Chapter Five, SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

Chapter Five

Something More

It is nearly 10:30am, and foam is no longer splattering the deck. The squall, with its 11 - 13 ft breakers, has passed leaving less agitated crests, none over 10ft.  "So Chubasco, how did we do?"  A rude check assures me the vessel is in good order.  

An inquiry into my own physical and emotional wellbeing meets with a nod of self-approval.  Now that the fiercely shifting Near Gale winds have ceased, dropping to a steady Strong Breeze of around 25-knots I notice at no time did alert mindfulness shift into anxiety.  It could be I was simply too busy to be afraid.  Yes, but there was something more.  I think I just love this whole sailing thing so much that I didn't realistically consider the danger.  The Apostle John description of loves affect on the one in-love seems to apply, "There is no fear in love.  But perfect love drives out fear."

It's the old "love affect"...a confidence without certainty, assurance without reason, conviction without limits.  It's a trust without reliance on wits or experience, a knowledge of something unknownable, a faith without reservation.  That is the same kind of confidence I sense concerning the reception of an undebatable proof of God's reality waiting for me today, on this vessel transfer.

Seventeen miles ahead, in Mexican waters, the four Los Coronado Islands stand clearly under a low atmospheric vizier on the horizon.  Hoping to maintain a 165°m South-Southeast headings I point Chubasco’s bow toward the largest of them.  Two miles off our port beam the sheer rock face of San Diego's Sunset Cliffs stand glare-free under the thick low cloud ceiling, which seem to create a protected hallway for our down wind  passage.

Stowing my navigation gear marks a welcomed transition from calculating the course on a chart to the simple joy and freedom of visual navigation.

.

To me, sailing is much more than the intellectual challenge of plotting a specific course...as necessary as that is.  It's even more than the exhilaration of holding a steady course against the drift of ocean currents, more than the liberation of swaying in synch with frisky waves, beyond the delight of harmonizing sail trim with the power and direction of the wind.

As great as those mental and emotion rewards of sailing are, they are simply meager bonuses of something far more significant, an experience beyond physical, physiological, and neurological sensations.  It's the indefinable state known by all who have fallen in love with the magic of the sea...a transcendent connection with the energy and power of ocean...a union with the  immense forces of nature. 

That nearly spiritual connection opens a sailor's imagination (at least mine) to the possibility of a greater invisible force beyond the physical world.  It is the reality of an intimate spiritual communion with an Eternal force registered within the human heart.  It is the Spirit on the Sail within our soul.

The Hidden Ocean
The way I see it, the human heart contains a hidden ocean, more powerful in its silence than the fury of the mightiest sea, but recognized only by the adoration of faith.  Faith views beyond the material, as it gazes upon the non-material with eyes of the heart.

However in the absence of faith, God's presence remains concealed.  Unwillingness to believe with our hearts, even when His goodness and grace are most evident, we routinely mistake such exposures of His character for positive element of our own nature.  Without the recognition of faith His reality not only hides in plan sight, but becomes unrecognizably polluted by our own desires, lusts, and addictions.

Unfortunately, convincing someone of the possibility of God's place within the human heart is not a proof, any more than finding a round hole proves the necessary existence of a matching round peg.

Nevertheless, perfect love casts out all fear, including the fear of disappointment.  Holding Chubasco confidently on course, I fully anticipate "proof" is no further away than the marine behind Shelter Island.

Chapter Four SPIRIT ON THE SAIL C.F.

SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

Chapter Four

Sails in the Wind
The mainsail reefed and hoisted, the fuel valve switched off, the diesel sputters into silence, and I listen as the waves cheerfully splashes against the bow.   The wind whistle a shout of triumph through the rigging, "The battle is over." 

 Now under sail, Chubasco and I are no longer combatants against the elements, but partners in a graceful dance with nature.  In compliance with some universal etiquette, the bigger partner leads the smaller, so Chubasco and I yield to the will of our colossal host…not just willingly but joyfully.   

.
Before I relax in contemplation I must attend to a another duty.  The foresail (a Jib) awaits deployment.  It is rapped around the “forestay” at the bow on its self-furling device.  Access to the line to unfurl it rests within stretching distance of the helm.  In seconds, the appropriate amount of jib whooshes open and I pull it into trim.  

At last things are enough in shipshape that I can seriously consider our course.  It appears that even with all the repeated wandering in the wind we are still about where when we started the sail setting Fiasco...about a mile off of the Mission Bay channel. 

