Chapter Ten, SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

Chapter Ten

Entering the Marina

Chubasco’s sails swell wide here in our downwind approach along the arch of Harbor Island’s shoreline.  We both seem to take a deep breath of satisfaction with our pre-storm arrival at the marina entrance.  Yet for me the contentment is only partial.  A mixture of success and failure furrow my brow as I bring Chubasco about, head-to-wind, fire up the engine, and strike her sails.  

Chubasco almost seems to whimper sympathetically as the wind buzzes over her naked shrouds (The cables supporting the mast).  Stoically she holds steady, while I make sure her mainsail is neatly flaked, cradled within the lazy-Jack.  Then, with her fenders arranged, I swing her back around toward the mouth of Sunroad Marina.

Gliding into the marina corridor, row after row of slips filled with impressive vessels nod respectfully behind a roofless colonnade of white concrete pylon sentinels.  Like a military troupe under inspection, each pylon stands silently in line bearing the alphabetic insignia of its column, from Z to A.  

Conscious of Chubasco's dignity, I deliberately straighten up so I don't detract from her royal entry.  After all, it's not her fault I failed to discover empirical proof of God’s existence. 
   

A lighthearted voice from somewhere inside the columns greats us, “Ahoy, Captain John!”   Without actually seeing Gus, a fellow charterboat captain, I answer back, "And ahoy to you, cap'n Gus."  It is amusing that sailors actually greet each other with “ahoy,” but such foolishness is well received within the small professional maritime community here in San Diego.  We are just a bunch of guys, and a few gals, who prefer playing with boats, rather than making a real living.

“What’s up?” he yells as we cruise by. 

“Ho, just a boat transfer for Seaforth.”  I respond adding, “What’s up with you?”

Almost apologetically he answers, “Oh, you know, winter…doe’n what I can.”  Passing on to “C” dock, I wave, and yell over my shoulder, “See y’a on the water." 

Now out of Gus' sight, I feel the need to accept my defeat.  “O.K., I give up, Lord.  Why can’t I just leave it at that…should I?  Yet, it seems incredible to me that You really left us with no readily observable empirical proof of your existence?  Is that the end of story?”

I'll be forced to fall back on the old arguments of the ages, which are completely ineffective today.  They point to evidence, which may satisfy those of us who are already convinced, but offer not one shred of universally personal first-hand belief changing experiential and observable proof of God's reality to an unbeliever.

Chubasco’s slip is number thirty-five, some distance down the row on "C" dock.  Thankfully, there is an   unoccupied pier connected to the "C" dock entrance.  I decide to press Chubasco’s finders against the landing, temporarily lash her there, while I scroll down to slip #35.  

Here it is, but it is occupied.  However, the one next to it is empty.

“Either, I have the wrong slip number or there is an intruder in Chubasco’s space.”  

Puzzle Solved
Unwilling to move the offending boat without authorization, I take a few moments to check things out.  "Well that's strange."  Slip 35 has no electric outlet, but the empty one next to it does.  Part of my instructions included recharging the onboard batteries from the slip’s shore-power outlet.

 “I’ve got the wrong number.  I’m claiming the empty slip for Chubasco.”  

Feeling rather pleased with myself I swagger back toward my waiting sloop thinking, “Why am I almost giddy about such a simple conclusion?”  Sure, settling the mix-up now beats solving the problem while on the water.  In this wind, even a brief hesitation could jeopardized a clean landing.  Yet, my euphoria seems unrelated to the slip.

Slowing my pace I reason, “What is it?  It's as if I'm aware of something now, I wasn’t a moment ago?"  Puzzled, I cock my head to one side, as if tilted, might drip some clarity down to the low side.  "Come to think of it, I did observe a feature originally overlooked, which resulted in an actual proof."  Truly experience shapes beliefs.

I sense that if God really wanted to be recognized, like Captain Gus, He would be waving and shouting to get our attention, but we simply don't see Him.  "That’s it!” 

The rest of the way back to Chubasco I find myself skipping and shouting in the wind and rain, “I’ve got it, I’ve got it, I’ve finally got it!"  I have not recognized God as God, though He has been yelling and gesturing to all of us individually the whole time.  

