Shuttling a 32-foot sloop from Mission Bay to
San Diego Bay is the most obvious goal, but personally even more important is my intention to use those hours of solo
sailing, to explore a nagging question. It's not just why I am completely convinced that God
is real, but “What is my proof?”
My own certainty is not what troubles me. I arrived at my faith a long time ago, at the
age of 28. The problem is how can I prove God's existence to others?
Here in San Diego, people “living the dream” simply dismiss my personal testimony
as a ridicules notion, the delusion of an irrational mind, and devoid of any proof. In this aquatic paradise, where desperation vanishes with the 10:00
AM marine-layer, unproven claims like mine are easily ignored as the babblings of another old man who has lost touch with reality. Oddly, I believe that today, while on this
delivery I will discover that illusive proof.
.
Taking a deep breath, here outside the boat rental office, I
brush my callused fingers across my sunburned nose to fully sample the salty fragrance of
Mission Bay. Not that the aroma is so yummy...it is not. I want to experience all I can of this enchanted place, as it casts its early morning calm over
everything.
.
The charm, includes that old drowsy sea lioness, napping near the bait-barge. She is a permanent resident, floating on her back with her flippers
extended up in the air, as I might stretch when getting out of bed. Her
pup barks, splashes,
and jostles her, until she joins him in early morning playtime.
.
Most professional charter boat captains would
resent giving up their off duty time to do a free vessel transfer…but not
me. I leap at every sailing opportunity that comes my way. I am one
of those captains the others deride as, “a boat-whore.” At sixty-five, I look like an old seadog, but I have only been a professional skipper for
five years. I have the reputation of sailing anything, anytime, almost anywhere. Sure, I receive no pay for this transfer, but the way I see
it, they are offering me a day of solo sailing along the beautiful Southern
California coastline. Of course I'll say, "Yes!"
.
Besides, I owe a debt to Seaforth Boat
Rental. They were instrumental in launching my professional sailing
carrier. Doing a routine excursion may become a mind-numbing bore someday,
but that day for me is still a long way off.
.
The sounds of keys jangling at the rental-office door deflate my floating thoughts. Julia, the beautiful young blond office staff person, finally arrives.
When I see her, I almost embarrass myself, by leaping to attention. If
she didn't know me better, she might think my excitement had something to do
with her short-shorts, Polo shirt, loosely flowing tresses, charming smile, and
warm greeting. However, she's heard my customary disclaimer. I all ways tell the many pretty girls I work with in this industry, “If I ever express any appreciation for
your appearance, I am NOT ‘hitting-on’ you.” I then go on to state the obvious, “I’m too old for your mother!”
.
“Good morning Captain John. What brings
you here so early?” Julia asks.
.
Throttling any indication that I formerly held her
office job, I explain my assignment.
With measured hesitation, I reach for the boat key and inquire about the
forgotten gate-lock combination. Then with key in hand and combination in mined, we exchange best wishes, and I am out the door.
.
Fantasy
to Reality
That odd
“former-employee" awkwardness still haunts me. In my mind, working here was simply act of God, proving Himself to me one more time. At the age of
fifty-nine, I escaped from the landlocked flatlands of the
Mid-West. Even though overripe with years, I landed a job with Seaforth
Boat Rental, the largest boat rental on the West coast. They rent several hundred boats from their five
locations, here in sunny San Diego.
.
Seaforth was not my first employment
opportunity. Our family was settling into our new place on the hills
above Mission Bay, when I came home announcing that I had accepted a job on shore. Patsy, my wife of thirty years,
asked with skepticism,
.
“What kind of job?”
.
Two thousand miles from any professional
and social network, I was pleased to find any employment. “Yes, it was a
factory job,” I told her, “with a forty-five minute inland commute, at just
above minimum wage in a desert canyon community called El Cajon,” which is
Spanish for, The Box.
.
I explained, “Who cares? At my age it’s
work and a paycheck." I further informed her, “I start tomorrow.”
.
In defiance, Patsy countered, “No You Don’t!”
.
Stunned, I listened as she told me, “You are
hard enough to live with, now, and doing that you will be intolerable. I
will not have it.”
Giving me no time to compose myself, she then
commanded, “Get in the car! A boat rental company on the Mission Bay is
hiring and we’re driving down there…Right Now.”
.
My silent compliance was as much from me
trying to process the idea that I could be hard to live with, as it was from
the fact that I secretly nursed a fantasy of working with boats. Though I
never confessed the silly dream to her, I bragged to friends before leaving
Illinois, that if I was unable to re-establish my former business out here, I
would get some entry-level job with some kind of boat rental place near the
ocean.
.
While Patsy waited in the car, I took my place
in the interview line, with some of San Diego's most attractive young
women. Even though my resume was brilliant, my clothes fit perfectly, my
athletic build proclaimed good health, and enthusiasm gushed from every pore, it still looked like I was in the wrong line. At the close of my interview, the
young single male manger courteously informed me,
.
“You don’t have the profile we are looking
for. Besides,” he explained, “You would likely find it hard to fit in
here, with your obvious strong work ethic.” Leaning forward he confessed
with a grin, “Frankly, most of our summer crew are here just to have a good
time.”
.
“Well then,” I said, “you might find it
refreshing to have someone like me working for you.”
.
I noticed he took a moment to think that over.
However, shaking my hand, he politely informed me he would consider my
application along with all of the others, but that he had many more candidates to interview
before making his decision.
.
I rejoined Patsy in the parking lot, admitting,
“I really want that job.” Taking her
hand I said, “Let’s pray.” I ended our petition with, “The most I can
realistically ask for, God, is that my application be on the top of the
pile. Amen.”
.
I informed the factory employer, I was unable
to take their offer, and I waited. Some
time passed, and Seaforth did call, but only to inform me that the positions
were filled. Their procedures required
them to hold the unapproved applications for six months if the applicant
requested it.
.
“Yes Sir, oh yes, please do!” I insisted. “I really want to work for
you guys!”
.
Not more than ten to fifteen minutes later the phone rang again. It was Seaforth, “If you still want the job,
one of the three new hires is unable to take the position. I called you
because…well, I don’t know, exactly. I guess it was because your application was on the
top of the pile.”
.
And so, five years later I am a San Diego boat-whore, who is setting sail to discover proof of God.