The kelp beds are not bad here.  However, sailing directly South toward our destination would bury us deep in the densest part of those beds.  So we turn Southwesterly at 215°m.  (“m” stands for a “magnetic” compass reading which is different than shown on the chart)  Another mile and a half on that course will allow us to clear the kelp beds.  Only then do we dare head in a more southerly direction.  

California’s kelp beds along San Diego’s coast extend almost two miles off shore and can really fowl keels and rudders.  I shudder, remembering the time I found myself completely stopped by a sold wall of kelp in those beds.

The Kelp-Trap

It happened on my first solo bay-to-bay boat transfer.  I was moving a twenty-five foot Catalina at the time, and instead of running south as today, I was sailing north from Coronado Island to Mission Bay.  The forecast was excellent, but inaccurate.  

A couple of hours out of Glorietta Bay, in the San Diego Bay channel the most beautiful puffy clouds came roiling over the crest of the Point Loma Peninsula.  By the time I reached buoy number five, a mile into the Pacific, the air fell dead calm.  The lovely cloud quickly crawled across the water smothering visibility in every direction.  I fired up the noisy engine, and pressed the bow into the billowy sheet of fog. 

Rather than retrace the sixteen miles I had already traveled, with its irregular shoreline, countless obstacles, and concealed shipping, I choice instead to complete my assignment and motor out on the open ocean.  “Why not?”  I had already plotted my course, a process ominously called, 
“Dead Reckoning”.  


With a chart, a compass, a watch, and ample fuel, I proceeded cautiously through the curtained passageway for another mile, where I found the next buoy.  From there, I set a course to the final buoy, still another mile further out.  This last buoy, the “S. D.” mid-channel buoy, emits a sound signal…a whistle.  However, the fog strangled its audible guidance to within just feet of its source.  Fortunately, the barking sea lions lounging on its platform, did pierce the muffled barrier.  I honed in on their yelping, nearly a quarter of a mile away.  Yet there were no more audible or visual points of reference from there until the Mission Bay channel buoys. 
.
I still recall being assaulted by plenty of sights and sounds though.  The varied densities of fog invited all sorts of visual illusions and after an hour, my ears, numbed by the steady rattle of the motor, detected numerous phantom ringing sounds and non-existent horn blasts. 
.
And then…IT happened.  A shadowy creature suddenly appeared out of the mist.  With no discernible horizon or references to determine relative size it was impossible to tell how large or far away the approaching Loch Ness Monster type creature really was, but he was closing fast on my position. 

 His menacing long neck protruding from a bulbous half submerged body boar all the characteristic of the extinct Plesiosaurus of the Jurassic Period.  He was obviously eyeing me as he came ever closer.  Tightening my grip on the lifeline, I steadied myself for the inevitable collision.  As it swam nearer and nearer it seemed to grow steadily smaller and smaller until the small waterfowl, called a Cormorant about the size of a duck, averted his vicious attack.  At the last minute that feathered fiend veered off to my starboard, and disappeared in the fog.  Actually, odd apparitions like that were a welcomed distractions from the monotonous roar of the engine and wide-eyed staring into nothing.

Neither the 25 footer nor I had a GPS, but I did have the old school navigation tools, a chart and compass.  Without them, it would have been impossible to reach our destination.  

However, I still needed to know our speed to discern the distance traveled.  Dead Reckoning depends on knowing the speed, time, and distance.  My compass and chart provided the direction, but I still needed to know speed and time in order to make appropriate course changes. 

 My watch gave me the time and a boat’s knot-meter (a nautical speedometer) would supply the speed.  With those two, a simple calculation determines the distance traveled.  However, neither the boat nor I had a knot-meter.
.
Unable to see beyond the bow there was still a way to judge the speed...look over the side and watch the water pass.  On that twenty-five foot vessel I watched an object float from stem to stern in 18.5 seconds (give or take some), which indicated the boat speed was roughly 3 knots.

My less than precise calculation led to an analysis, “Heck, I walk about that fast.”  So figuring walking speed at about 3 miles per hour or roughly 3 knots, that became my boat speed factor. 

Watch in hand, I counted down the time to each course alteration, of which I had one left.  If I guessed the speed correctly, I had already cleared the kelp with my last turn.  In four more minutes I figured my last course correction would take me straight to the Mission Bay channel, but…Whhaaamm!  