Universally Observable
God is right here, signaling us each one by His Spirit from within.  What more proof do I or anyone else need. “True, He is not a material object, like an electrical box on a dock, but spiritual reality does not consist of objective ingredients.  Yet, His existence is not merely a subjective mental experience either.  On the contrary, His reality is so completely universally observable that it is overlooked, and mistaken for natural qualities of the human species.

God is Spirit.  He is constantly waving is immaterial arms of holy love to our human spirit.  His holy love exists, and not at all natural.  It is a supernatural quality.  A quality of God's reality displayed within every human heart.  

Experiences of His presence is also heard, "Do this, don't do that!"  No matter where we think that voice comes from it exists within the heart of everyone, approving some things while rejecting others.  It's source is spiritual.

I stop at the end of the dock and lean against Chubasco, as a rapid procession of thoughts brake through some neural dam.  Streams of ideas flow into well-worn channels of memorized scriptures,  and then pour into fresh pools of understanding. 

Verification Flood
The first combination of scripture to rush forward are from Romans. “God's invisible qualities - His eternal power and divine nature - have been clearly seen, being understood from" (also translated by) "what has been made,” (Sense we are the only things "made" that have the capacity to see and understand such things the reference is obviously human beings) "so that people are without excuse."

 Amplifying that verse, the one before it describes the invisible qualities we see in God's Divine Nature;  "faith, hope, and love, and the greatest of these is love."  

Seeing Love in our heart is actually us looking at God's Divine Spiritual Nature.  His perfect self-giving goodness is not natural to humans.  The same is true of two other qualities mentioned there; faith and hope.  These three are parts of God's Self-exposure seen by our human spirit. 

The other quality mentioned is His Eternal Power...God's ever-present moral authority.  The voice we hear that rules on what is good or evil, is God's Spirit.  Cultural anthropologist of course, ascribe the source of morality to other sources, but they cannot deny that humans all have this basic ethical screen.  This is a quality beyond material reality, which rightly belongs to the supernatural.  That voice is actually God's moral authority, shouting demands over our conduct, directing us to accept what is right and reject the other.  Sensing that ethical imposition is an first-hand experience of God's Eternal Power.

Those qualities (Divine Nature and Eternal Power) are not, as we imagine, characteristics of our better nature or aspects of human virtue.  The invisible and inaudible qualities of God are made known when faith hope, and love are observed, as well as when our heart hears a thing  declared good over evil.  These are invisible and inaudible revelations of God Himself within and to us. 

Taking Her Home

While awash with related ideas a moisture laden wind stretch Chubasco’s mooring lines.  “I almost forgot what I’m supposed to be doing.”  

As I release her lines, the breeze pushes her off the dock.  Leaping aboard, I spur her with a short reverse blast, which spins her counterclockwise off the pier.  Her pretty nose now aligned with the waterway between the slips, I shift her into forward.  

 Almost dizzy with the realization that the God of the universe actually stepped in and satisfy the quest of an old confused boat captain, I turn my rain drenched face toward the splattering storm.

“Thank you, Lord.  We've arrived, and You granted the proof I sought.”

“Oh, and thank You, for beating the storm.” 

With sufficient engine power to keep us moving forward, and still offset the wind pushing us portside, Chubasco compliantly enters her slip.  A final reverse propeller-blast settles her in without a fuss, and at last she calmly rests in her new home.  

            

Chapter Nine, SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

Chapter Nine

Fluky Winds

The normally calm San Diego Bay has unusually "fluky" gusts swoop down from Point Loma's crest today.  They are splattering the surface with a mix of contrasting ripple zones running all over the bay.  From Chubasco's helm it is easy to detect the boundaries, direction, and speed of the otherwise invisible fluctuating winds.

Satisfied the hatches, gear, lines, cleats, winches, and handle are all in order, Chubasco and I slip by Ballast Point.  In anticipation of first gust I tighten my grip on the jib sheet in my right hand and hold the cleated main sheet loosely in my left while I manage the wheel.   With a flip of the wrist I can instantly ease or tension either line the moment a gust strikes.  

"Chubby, trust me we are much safer not having a crew."  A split second delay between command and crew response could turn a challenging sail, like this, into a risky one.  

An evaluation of my personal readiness, I realize I'm unconsciously clinching my teeth.  "Why am I so tense?"  It might be a residual caution from a deliberately repressed memory. After all, a couple of years ago in very similar conditions, here on this same bay, I almost lost my life.

