sent a friend of theirs by the name of Niceratus to convey a message to Diogenes.³¹ It seems, however, that the weather conditions were unfavourable for sea travel, and that, as a result, this Niceratus was caught in a storm and subsequently shipwrecked. Niceratus’ sea voyage was undertaken to visit an Epicurean friend, and as such one would be inclined to consider it an acceptable course of action. Yet, Diogenes’ letter is not only a description of what has befallen the hapless Niceratus, but above all a strong rebuke for his friends whose carelessness jeopardized Niceratus’ life. Although we do not know what message it was that Niceratus was supposed to bring, clearly Diogenes did not consider it sufficiently urgent to warrant sea travel with the weather conditions of that time of year.

The agency of chance

In the first part of the letter, Diogenes signals a key problem of sea travel: the agency of chance (τύχη).³² Although it would be convenient if the wise person could carefully arrange his or her life in such a way that nothing ever goes amiss, Epicurus, and with him Diogenes, acknowledge that chance is very much part of the reality we live in.³³ It is, however, a changeable thing that should never be relied on. As we see elsewhere in Epicurean texts, those who attach too much value to it suffer from all sort of vices and are, eventually, brought low again when their luck runs out.³⁴ Chance is described as similar to fire, which will rapidly grow to dangerous dimensions if it is given fuel (fr. 71 I.3–5), which is exactly what the fool does when he blindly puts his trust in mere luck. The only thing that allows us to minimize the impact of chance on our lives is φρόνησις (‘prudence’), the capacity to make a rational appraisal of all things and to check every choice and avoidance against the rational calculus of a course of action's advantages and disadvantages.³⁵ The sage, then, adopts sober reasoning (νήφων λογισμός) at every turn and avoids situations in which he is heavily dependent upon chance.³⁶ As a result, the matters that befall the sage on account of pure chance tend to be relatively small in number and importance. Even the sage might, for example, be caught unawares by a sudden shower of rain, or he might buy some clams and find upon opening them that they have gone bad. Despite his sober reasoning, he no doubt hoped and expected that he would stay dry or that he might be able to enjoy a delicious seafood dinner, but even if chance occasionally gets the better of him, these setbacks are so minor that they will by no means dampen his spirits or harm him in any significant way. Diogenes illustrates this point with a dictum that he ascribes to Epicurus himself: ‘it is seldom that [chance] impedes a wise man: it is reason which controls [and has controlled] the [greatest] and most important matters.’³⁷ The true Epicurean sage is not afraid of chance, but is also wise enough not to delude himself into thinking that he can completely remove it from his life: there are always things that he cannot foresee, or risks that he has to take because they are outweighed by the urgency of the course of action to which they are connected. In some cases, even the prudent sage may be harmed, although a systematic application of sober reasoning will reduce this risk to the point of negligibility (fr. 71 I.1–3). Obviously, the sea is a domain where many things can happen that lie beyond the sage's control, and where the influence of τύχη is more keenly felt, which makes Diogenes’ discussion of chance a relevant preamble to his letter about Niceratus’ shipwreck.

For the adherents of traditional Greek religion, there is at least the illusion of being somewhat in control whenever they leave the safety of dry land. The sea and the meteorological phenomena that agitate it are, of course, the province of the immortal gods, fickle entities who punish and reward mortals whenever the fancy takes them. There is, however, the idea that the gods’ behaviour is linked to our actions. We can anger them, but it is also possible to appease them through sacrifices and demonstrations of our piety. It is a system of do ut des: we honour the gods and in return they grant us safe passage through their domain. This also means that the shipwrecked sailor bears responsibility for his own demise: it is his failure to appease the gods that brought him to ruin.³⁸

The Epicureans, on the other hand, reject the idea of divine interference altogether. Meteorological phenomena can only be explained through the principles of atomism, even though we are mostly unable to determine which set of atomic principles it is that is causing a certain phenomenon.³⁹ That is where the Epicurean method of multiple explanations comes in:⁴⁰ the weather can be explained in various ways, without the need to fall back on superstitious fears about the gods.⁴¹ Yet, coming up with a variety of possible explanations for the occurrence of sea storms does not allow the ancient Epicurean to prevent them from happening, nor does it always provide him or her with a reliable weather forecast. The Epicureans tend to lack the sufficient meteorological data needed to determine which of their explanations is correct, let alone when a certain phenomenon will occur.⁴² As a result, the multiple explanations can serve as a useful ethical tool, taking away irrational fears, but are of very limited use if we want to be able to predict natural phenomena.