We stop with a smoooshing jolt!  “I guess we weren’t traveling at walking speed, after all.”  Arms of kelp, like the tentacles of a huge squid grasped the boat, all the way to the transom.  From what the fog permitted me to see, the kelp mat  actually looked thick enough to walk on.  Ignoring the paddle stowed below, I leaned back, snapped the engine into reverse, hoping the tangle of vegetation would not foul the propeller.  I gave it everything it had.  “We moved!”  Inch by inch, the vessel backed out.  I was thanking God, as the kelp released its grip on the keel and ruder, and we slid free.  That unwelcomed embrace lasted only moments but barred, forever, any desire for future intimacy in her bed.
.
The Real Game
The memory of that unwelcomed kelp hug is why today I am more than happy to stay two miles off shore.  Five miles off shore would make me even happier, but that would add an extra hour and a half to this morning’s shuttle.  Based on the small craft advisory announced for this afternoon, I want to shorten this passage, as much as possible.       
.
Surprisingly, the fleeting squall past an hour ago leaving a clear view of the coastline, under a canopy of thick but rainless clouds, overhead.  Visibility down here at sea level is well over thirty miles.  “I won’t need navigation tools today,” which is good, because the GPC on Chubasco is built into the electrical panel, down inside the cabin.  Given clear sight under these low clouds the way ahead is as familiar as a playground is to a neighborhood child.  

Realizing things are finally in order, the grin of a satisfied sailor widens under my gray closely cut beard, “Oh, I love this!”  It is like playing a game with God.  He tosses a breeze, we reach up to catch it, and fly across the unpredictable park, which He has designed for our pleasure.  Sometimes, we do well, sometimes not so much, but life is richer for having joined Him in the game. 

So then, the question is, "How is the One I am playing this game with provable?"  Out here, there are hints of His unseen reality everywhere.  It only stands to reason that surely He has provided proof.  As unrealistic as it sounds, I am confident He will show me that proof before I put Chubasco to bed, today.  

Chapter three, SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

Chapter Three

.
Slip and Slide
The ocean sleeping beneath us is rousing with a furious yawn.  Wind splattered mist suddenly covers Chubasco’s contours with streaking droplets.  Cloaked in fog, the sea seems irritated by our intrusion.  The aggravated giant slumbers no longer.  Riding on an increasingly agitated ocean is no time to contemplate proof of God’s existence.  

.
“Seriously Chubasco, did you invite one of your relatives?”  The name of this thirty-two footer is the Spanish word for a sudden violent squall with strong winds and rain experienced off the South American Pacific coasts.  Down there, those "Chubascos" are equatorial weather events, which usually contain lightning.  Fortunately, our San Diego coastal winds seldom exceed thirty knots and only rarely generate lightning.  

.
Nevertheless, my Chubasco’s mainsail needs to be reefed immediately. With the mainsail down and securely flaked on the boom the job, even without a crew, should be a cinch.  

All I need to do is point Chubasco directly into the wind, lock the wheel in place, so I can leave the helm and climb onto the deck.  The helm-lock serves as a brake holding the wheel in a stationary position so Chubasco doesn't straying off course.  Meanwhile, I'll simply work my way alongside the boom, and tie the lower third of the mainsail to it at five designated locations.

.
Gripping the helm-lock’s chrome knob, I give it a twist, and another, and then another…“it’s not working.”  In the absence of passengers, I hear myself doing something a captain never does...express frustration.  Even so, out of respect for Miss Chubby she only heard,
 “That’s disappointing!"  

.
Oh well, there is more than one way to hold the helm in place.  I just need two ropes.  No problem, I always carry extra ropes in my sea bag.  But I recall seeing extra rope in the cockpit seat-locker.  “I’ll use what the rental company provided.”
.
Unfortunately, by the time I attach the ropes to opposing stern cleats, stretch the free ends across the cockpit, and apply offsetting tension to the helm spokes; the wind, rain, and waves have grown more violent, tossing Chubasco erratically up and down and side to side, all over the place.  Commonly, the winds and waves come from the same direction but not now.  They are coming hard from alternating directions.  Not even a working helm-lock could hold Chubasco steady for long under these conditions. 
.
Taking a deep breath, I remind myself, “This must be done, now!”  Scrambling through the wind whipped, rain soaked, reeling deck; I cling to a place alongside the boom.  While tying the first of the reef points, my right foot slips as Chubasco pitches and rowels.  Hugging the mast, I feel both boots sliding. 
.
“What is going on?”  These marine boots are design to hold on wet surfaces.  "My plans don't include sliding overboard and swimming to shore in a storm."  