Traumatic Regatta

It happened in one of the most exciting events the charter sailing business offers, a corporate regatta.  These events can involve several dozen boats and hundreds of guests.  The participants function as crew members aboard sailboats, in a race skippered by U.S. Coast Guard Licensed Captains.  Win or lose everyone, including us captains, have a lot of fun.

As is true in most of those events, the participants were for the most part non-sailors.  Disorientated by the novelty of sailing, they often become hopelessly confused at the simplest command; “pull” results in a push, “duck” prompts some to standup, “climb to the outside rail” causes a few to slump amidship.  The muddle is quite entertaining, so I carefully emphasis all operating procedures, especially jib-sheet winches operation. 

(·A Jib-sheet is the line attached to the foresail, which when pulled tight puts tension on the foresail and when eased, releases the tension.   
·The winch is a spool shaped device that provides mechanical assistance in tensioning the sheets.)  

Responding to the command, “EASE SHEETS” becomes impossible to obey when a sheet is stuck on its winch.  Therefore, my instruction that day, as always, went something like this:

“Wrap the jib-sheet only once or at most twice around these small winches, more than twice will causes the sheet to overlap, bind up, and get stuck so tight that it can’t be released on command…so wrap it no more than twice!”    

That day, like today, the winds were extremely fluky.  As we headed to the starting line an unusually gusty blast flexed its muscles against the fleet.  One captain had to return to the dock with a torn sail.  Another became so alarmed that he struck his sails, and returned to the marina as well.  The rest of us positioned our boats some distance from the starting line so we could cross the line at full speed.  

My boat actually needed to reduce its speed to keep from crossing the line before the starting gun sounded.  So, I gave the order, “Ease the sheets!” 

Unfortunately, the winch operator could not release his line.  Thinking, if two wraps provides some mechanical advantage, surely more wraps would be even better.  In his enthusiasm he wrapped the sheet around the winch four times.  Naturally, it was stuck tight in an overlap.  

I brought the vessel into the wind to take some of the pressure off the sheet, assigned the only experience sailor to the helm, and sprang to the offending winch.  Hoping a sharp upward jerk would free it, I gave it a hard hank, but no luck.  However, it did yielded just a bit.  There in the gusting wind, I crouched over the device to give myself maximum leverage, wrapped the tail-end of the line securely around my hand so it wouldn't slip through my fingers, took a deep breath, and lunged upward with all my might…

…Suddenly, I was in the hallway of the Norfolk, Virginia church I once pastored.  I recognized that hallway because when I blinked my eyes open, my face was pressed firmly against it's unusual navy gray-green color.  “It sure is dark in here.”  I thought, “The janitor must have turned out the lights.”  Soon, I heard a bubbling sound, “It must be coming from down the hall?”  As I listened more carefully, I realized, “No, It’s bubbling right in my ear.”  It occurred to me that something was extraordinarily wrong…   

...The next noise I heard was a strange squishing sound.  I recall thinking, “What am I hearing?”  Seated, I moved my left foot.  “There’s that sound again.”  I began connecting my foot movements with the noise.  My canvas deck-shoes bubbled with a squishing sound each time I moved my foot.  Then I began feeling wet, “Hay,” I noticed, “My sock is wet…both socks are.”  Next, I was aware that my knee was cold and my pants clung awkwardly to my legs.  Confused I realized, “My pants were all wet too.”  My undershirt was soaked as well.  I  was also wearing an unfamiliar sweater over my wet shirt, but it was completely dry.  It was all very odd.  

As more sensations awakened, I realized I was shivering.  Then gradually, my vision expanded to include shadowy beams of sunlight streaming through ceiling to flower windows.  “I’m in some sort of lounge.”  It looked like an airport gate lobby, with rows of people seated all around.  

More than a few of them seemed interested in me, so I nodded to several of them.  However, there was so many unfamiliar faces giving me special attention that I grew extremely uncomfortable.  Almost in panic, my eyes darted from fave to face, until they fell on the deep brown compassionate eyes of an attractive brunette seated nearby.  For several soft moments I let her friendly gaze calm me.  Yet, after a while, I began to blush.  It seemed inappropriate to be so absorbed in the eyes of a stranger, so I smiled and look away. 

