ow on the heaving horizon we could barely mark the glow of midnight lights—all that remained of our tenuous connection with Norfolk, Virginia. Twenty-four hours ago our crew of eight had hoisted sails and set course for the islands of Bermuda. Our 40-foot yacht, Waltzing Matilda, sashayed under our feet, eager, it seemed, to meet the adventures ahead.
Now, barely 100 miles out, black thunderheads loomed, and to the northeast lightning slashed the heavens. Already our ocean passage was threatened with a blow.
Hinnegan, our one-eyed captain, adjusted his black eye patch, a trifle anxiously I thought. Then with a voice not to be disobeyed, he ordered everyone below deck. Next, looking at me, he commanded, “You take the watch. Rouse me out when you feel the air go chilly. The storm will hit when the temperature drops.” Pausing to gauge the wind he added, “The rest of us will try for some sleep. It looks like we will need it before we are through.” Then vexed and irritated he commanded, “And put on your life jacket.”
Soon I could hear the sounds of muted excitement as my seven shipmates bunked down for our second night at sea, a night that threatened to be a rousing one. For my part I was glad to be on deck, bright-orange life jacket properly donned.
Donna Marie, my 9-year-old daughter, would be climbing into her V-berth way up in Matilda’s heaving bow. I wondered if she was afraid, if she would forget her bedtime prayers. Need I go below and remind her, or would mine be enough for both of us—for all of us?
The advancing storm left me little time to wonder because almost at once I could hear the shriek of wind and the slash of torrent. Adrenalin fueled; I yelled for our skipper. But even before he could shake himself loose from his bunk and stumble up the companion way, the storm struck. At once our game vessel heeled violently, way over to the starboard. In a nanosecond I shoved the bucking tiller hard alee, but too late. Our big jib blew out with a bellow, rent to tatters.
Confusion reigned, as now drenched and scared we fought to stay afloat. We battled the mainsail, barely escaping a knockdown. At last, smothering it with our drenched bodies, we gathered it in. We could breathe again. There would be no knockdown, no mad life-saving rush to make it on deck before Matilda filled with water and began her plunge to the bottom. And Donna Marie, way up forward—would she have had a ghost of a chance? Chilling thought!
Now wind driven, we surfed eastward on the dark and angry Atlantic. The blast had us in its teeth, but the immediate crisis was over; we were back in a semblance of control. Nevertheless, cold and sodden, I sat clutching the helm, and I winced as each fork of lightning seared the black sky.
How did it manage to miss our threadbare mast, our wildly swaying lightning rod that soared into the blackness high above us? I thought. And like King David of old, I pondered: “Those who go down to the sea in ships . . . they see the works of the Lord” (Ps. 107:23, 24, NKJV).*
Five days later, white sails dazzling in the matchless Bermuda sunshine, we sailed triumphantly into Hamilton Harbor.
Recently, reliving the memories, I said to Donna, “Only a very brave 9-year-old could have slept through that night.”
“No,” she responded. “I knew my dad was up on deck and that everything would be all right.” Words dear to a father’s heart.
When life’s inevitable storms imperil our frail craft, we will say with confidence, as did King David: “He calms the storm, so that its waves are still” (Ps. 107:29). He continues triumphantly: “Then they are glad because they are quiet; so He guides them to their desired haven” (verse 30).
This same Jesus, who quieted the wind and waves of ancient Galilee, can do the same today. Indeed, He does; especially for those who trust.
Isaiah 12:2: “Behold, God is my salvation, I will trust and not be afraid.”
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*Texts credited to NKJV are from the New King James Version. Copyright ” 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
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