(In my haste I failed to even consider strapping on a life jacket or rigging up a safety harness.)  

It's mid-winter, and the ocean water temperature today is sixty-five degrees Fahrenheit.  A person swimming in these waters, without protective clothing, will experience hyperthermia and lose consciousness in less than two hours.  I'm to busy to calculate overboard to shore swim-time..."I'm staying with you, Chuby, but what's with the slime?  Did a dockhand apply some odd chemical when cleaning the deck?” 
.
Like a spider climbing the wall of a porcelain sink, I cling to anything offering connection to the boat.  Tying one reef I crawl back to the cockpit as the wind drives Chubasco broadside.  Reaching the helm, I yank the slipknots from the wheel, then turn us head-to-wind again. An oily film now coats my fingers.  “OK, where is this coming from?”
.
Dampened by ocean spray, one of the two ropes oozes some lubricating substance absorbed within its cords.  Moisture has spread the slime everywhere.  “No time to deal with that now.”  Re-tensioning the lines (Ropes performing a nautical function are called lines) I stabilize the helm, climb topside again, tie the next reef point, as Chubasco swings off course in the mixed winds and waves.  

.
A stolen glance reassures me that our wandering journey has not created some additional peril.  Thankfully, we are far enough off shore that no obstacles restrict our floundering path. Repeating this obstacle course three more times...at last, all the dashing to and from the boom has succeeded in securing all the reef points, and I regain control of the helm.

.

Hoist the Mainsail 

At last I can raise the mainsail.  This time Chubasco must not vary form head-to-wind or the main will get tangled in the lines of the “lazy-jack.”
  (The Lazy Jack is a pair of nets permanently attached to the mast and the boom that corral a descending mainsail bringing it to rest on the boom, rather than falling to the deck. It's just in the way when raising the sail.) 
 If Chubasco strays off-wind, the lazy-jack will tangle-up the main on its ascent.  

.

 "Here goes," I pull the halyard, and it doesn't budge.

.
 “Now what?”
.
Tracing the rigging I discover that someone has disconnected mainsail halyard from the mainsail, and  used it as that halyard to flying those darn code flags that I have been so proud of.  Normally decorative flags ride the aft stay on a separate halyard of its own, and definitely not attached to the mainsail’s halyard.  I'd love to, but I can't legitimately
 blame anyone for this predicament. It's my fault.  I should have struck those ridiculous flags before casting off this morning.

.
“Let’s get this over with.”
.  

Preferring cold wet bare feet to slippery boots, I kick them off.  Then lower and disconnect those ridiculous flags.  With one hand pulling the halyard, and the other grasping anything to stay aboard, climb to the deck again, and skate over the deck to the boom, weave the wind jerked halyard through the flapping crisscrossed lines of the lazy-jack, attach it to the mainsail. 

.

 Finally, the halyard is readied, Chubasco is brought head-to-wind once more, and the helm re-tied.  This time pulling the mainsail halyard only hoists the sail as far as the uppermost connection of the lazy-jack...it's jammed short of its prescribed height.  

  .
 “Are you kidding me?”
.
While weaving the halyard through the lazy-jack, I mistakenly lead the halyard under the last uppermost lazy-jack line, thrashing some 30 to 35 feet above me.  To correct it, the main must come down again, the halyard removen once more through the webbing of the lazy-jack, and reconnected correctly to the sail.  Re-doing the same course corrections, untying/retying the wheel, slipping and sliding, lines shaking and jerking, with serious hanging-on, I repeat the task again.  

Thankfully this time, the main glides to the proper height and instantly we are sailing.

“Really, we are sailing!” instantly.

.
Stationing myself at the helm, belaying those oily-ropes, I regain Chubasco's bearings and my composure.  

.

A moment for reflection gives me an opportunity to confess. "Chuby, do you know part of the reason I'm in your cockpit today was to commune with God, hoping to discover solid proof of God's mysterious spiritual existence.  But you know, I can't honestly recall a single instance during this ordeal when I consciously communicated with Him.  Did I? I don't think so.  It is possible I did, and don't remember."