That is when I noticed John Southerland, the manager of the downtown Seaforth Boat Rental’s, seated right beside me.  Bewildered I wondered, “What is Southerland doing here in the airport with me, or wherever ‘here’ is?”  

Unable to make sense of any of it I turning to John and asked, “John, where are we and why am I all wet?”  He told me that this was the second hospital we had visited today and that I had ask that same question over and over again at least a hundred times already.  Little pieces of conscious slowly stretched into a more steady stream.  It was months before my memory returned to what I consider normal.

I finally understood that when I lunged upward to free the sheet, an unexpected gust hit the mainsail with such force it drove the metal boom at devastating speed across the boat, crashed into my temple, knocking me unconscious overboard.  The frantic crew, after several minutes of looking for my body floating in the water, finally traced the sheet, which was still wrapped around my hand.  I was penned upside down, unconscious underwater, with my face mashed against the boat’s hull, and my feet dangling at the surface.   

A Spiritual Overlap
 Undoubtedly the reason I am grateful we have no crew today is that misguided winch operator.  It is somewhat reasonable that he assumed, if a few wraps around a little winch is good, more wraps is better. Yet, with that event behind me, I don't believe my nervous anticipation is much more than game day jitters athletes commonly experience.  Yet I do feel the need to check in with God, and all is well.

Still trying to play down any annoying anxiety I convince myself that these gusts pose no serious danger, even if they do restrict focused thoughtful reflection.   At least none of today's fluctuating blasts appear to be much over twenty-five knots...well within Chubasco’s capacity.  "What sailor wouldn't love to test their skills in an obstacle course like this one?"

Watching gusts rake the surface, I see the first big wind-shift heading our way.  It strikes the sails with unexpected furry, leaning Chubasco sharply to one side.  I quickly ease her sheets dumping the excess wind from the sails.  Chubasco automatically springs back up as if she merely stumbled.  With out a doubt, if I am not paying attention, these bursts could unceremoniously round Chubasco up into the wind, while embarrassing, that in itself is harmless.

The atmosphere start to glisten as the clouds droop low sponging Chubby's deck and my beard with moisture-thick air.  Chubasco is making outstanding progress as she tames one feuding gust after another.  

There in the mist ahead, I see a large patch of consistent wind rushing evenly along the curvature of Shelter Island.  The stable air along there extends all the way to Harbor Island.  Getting into a secure steady wind, does allow time to adjust my rain-gear, clean the oily residue off my boats, and formulate a plan for striking the sails.  The marina requires entry under engine power.

As the distant marina entrance comes into view I must face the fact that only half of today’s goals are nearly completed.  Thoughts of self consolation surface as I admit my disappointment.  "I expected the empirical proof of God's existence would have been revealed by now."

"Have I actually been deluding myself?  Was I mistaken to believe God, Himself, set this goal in my heart?  Yet, I'm still convinced an actual proof is as obvious as ripples prove the approach of an invisible gust.  What am I am overlooking?  Maybe what I need is another good hit in the head...a good hit in the head?"

Pulling my foul weather gear close around my neck, I'm reminded that spiritual truth is not detected with the head.  Perhaps, like a disoriented  winch operator who assumed that if a few wraps are good more is better.  I have allowed myself to assume that if a little mental effort is required, more is better.  But spiritual truth is not intellectually discerned.

"I bet God's spiritual proof is stuck in an overlap around my mental winch."  The mind, like a winch, is meant only to assist.  While the intellect is a necessary aid in spiritual pursuits, it is not well suited to the discovery of spiritual reality.  Of course it would be unhelpful to completely sweep all mental and emotional perception overboard hoping to see with spiritual eyes, or hear with spiritual ears.  Jesus holds to a necessary discernment balance.  Only spiritual ears can hear, and only spiritual eyes can see, that which the heart alone can understand.

How then do I "ease" my mental/emotional sheets enough to recognise the spiritual proof I am so confident God wants me to hear and see, along with all of humanity?  How do I pursue less with a determined mind and more with an open heart?

There remains a fair amount of maneuvering between here and Chubasco's new slip assignment.  
"After all Chubby, we are almost there."  

