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..
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SPIRIT ON THE SAIL
Chapter One
Tranquil HarborThere 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.
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.
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.
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!"
.
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.”
“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.
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