Was I so much in the moment that I simply forgot to seek God’s help? Was I so confident that He was with me, that I felt no need to speak to Him?  I really do not know.  I am certain of one thing.  I did not command the winds and waves to be still.  I would like to think, it was kinda like being too busy looking for five smooth stones for my giant-slaying sling. 

"All I do know, there was no time to focus on proofing God’s existence.  Yet, right now, I am more than ready to take this time to thank God for getting you and I through this mess." 

Chapter Two, SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

.

Chapter Two

.

Chubasco
The old familiar planks of the
dock bounce and creak under foot as if rejoicing at the reunion of old friends.   The recognition of a few timbers I personally replaced brings a smile to my face.  This runway was my worksite, following a couple years internship at the customer counter here at Seaforth Boat Rentals.

This homecoming rouses another old acquaintance, the Great Blue Heron, who roosts here at night. She squawks a fleeting salutation, leans over the decking, drops out of sight in hidden flight behind the rows boats, finally rising into view beyond the stately princess I am to escort to her new thrown at Harbour Island in San Diego Bay.

Drawing closer, I recognize her.  She is my favorite charter companion.  "Chubasco" is her name.  A long cord of multicolored International Code Flags gracefully wave from low, near her stern, rise all the way to the head of her 48-foot mast.  Cradled among the smaller vessels, she is a standout.  Unwilling to spoil her regal appearance, I immediately decide not to strike the flags until we are at sea. As her skipper, I approve her ostentatious display.  Besides, at this hour few if any admirers will care that it is actually improper to display code flags while underway.  

.
When Catalina designed this C320 series, they compromised some performance to provide a large cockpit area and spacious cabin.  That is why her freeboard (height above water) rises a little taller than most and her beam (width) swells further aft than some.  Her cabin is so handsomely furnished that Seaforth holds some of its more important meetings there. Hardwoods, sleek fiberglass accents, with inviting dining saloon fabrics give her the feel of a small luxury suite.  Sleeping up to seven, she sports two private sleeping quarters with perfectly paired head and galley...all the comforts of home. 
.
With all that, her designers still kept her classic good looks.  She seems to be leaning forward as if anticipating our launch.  Sharing her enthusiasm, I jump aboard and whisper, “Are you ready, Chubasco?”  Considering our united destiny, it is only right to address a vessel by name.  A boat and her crew enter a union of shared purpose.  

This is not just a floating contraption that I bend to my will.  We work together, in harmony with the sea, hopefully reaching a common destination.     
.
Getting Under Way
By the time I go through a memorized checklist we have lost another thirty minutes.  Glancing at her standing rigging and the string of code flags once more, I determine we are ready.  If we hope to beat the forecasted storm we cannot take time to reef the sails here at the dock.  (Reefing is the process of shortening the sails so less square footage will be presented to a strong wind.)  Normally, I reef before launching, but the winds will still be light by the time we reach the ocean, so I'll see to it while underway.

.
Seeking confirmation for my desision I confer with Chubasco, “Chubby, is that OK with you, sweetheart?”  Nodding her approval in the gentle waves, the decision is unanimous.  Incidentally, I know her very well and she's not offended by the nickname “Chubby,” even though, it is not that popular with terrestrial females.  After all, this is not our first date.  Not only have Chubasco and I conducted many charters together, we even took a little vacation trip to Catalina Island, a while back.  We were both much younger then and have each experienced numerous other relationships since.  Nonetheless, there has never been any jealousy between us.  We maintain an honest open relationship, with the understanding that both, she and I have professional obligations that make exclusivity impossible.      
.
Jumping back on the dock I undo her bowline releasing her pretty nose from the dock, and secure it onboard to her lifeline.  Pinned, as she is, between two other vessels, fore and aft, I give her a little shove to clear the boat ahead.  Undoing the stern line, I hoist myself aboard before she leaves without me.  A short burst from the right-handed propeller, kicks us free of the dock to starboard, and we are on our way.  It is 8:36 am. 

.
 We are casting off a little later than I hoped, so I reassure Chubby, “Not too bad, Girl.”
.
Exiting Mission Bay’s Quivera Basin, the incoming tide flexes its most determined opposition at the narrow mouth of the basin.  Unimpressed, the healthy little Yammar diesel propels us effortlessly into the channel, passed the “No Wake” buoys, each fringed in long ribbons of seaweed, and we're on to the ocean.  