Chapter Eight, SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

Chapter Eight

Risky Decision

It is decision time…continue on to the SD buoy, free of the kelp forests, or take a short cut, weaving  through its outstretched fringes.  Entering the channel from the SD buoy will take two and one half miles further south, before we can turn north into the San Diego Bay channel.  The other option is to enter the channel at its midpoint by cut through the relatively narrow bands of kelp between here and there.  While not as safe, it could save a half hour.  The first time I tried it, I had a seasoned surfer as a crewman on the bow, pointing the way.  We twisted through the mess un-snared.  Surely, Chubasco and I can do it solo.

"Chubby, here's what I'm thinking.  Even if we break through the kelp, your keel and rudder may foul with some stipes.  Dragging even a small portion will really slow us down."(The kelp stocks, called “stipes" are attached to the ocean floor can be over one hundred feet long, with leaves averaging four inches and a foot long called blades.)

Today’s solid breeze promises the maneuverability and power needed to dodge the thicker patches or push through if we must.  With bad weather merely on us, reducing our arrival time is a major consideration.  

Besides, this close to the channel a distress call, though extremely undesirable, could be used to bail us out, if needed.  However, a charter-boat captain guilty of bad judgement needs to look for another carrier.  A quick conscience check assures me that confronted with the facts before me I'm doing the right thing for a very good reason.  The price is high if wrong, but the risk is low, and beating the coming storm is a worthwhile reword.  It seems reasonable, with God approval, to take such a low risk gamble.  

 “OK that settles it.  Let the games begin!”

With a turn of the wheel and the adjustment of the sails, I point Chubasco’s bow toward the midpoint of the channel.  My target is a “can buoy,” a mile and a half on the other side of the kelp hazard.  (“Can Buoys” are the green buoys marking a channel’s boundary.  An inbound vessel leaves “Cans” on their left side.)  I plan to enter the channel there, much like an off-road vehicle might take a shortcut through a thick patch of undergrowth to get on a highway…but this is legal and the undergrowth is rooted three fathoms below.

As a swell lifts Chubasco, I detect patterns in the gray-green mat floating on the surface ahead.  Dropping back down in the trough that follows, I plan our approach.  Another lifting swell confirms our line of attack.  Veering slightly to port, we hold steady until Chubasco’s beam is alongside the first narrow patch of mat.  “Now, hard to starboard!”  Running inside that tangle of blades and just this side of the next, we prepare to split two patches with a hard turn, again to port.  Plowing through that opening, the next swell reveals more patterns in the maze.  A narrow stretch of uncluttered water separating parallel mattes provides a corridor leading to another little brake, about two boat links ahead.  “Steady, steady, steady, now!”  Reaching along that gnarled mass, a clearing appears in the direction of the green-can, and we shoot for it.  “Oh, that’s no clearing!”  A quick downwind sail adjustment and we slide free with a heavy swing of the wheel.  Tightening the sail again moves us back to starboard, we ride the next swell past more would be hitchhiking stipes.  Having spoiled their chances to catch a ride, one disappointed blade flips over in our wake, as if to give us the finger as we speed bye.

 “Yahoo, this is fun!  OK, Chubby, here comes another tiny passage.  Go!” 

We continue darting back and forth in the general direction of the can.  What a thrill.  As we enter the channel at last, I feel as if we
crossed a marathon finish line.  Looking over the transom, I note that there is not a single stipe trailing in our wake.  I cannot help shouting, “Chubasco, we did it!”  

.

Motivated by a Vision  

What a privilege being a charter boat captain.  Here inside the channel with the picturesque lighthouse now on our port beam and the ragged tips of a rock jetty on our starboard, we reenter waters subject to the U.S. Inland Rules of Navigation.  While sailing offshore, a moment ago, we were outside the demarcation line separating two different navigational jurisdictions.  Offshore traffic follows the International Navigation Rules, while inshore traffic abides by the United States Inland Rules. 

Thinking back over how I, a landlocked Midwesterner, ever qualified for such a profession, takes me back to the age of sixteen.  It started with operating the family ski-boat on weekends during the summer.  Later the sailboat became my favorite weekend pastime.  By the time I joined Seaforth at fifty-nine, I had accumulated two hundred eighty-seven documented days at sea.  However, none of the required 365 days were in the ocean, and 90 of those had to be in the ocean.  Here in San Diego, with an income insufficient to purchase or even rent a boat, sailing professionally was unimaginable.