In all likelihood, a careful observance of the current weather conditions and the knowledge of expert seamen was absolutely essential for any assessment of the desirability of sea travel at a given time. Philodemus distinguishes between a superficial type of τέχνη (‘art, craft’) that philosophers may also acquire, and the specific τέχνη of the specialist on which they should not squander their time and energy.⁴³ It also appears that the philosopher is not shy to defer to the expertise of the second type of τεχηνῖται (‘craftsmen, specialists’) if he can derive benefit from it.⁴⁴ When it comes to matters of sea travel, the Epicureans will in all likelihood be more than happy to hear the advice of someone who is properly versed in ναυτικὴ τέχνη (‘seamanship’).⁴⁵ Otherwise, they risk entrusting their lives entirely to chance whenever they decide to brave the elements, bereft even of the superstitious person's illusion that his own religious actions might achieve anything at all.⁴⁶ In this light, it is easy to understand why Diogenes would place such emphasis on the importance of rational thought in order to minimize the agency of chance: the Epicurean who fails to do so is certainly not better off than the superstitious fool.

Chance and shipwreck

In the next part of the letter that has been preserved we get an elaborate description of the shipwreck itself, which vividly evokes the precariousness of Niceratus’ chances of survival.⁴⁷ Due to the fragmentary nature of the letter, we do not get to know how Niceratus’ ship happened to get caught in a sea storm. Instead, the account starts in medias res (‘in the midst of things’), describing how the vessel's passengers and cargo are tossed about (NF 214 II.1–5). Diogenes describes how the ship's passengers survive the night (NF 214 II.6–7), which is, so he adds, contrary to expectation (NF 214 II. 6: παρὰ δόξαν). Yet, their luck does not hold out, and the very next day the inevitable happens (NF 214 III + fr. 72 I.4–5: ἀνάνκη γὰρ ἦν). As the intensity of the storm increases, the ship itself is carried away towards the rocky coast of Syme, where it is smashed apart (II.8–NF 214 III + fr. 72 I. 5). Niceratus survives this through mere luck, as he is thrown into a fissure between the rocks, where the waves cannot reach him in full force. However, his survival comes at a cost. He is first thrown against the sharp rocks and, in Diogenes’ own words, crushed (fr. 72 II.4: συνετρίβη) and shredded (fr. 72 II.6: κατε{ν}ξάνθη), which is as one would expect (fr. 72 II.5: ὥσπερ εἰκός) under such circumstances, so Diogenes points out (NF 214 III + fr. 72 I.5–fr. 72 II.7). Eventually, the poor man, heavily wounded all over, reaches dry land, where he lies on his back, lacking the strength to move any further. In the end, he manages to survive, even though it is only by the end of the next day that help finally arrives (fr. 72 II.8–fr. 72 III.8).

The vivid description of the shipwrecked Epicurean who lies on a high vantage point (fr. 72 III.2: σκοπιά) by the stormy sea,⁴⁸ completely exhausted and dangerously wounded, offers a striking counterpart to the blissful Epicurean observer in DRN 2. Where the latter derives pleasure from the knowledge that he himself does not share the fate of those who are tossed about by the waves, Niceratus’ look-out point offers him an almost identical view, but the potential pleasure of the experience is tainted by the fact that he himself has just experienced the tremendous violence of the sea first hand. He might find comfort in the knowledge that he has escaped the sea, provided that his physical state even allows him to feel any comfort whatsoever, but the pure pleasure of the Lucretian observer is beyond his reach. If we read this part of the letter as a deliberate allusion to Lucretius’ famous proem, then Diogenes may be offering his readers a bittersweet variation upon the suave mari magno motif,⁴⁹ in which any experience of refined suavitas (‘pleasantness’) has been replaced by the raw agony and exhaustion of a wounded human being struggling to survive. Concluding his report of Niceratus’ fate, Diogenes emphasizes that the former's almost miraculous survival is not the product of any rational action or thought on the part of those who sent him, but entirely due to mere chance:⁵⁰

Now we [understand] the accidental, which did well what was [appropriate] to be allocated to you (for, my dears, [this] messenger is not dead who saved [this insight]). Then [it has] indeed [become clear that Niceratus is safe] by chance.

The description of Niceratus’ fate is in itself presented as an illustration of the changeability of τύχη (‘chance’): the shipwrecked passengers experience a rapid succession of events for better or for worse, sometimes in defiance of probability, at other times according to necessity. For Niceratus, the final outcome of the chance-driven process is that he gets to survive the whole ordeal, but Diogenes’ account clearly suggests that the result could easily have been very different. To rely on chance is pure madness. Yet, although it is chance that saves Niceratus, it is important to note that Diogenes never says that it was chance that put him in danger in the first place: his friends are the ones who bear that responsibility, due to their failure to properly apply νήφων λογισμός (‘sober reasoning’) before deciding to send Niceratus on his way. Instead, they let chance do their job for them, entrusting it with their friend's wellbeing. Diogenes’ remark that the accidental did that job well (fr. 72 III.10: εὖ ποιοῦν) is in all likelihood not without irony: chance has indeed kept Niceratus alive, but one can hardly claim that it also kept him from harm. If the friends had done their job themselves and had given due thought to Niceratus’ wellbeing, he would in all likelihood have stayed safely at home, without having to go through the unpleasant experience that left him ‘flayed all over’ (fr. 72 II.14–fr. 72 III.1: ἐγδεδαρμένος ὅλος).