Proud Chubasco seems embarrassed, motoring down the channel.  Submitting to mechanical propulsion is disgraceful enough, but enduring the noxious exhaust fumes magnifies the indignity.  Realistically, if we were under sail now: head to wind, and against the current, we would be slowly tacking a zigzag path out the mile long channel.  To encourage her, I whisper respectfully, “This humiliation will last only a little longer.  Besides, just think of how magnificent you look with your fluttering International Code Flags.”

.
Finally, we brake onto the ocean, where sea and bay collide in full orchestration.  The crashing waves noisily trumpet foam high above the rocks.  Charging out upon the rising and falling Pacific, always makes me feel as small as a Lilliputiann. Unlike the tiny people in Gulliver's Travels, we seem to be climbing onto the back of a monstrous sleeping dragon.  With each inhale we are heaved high on an incoming swell, then drop again with the following exhale.  

.

Now that we are out here, it appears that an unwelcomed atmospheric feather has tickled the beast awake much earlier than anticipated.  The wavelets of this morning’s early gentle breezes are pinching-up into scattered whitecaps.  Abruptly, more numerous waves spout up, like inflamed goosebumps across the giant’s back.

.

Not waiting for Chubasco’s approval, I am already in motion, “I’d better reef the sails immediately before unfurling them, because this wind is rapidly climbing above moderate.”  (A moderate breeze is up to 16 knots or so.)  The sudden change, while exhilarating, has no effect on my naive certainty that this is going to be a piece of cake. 

.

 Nevertheless, my anticipated leisurely contemplated proof of God's existence is on standby, for now.  Instead, I need the reality of an intervening God to do what I should have done at the dock.  Perhaps, He will exert the care promised in the old saying, “God watches over babes and fools.” Because right now, I seem to fit into one of those two categories.

Chapter One, SPIRIT ON THE SAIL (3rd.Republication)

John B. Eppler

Saturday, September 26, 2015

SPIRIT ON THE SAIL Chapter One

SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

John B. Eppler

.

A sailor discovers proof of God's existence, while sailing from Mission Bay to San Diego Bay.  His experience offers hope to others seeking personal knowledge of the reality of God for themselves.
  .

.

SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

Chapter One

Tranquil Harbor
There she is…wrapped in morning fog. The mere sight of her renews the thrill of adventure. Though anxious to get an early start, my enthusiasm is restrained by the half-remembered combination locking the gate between us. 

.

Struggling with an uncertain numerical sequence cannot compete with the serenity of the moment, so I content myself with awaiting the arrival of the boat-rental staff.  Besides snug in my rain-gear, I seem to melt into the familiar haven of the marina basin, as it brightens in the damp dawn.  Foul-weather gear for sailing the Southern California coast is a bit extreme, but today’s ruff weather forecast has given me a rear excuse to try it out.

.
Normally, the sun pushes the mist offshore by mid-morning, yet later this afternoon, they have issued a small craft advisory.  They expect rain with thirty-five knot winds and ocean swells from six to seven feet.  Those conditions are no threat to a thirty-two foot sailboat, like the one I'm delivering today.  However, if it was a smaller vessels I would definitely heed the warning.  An early depart will assure a safe landing behind Harbor Island, before the storm arrives.  
Realistically, I do need to get underway soon, because my ETA is only a rough estimate.  The winds and the waves will dictate the accuracy of this four to five hour passage. 
.
Right now, the gently rolling mist here along the walkway barely rouses the sleepy palms, while in vain the dew seeks entry into my moisture shield.  Down on the bay, an uncommitted breeze caresses the mirrored surface, tickling it into an occasional sparkling dance. 

A fishing trawler, barely visible beneath the fog, groans with activity as a column of anchovy rich water empties into the bait barge floating alongside.  An array of disappointed seagulls, cormorants, and egrets swarm around the hatch, which completely swallows the flow.  Their anticipated cargo is actually destined  for the tanks aboard the sport-fishing vessels encircling the delivery.  

.

A single laughing seagull triumphantly takes to the sky displaying his stolen morsel.  Mocking his clan he seems to challenge the others to a twisting, banking, and swooping areal display. 

The haughtiness of that victorious seagull warns me to avoid any vulgar celebration when I accomplish both of the goals I have set for myself today.

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.

CaptainJohnE

captjbeppler.blogspot.com

View my complete profile

Powered by Blogger.

NO REVERSE, NO NEUTRAL from 6/30/2016

THE 2016 ELECTION

NO REVERSE NO NEUTRAL

.