Without a doubt, I owe my charter-boat carrier to the owner of Seaforth Boat Rentals, Andy Kurtz.  That remarkable man's probing wit habitually discovers the best and the worst in everyone in comes in contact with.  Well known for is heroic honesty, generous nature, and sincere compassion he runs his multimillion dollar corporation with the jubilant good nature of a man on vacation.  Even though his belief-system has no room for god, he sparkles with the visible attributes of God.  

Noticing my passion for sailing, Andy secretly instructed Jeton, the manager, to give me a tour of the local Maritime Institute, a school specializing in training mariners to become licensed boat captains.

Upon returning from the tour, I overheard Andy ask Jeton how it went.  Quoting my summation, Jeton reported, “John said, ‘It gives the idea of becoming a licensed captain a sense of reality.’”  I heard Andy responded, “That’s what I hoped.”  Andy, through Jeton, went out of his way to turn my daydream into a vision and it worked.

Unable to afford the institute's tuition of immediately started logging ocean-time on Andy’s boats, while studying for the written exam.  It took about three years to reach that goal. But being a novice, I did not realize I actually needed a coach to master the navigation section of the test.  

After failing the navigation exam a third time, I knew I needed the help of an expert.  Upon returning from the Long Beach test facility near LA., I drove right passed my home and went straight to the Maritime Institute.  Unapologetically and unannounced I walked past the secretary into the office of the institute’s president.  Expressing my frustration, I pleaded with him to explain what I was doing wrong.  By the way, “Rags” is the president’s nickname, derived from the Navigation Rules and Regulations, which is often referred to as RAGS.  Instead of dismissing my interruption saying, “Dude, this is a business.  We teach for a living here.  Take a class.  I’m a busy man.”  To the contrary, Rags stopped what he was doing, rolled his chair away from his desk, and took a half-hour, right there in his office, explaining the institute’s approach to solving the otherwise elusive nuance stumping me.  Applying the institute's approach, I passed my next attempt with flying-colors. 

Just as I rely on the direction of the Holy Spirit in deciding to take Chubasco through the kelp, I witnessed Andy, Jeton, or Rags perhaps without consciously acknowledging any divine source, spontaneously respond to the same Spirit directing me.  They were, I believe, choosing to follow a light, a voice, a force beyond the authority of pure human self-interest to assist fellow sailor in need.  God, exercised His authority over circumstances and human nature, including my own nature, granted me favor with those key men. 

"Chubasco, that is what the Bible means when it exhorts us to have faith in God's word.  I will be forever grateful to those three guys, and their sensitivity to the unacknowledged Spirit of God speaking within them."

Startled by the view ahead, my serene nostalgia suddenly shifts to an intense present focus.  There is anything but peace in the normally calm bay of San Diego at this moment.  Crazy winds dropping from Point Loma's cliffs above fall furiously on the water below, creating so many foaming crisscross patterns that it looks like a monstrous hungry whirlwind was waiting to eat our lunch.  Evaluating the evidence, I feel compelled to comfort Chubasco.  “OK girl, stay calm.  It looks like the wind is going to be, more playful than usual in there, today.”  I am pleased Chubasco was not with me the day fluctuating winds, like those we are facing, nearly took my life.  Setting that memory aside, I quickly check the rigging, and quietly breathe a prayer…“I’m ready Lord.”

Chapter Seven, SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

Chapter Seven

Experiencial Gauge

Both the masthead weathervane, and the fluttering tell-tells* on the shrouds confirm the accuracy of the electronic wind gauge before me on the binnacle. 
*(Tell-tells are thin strips of material affixed to the cables holding the mast upright)
Even with those dependable wind indicators, I stubbornly rely most on the sensation of wind blowing on the back of my ears and neck.  The other indicators only prove what I experience.  

Assured of the actual wind angle, a slight easing of the sheets spreads Chubasco's sails wide, wing and wing, in steady midfay fresh breeze.  

I can't help but chuckle, stroking my beard as I consider how personal experience overrides even the most reliable instruments when determining normal terrestrial forces such as wind.  It's little wonder we insistence on experience as our proof of existing supernatural forces.  It seems any attempt to prove God's existence and His reality by other means is automatically trumped by the lack of imperial evidence and then completely dismissed with some contradictory experience.

