I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship; and though the winds are rough, and the sky is dark, I keep my little helm steady, watching the waves with all my might, for I have faith that I shall reach the harbor at last, if I only work on bravely and wait.
Older Amy turns courage into practiced seamanship. The extended metaphor enlarges the familiar ‘storm’ image into a whole scene of craft. Agency lives in the steady hand, not the calm sea. In the novel, this signals her shift from showy elegance to disciplined poise. It also redeems earlier vanity as attention and effort. Readers hear a promise that skill grows by weather. Hope is not passive here; it rows.