No matter which side you are on, the 2016 USA election takes us to a less than desirable end.  We cannot stop the present political momentum.  However, bracing ourselves for the inevitable impact is a fruitless recourse.  

I am a sailor, not a politician, nor the son of a politician, but in my line of work, catastrophes are the norm.  A principle, I never admit to the passengers aboard a chartered cruise, but a principle I always include in my sailing classes is, 

“If nothing goes wrong, you’re not sailing.”

In that respect, sailing a boat is no different than piloting our ship of State.  Expecting calamities is an unavoidable part of the exciting experiment that is democracy.

.

The excitement on a charter usually includes seeing historic  boats, impressive yachts, military vessels and aircraft, and sightings of marine life.  Add to those elements a good wind, sunshine, and in the case of one mishap, a bachelorette party of fun loving young-ladies something going wrong is inevitable.  

I was able to keep a particular bachelorette party from what seemed an unavoidable dockside disaster caused by dockhands falling all over themselves to assist the lovely ladies at the launch.  However the departure was boring compared to the way the excursion ended.

.

 Returning to the assigned  berth tucked away at the back of the marina required that I power the thirty-two foot Catalina into a dead-end corridor, terminated by a riprap retaining wall of large jagged boulders.  Normally, my main concern is avoiding the expensive vessels lining the narrow approach leading to the empty slip at the far end of the dock.  

Entering the corridor under power one stops a vessel's forward momentum my putting the propeller in reverse, and hit the accelerator so the vessel can be backed into the slip.  So with the rocks a mere thirty feet ahead of us, and the dock only fifteen feet astern off our port beam, I simply put the engine in reverse and revved her up to stop the vessel so I can back it into place.  However, this time when I shifted into revers and hit the throttle, instead of stopping, the vessel surged recklessly forward towards the rocks. 

Something in the shift linkage had snapped and there was no revers or neutral, only forward!  Without reverse to stop us our forward momentum would crash us on the rocks ahead.  A starboard was blocked by a huge yacht laying on that side.  Turning to port at our present speed would create a turning radius so wide that we would smash into the dock, sink the boat, and conclude my sailing career.  

If I was going to crash into the rocks, the yacht, or the dock I would rather it be the dock.  At least the enthusiastic dockhands could rescue the women.    

.

In order to give us some room for a portside turn, I allowed the 32-footer to motor as far away from the dock as possible, without striking the rocks ahead, while at the same time maneuvering within an arms length of the yacht on our right.  When we could go no further, I spun the wheel hard to port and opened the throttle full bore.  The increased propeller speed caused a surge of water it be discharged putting additional pressure against the rudder set at a exaggerated angle when I spin the helm hard to port.  The resulting phenomenon is called “prop walk”…the increased clockwise spin of the prop enhances a vessel left turn.  With the prop at full speed, I hoped the 32footer would pinwheel on its keel, and fling the stern 180° around.  If  it worked, I could just miss the dock…if not I would ram the dock at full speed.

From the wheel, some 30 feet behind the tip of the bow, I could only hold my breath as I watched the dock disappear under the boat’s lofty bow.  An eternity passed as held throttle wide open, the helm hard to port, and watched.  

At last the dock reappeared on the other side of the bow, unscathed.  I had saved the dock, the boat, and my career…not to mention the young women.  Now I had to get us out of the marina and make different approach.

.

Breathing once again, I spoke to the party in the reassuring tone of one who experiences this kind if thing every day.  

"Please excuse the delay, but stay seated until we got the boat secured to the dock."

Because there was no neutral or reverse, I brought the crippled boat alongside another berth by turning the engine off and on, then calmly handed the amazed dockhand my stern line.  In an “all in a day’s sailing” manner, I thanked the women for their patience and helped them each off the boat.  

My farewell came close to expressing my sincerest sentiment, “It has been a real thrill to serve as your captain today.”  I guess they felt the same, because they each got in line and one by one gave their old skipper a big heartfelt thank you hug.  The tip they gave wasn't bad either.     

.

Our national problems are far more complex than salvaging a bachelorette charter and far less serious than sinking a nation.  However, as a nation, we really have no reverse, no neutral, no safe turn either left or right, and at our present uncontrolled pace we can not avoid the rocks ahead. 

Nevertheless, if we keep our wits about us, and not panic, there is a way out of this mess.  We must remain calm so we are open to the possibility of a solution.  Remember, “If nothing goes wrong, you’re not sailing.”