Satisfied with Chubasco's sailtrim, but less satisfied with our speed.  I whisper something meant to encourage my trusty transport, "Chubby, we sure look pretty, don't we."  But even though a sailboat is most impressive when her sails are fully ballooned running down wind, it is arguably the slows point of sail.  We are already behind schedule, and at this speed we are likely to be caught in the middle of this afternoon's forecasted storm.

However, right now there is nothing much we can do about it, other than firing up the engine, and motor-sail.  But God help me, I would rather brave the storm under sail than submit to that.  

Lunch Brake
Something I can do now is grab the banana and honey/oat bar along with a chocolate protein drink from my seabag, and enjoy some lunch.  "Thank you Lord!  What a life."

Settling myself at the helm while take in some tasty nourishment, I resume my "otherworldly" quest for Divine proof thinking:
"If God is truly God, He unquestionably has an objective existence independent of our human notions about Him.  And if He truly desires to reveal Himself to us, it is reasonable to expected He also gave each of us the capacity to detect His kind of supernatural revelation. 

Those things being true, it also makes sense that God would come in a human form, namely Jesus, to let us know what He is up to.  I know the Bible indicates that part of the reason Jesus came was to be the light of the world, so that seeing Him people would be able to recognise God.

Naturally, flesh and blood human bodies are material, and die.  So. Christ's material body also had to die.  His physical death could have ended the possibility of first-hand experiences of God, except His Spirit is not limited by space/time material, and therefore has been free to reveal God to all of humanity ever since.  His Spirit continues, "to give us the light of the knowledge of God's glory (His brilliance) in the face of Jesus." 

Rummaging through my memory banks, I recall numerous personal instances, along with the first-hand accounts of many others who experienced the Spirit of God, most of which bare little if any resemblance to a physical sensation like the breeze on a sailor's skin, or a neurochemical reaction in the brain of navigators, or some emotional experience at sea.  Though all of the encounters with God's Spirit I know of did arouse physical, mental, and emotional responses, they are commonly recognized as indirect secondary responses to a very direct interaction between an individual and the Spirit of God.  It's actually more like a communion between some none material part of us with a mysterious presence eliminating from a source somewhere beyond our physical, mental, or emotional being. 

So then, what are the none material weathervanes or "spiritual receptors" all humans are endowed with, which enabling us to detect and recognize His Spirit on the sails of our personalities?" 

Where Are We
"Wait a minute Chubby!  We need to refocus on getting you to your new marina home.  So, how far are we from the San Diego Bay entrance?"  

The SD mid-channel buoy is straight ahead, though still out of sight.  The curvature of the earth conceals it from view.  As the peak of Mount San Miguel visually lines up directly  behind the iconic San Diego lighthouse, I squint at the distant horizon over Chubasco's bow.  “There it is!  That means it's about three miles away.

Triangulating the distance from the buoy sighting I figure it will be at least forty minutes before we reach the safest passageway into San Diego Bay.  Then another forty minutes passing through the channel before we actually reach the bay itself.   The buoy is also further off our starboard than expected, meaning we are closer to the kelp-beds than I planned.  

Making the appropriate course correction, my thoughts return to the question of what exactly are those attributes believers and unbelievers alike undoubtedly possess, which make it possible for us to empirically recognize God and His reality?  I can't see it yet, but I know its just over the horizon.

Chapter Six, SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

SPIRIT ON THE SAIL

Chapter Six

Belief-System Shift
All of the violent frothy whitecaps have melted into longer waves, which release far less spray in this diminished Fresh Breeze.  It's time to shift gears, which means shaking out Chubasco's reefed sails.   

I actually giggle as I spin "Chuby" 180° head-to-wind, realizing how easy tying the helm on course is going to be in a steady 20kt breeze.

Without boots since this morning, my socks have dried in the warm air.  I'm pleased to leap upon the cabin deck, and snatch all the reef lines out of their grammets, and return to the helm, in one easy operation.  Then, with a hearty pull on the halyard, the mainsail flies, almost effortlessly, to the head of the mast. Turning downwind again, I give the job sheet a quick tug, an the foresail is released to its maximum size.  The acceleration rocks me back on my heels, as the jib balloons in the breeze.  Chubasco is once again dancing in the swells.  