Negligence and friendship

Diogenes’ rebuke towards Niceratus’ friends is severe in the subsequent passage. It would seem that Diogenes accuses Niceratus’ friends of two severe infractions against Epicureanism's core pillars at the same time.

First of all they neglected Epicurus’ teachings about φρόνησις (‘prudence’) and τύχη (‘chance’), giving fuel to the latter:⁵¹

So, [if] you had forgotten the doctrine, which we have expounded countless times, that the standard of our actions are the feelings of [both] pleasure and [pain], by reference to which we must determine [both the] avoidance of them [and the] pursuit of something else, do call it to mind.⁵²

Once again, Diogenes speaks with undisguised irony when he suggests that perhaps they might somehow have forgotten these basic doctrinal teachings in spite of the frequency with which they are expounded. We should bear in mind that Epicurus’ letter to Menoeceus in which this doctrine is expounded ends with the explicit admonishment to rehearse these and similar precepts literally day and night.⁵³ A failure to heed Epicurus’ own advice is, of course, highly unacceptable. Clearly, there is no valid excuse for this sort of misstep, as far as Diogenes is concerned. If Niceratus’ friends are wont to forget even the most basic of Epicurean guidelines, they are found lacking as Epicureans and should immediately start rehearsing the relevant doctrine.

Second, their behaviour might be even less acceptable if they did not forget the Garden's position on chance, but deliberately ignored it when they decided to send Niceratus on a sea voyage. Although only the first lines of Diogenes’ response to this second possibility have been preserved, the extant text gives us an idea of the general thrust of his rebuke:⁵⁴

But if you remember it (sc. the Epicurean teachings on chance), what got into you, my blessed friends, that you embarked on an action such as this, which has given rise to feelings painful to Niceratus and painful to us on account of his misfortunes? For is your claim that you have a firm grasp of the doctrine, but that with regard to the decision of sending the man to us or not sending him, whether it had to be done [or not - - - - - -] Nic[eratus - - -].

The friends’ failure to observe one of the School's basic principles caused great suffering, not only for Niceratus, but also for Diogenes himself, so it appears. Forgetting core doctrines is bad, but it may be an even graver infraction if the failure of Diogenes’ addressees to observe Epicurus’ teachings is a case of negligence with regard to the wellbeing of a friend. Friendship is, after all, one of the core pillars of Epicurean ethics, and despite Epicureanism's egocentric traits, friendship seems important enough to allow the sage to make efforts that he might not even undertake for his own sake. He does extra work to ensure that he can provide for his friends,⁵⁵ and is always ready to share everything he has with them.⁵⁶ Moreover, he is prepared to suffer and sometimes even to die for his friend.⁵⁷ The firm knowledge that the Epicureans have friends who will immediately come to their aid whenever the need arises is the armour that protects them against fears and insecurities that might otherwise threaten to compromise their ataractic state.⁵⁸ All of these claims are, of course, not entirely unproblematic, and their compatibility with an egocentric philosophy in which friendship is above all instrumental for one's own happiness continues to be debated.⁵⁹ However that may be, it is crystal clear that the Epicurean sage will care for his friend's wellbeing and will under no circumstances jeopardize that friend's life if he can help it.⁶⁰ Unfortunately for Niceratus, that is exactly what his friends seem to have done with his life, thus violating one of the core foundations of Epicurean friendship. The fact that Diogenes mentions that he himself has also been grieved by the events illustrates how vulnerable the Epicurean network of friends can become when one of these friends fails to behave the way a good friend should. As a proper Epicurean friend, Diogenes himself finds it unpleasant to hear about the harm that has befallen Niceratus,⁶¹ must have felt sympathy for him,⁶² and may even have had to take care of him, heavily wounded and robbed of all money and possessions as Niceratus must have been after his misfortune.⁶³ It would seem that the negligence of a few people can sometimes harm the larger Epicurean community, especially if these people are expected to act in accordance with Epicurus’ teachings, but fail to do so.⁶⁴

Conclusion

Τύχη (‘chance’) is a fickle mistress, indeed, and one to which no one should be ready to trust one's life, nor that of a friend. Especially when it comes to sea travel and the many dangers that flow from it, one should take great care to minimize the influence of chance. The Epicurean sage will sometimes find himself in a situation in which it is beneficial, or even downright necessary, for himself or his friends to venture out on the open sea, but he will only commit to such a course of action if the correct application of νήφων λογισμός (‘sober reasoning’) has shown that the weather conditions seem relatively favourable and that the advantages of making this voyage outweigh the potential risks. However, if dark clouds can be seen to gather on the horizon or if the errand is not very urgent, nor particularly beneficial, the wise man will just turn around, find a nice vantage point with a view of the sea,⁶⁵ sit back, and enjoy the awesome spectacle of churning waves from the blissful safety of dry land.