Leaning over the side to observe the ballet, I blush, as if intruding on the throbbing embrace of lovers.  “Oh, my gosh.  That is almost erotic.”  Embarrassed, I divert my gaze heavenward.  The stratus cloud canopy a few feet above the noiseless ridge of Point Loma peninsula, promises a significant period of stable air.  

Screened from the midday glare, the plunging green slope of the peninsula expose every detail of her untamed beauty.  Rising naked out of the sea, Point Loma has defied all who wished to tame her.  Even the powerful ebb and flow of the Pacific bow at her feet as a conquered foe.  The magic of a responsive craft frisking along her unspoiled coast whispers a secret love affair, shared by generations of mariners sailing these ancient waters.              

Sadly, the sight reminds me that the splendor of creation is inadequate proof of a Creator.  That type of “proof” only impresses those of us whose belief-system includes the possibility of a creator.  The failure is not the evidence, but the clash of belief-systems.  Systems that exclude the possibility of a designer will always remain unimpressed by apologists insisting that design-in-nature proves the existence of a designer.  Today's unbelievers are not asking, “What or Who made the world?”  Their question is, “Can you prove God is real?”  

Submitting physical evidence to support a spiritual belief, at best, yields no more than implications, speculations, and/or inferences.  At worst, it only proves that the Christian apologest has not understood question.  A valid proof regarding someone's beliefs must at least address the problem of conflicting belief-systems.

If the disagreement was over divergent mindsets, worldviews, or lifestyles then perhaps citing evidence in nature might address the question.  However, the dispute is not over an intellectual attitude, or a particular concept of the world, or the way a person lives, but the belief-system itself.  Christianity as a religious belief-system is built on the fundamental proposition that eternal non-substance transformed itself into substantive material reality in the person of Jesus Christ.

Faced with the absurdity of the proposition, which I once laughed at, but now firmly believe straines my puzzled countenance into a squint as I hope to see a solution.

Experience Shapes Believes
Daydreaming gives way to a distant disturbance on the ocean’s surface about a quarter mile off our starboard bow.  A churning body of water seems to be making an organized flanking maneuver, coming in our direction.  I see no dorsal fins slicing the flow, so it is not dolphins.  As the turbulence draws closer, I recognize the puppy-shaped heads of a group of sea lions.  The sighting contradicts my belief that seals are solitary hunters.  It is so rare that, unlike a pod of dolphins on a hunt, there is no name for a group sea lions hunting together.  “What is this…it doesn’t fit the designation of a ‘raft’ of sea lions?  Can it really be a sea lion hunting party?” 

I have never heard of sea lions cooperatively hunting before.  I always considered them too slow and bulky, and lacking the necessary stamina to herd a school of fish into a bait-ball, the way their faster dolphin cousins can.  Nevertheless, they are driving an agitated patch of water, about twenty feet in front of them toward us.  Diving pelicans dropping into the fleeing ripples, confirm the existence of a school of Sardines or maybe Anchovies.  

“Sure enough, those sea lions are hunting.”  I'm of the opinion those plodding sea lions have no chance of catch that accelerating mass.  “What are those wily sea lions up to?” 

The school of fish are being herded on an intercept course with Chubasco's broadside.  As the confused school of tiny fish reach us, they slow down, clump up, and plunge beneath the boat, rewarding the seals with a banquet.

“Were we accomplices in a planned strategy, devised by a sea lion hunting party?"

As we sail on by, I fix my gaze on Chubasco’s voluminous mainsail, while sorting through ideas regarding the way that experiences reshapes my beliefs. 

I don't know of any evidence to support the conclusion that sea lions hunt in coordinated parties.  That conclusion is a mere speculation based on my own personal experience alone.  Nevertheless, the experience modified my belief-system. 

Is it possible an unexpected piece of the "proving God" puzzle has dropped into place.  If the experience of seeing sea lions pack-hunting changed my beleaf-system about sea lions, then it is possible that mechanism is a key to confront a Godless beleaf-system.  If so, it's not airtight evidence or a more persuasive argument that I should be looking for, but rather an approach that allows unbelievers a firsthand experience of God themselves.

"Lord, if that is a part of the key how do I facilitate that kind of experience?"
Stay on course, expecting God's
Spirit on the Sail to answer that prayer.