Sorry to keep you in supsense about - Sailing Beyond the Sea - but I think I need to do this.

Blessings and see you in September!

Patricia

Tomorrow morning I drive to Gleneden Beach for my therapy session.. so good chance there may not be a chapter of this book on Friday.

Patricia

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Sailing Beyond the Sea by Jim d'Urfe Proctor, DVM Queenship Publishing Company ISBN: 1-882972-86-4 Visit my mini bookstore to purchase Sailing Beyond the Sea If you are enjoying Catholic Book Talk, please Tell A Friend!

CHAPTER 14

CAMPBELL RIVER

After working in Comox for two years, I purchased the Campbell River portion of the practice from Dr., A. in the summer of 1978. Here I constructed the tenth animal hospital of my career.

I purchased a romantic old cedar cabin on the beach at Willow Point, only two blocks north of the veterinary hospital, and twenty-five feet from the ocean shore. We raised the cabin and built another floor below to accommodate our dwindling family. Carole was reluctant to move, especially since Bobby wanted to finish school in Comox. She and the kids moved back onto the boat. I moved to the house in Campbell river, feeling rejected and abandoned since no one was anxious to join me. Could it be they were tired of moving, or were they tired of me? Frequently, whenever the occasion arose, I used the expression, “my bachelor pad in Campbell River,” hoping to cajole Carole into joining me. Eventually, they came along, except for Bobbie who we farmed out to another family in Comox. Carole preferred to be near the water in a boat, but became quite enamored with the new home, since she could at least listen to her scenery. The wilder the waves the more thrilled she became with her scenery, even when at times during storms, the more adventuresome waves frolicked boldly on our front window panes. Here, we lived for eleven years in the same home. (Prying her out of that home could eventually become an even bigger problem.)

The view from the porch was spectacular. Killer whales romped in the surf. Otters played tag amidst the piles of driftwood. Eagles, herons, and innumerable species of waterfowl, rode the waves or ducked for food. More wildlife appeared on the edge of that city than we ever found in the wilderness. Beyond the bird-haven view, were the rugged, snow covered mountains of the Coastal Range. Below them, and across Georgia Strait, tree-covered islands freckled the waters of Georgia Straight.

The home crew had now been reduced to three children; Shannon, Bobby and Mark. Bobby remained in Comox long enough to finish high school. He then entered college and started the long ten year climb to a Ph.D in plant pathology. Mark graduated in Campbell River, moved to Long Island, New York and took up architecture and carpentry. Shannon became an animal health technician and worked in the animal hospital for several years. Then moved into art and carpentry. Carita went to school in Spokane to become a travel agent. Marggie went into training to become a nurse. Almost unbelievable, Jimmy entered medical school.

Most children leave home when its time to sprout their wings. Seems like we moved out from under ours. We shed kids all over North America. Shannon was quite proud to be first to actually leave home rather than be left. Originally, we decided to raise a family while we were relatively young so we would still have a few miles remaining on our bones after the children vacated the nest.

Carole handled her handicap better than she could handle the empty nest, and better than anyone I knew, although there were times when the burden showed through. Some people are uncomfortable when they encounter blind people, almost as if they fear blindness might be contagious...maybe, if you come too close, you might go blind!

During our early years at a New Year's Eve party, we asked a girl at our table to guide Carole to the restroom. The girl appeared as though she were going into shock. All she could mutter was, “No-no-no I can't.” The reason was obvious, and Carole was so hurt we had to leave the party. Carole in tears. She had formed some solid friendships in the past, but often with difficulty. Tears were shed when she felt people avoiding her. She found this especially true as a teenager when she first lost her sight, and some of her closest friends abandoned her. She was one gorgeous looking dish, and a lot of men want to be her friend for the wrong motives. We usually joined a Catholic parish wherever we lived and this became a reliable source of friends.

In 1981, two friends, Joe and John, invited me to make a Cursillo, or more accurately, conned me into a Cursillo in Campbell River. Cursillo is a difficult movement to describe as it is best understood by experience; like Dad relating his vision experience, said words could not describe what he saw. Cursillo is Spanish for “short course,” but it is far more than that. The originators of the movement in Spain uncovered what is missing in the world and in most of our practice of religion.” With these discoveries for a guide, leaders share experiences openly. These experiences include their change from a worldly sense of values to values more worthwhile. In the process, they become extremely close friends with large numbers of people who are searching and making the same discovery. Friends don't become intimate until they know each others deep feelings and faith. Those who have made Cursillos (Cursillistas) now number in the millions and are in every country of the world.

Up to that time, not all, but many friends were “party friends,” or only casual acquaintances. Carole complained that if it weren't for parties, she would only have a few close friends. Since she made her Cursillo, I have to stand in line to receive a hug! Now, she has dear friends everywhere in countless numbers. We cherish not only our Cursillo friends, but through it, we learned how to make deeper friendships outside. After she made her Cursillo, she told me she had more fun that weekend than she ever had, with or without me. Since my experience preceded hers, I was only lightly devastated.

During this same period, I received the honor of appointment to the Bishop's counsel for the Diocese of Victoria. Bishop Remi De Roo is the Bishop of the diocese. It was there I first learned that there are two tremendously different and opposing philosophies present in the church. More accurately, some are attempting to form another parallel church alongside of the original to replace it, somewhat like another new Protesting religion forming within. It is difficult to describe and quite astonishing to most of us who weren't aware of its presence. The two philosophies overlap a great deal, making it difficult to detect without serious study.

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Patricia

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Sailing Beyond the Sea by Jim d'Urfe Proctor, DVM Queenship Publishing Company ISBN: 1-882972-86-4 Visit my mini bookstore to purchase Sailing Beyond the Sea If you are enjoying Catholic Book Talk, please Tell A Friend!

Our family nest was now half empty. Carita had returned after Graduation but was considering a career as a travel agent. Our primary reason for existence, the family, was rapidly diminishing.

This produced a large hole in our hearts and once again we asked, “Is this it? Why are we here? Is there any purpose or value in our lives?”

At times like that, I would often contemplate Dad's spiritual experience, and the notable change it made in his way of thinking. I recalled the many events, including the “avalanche coincidence” or was someone trying to tell me something? I had read more about the thoughts of Mother Teresa and St. Francis of Assisi.

Cardinal Ratzinger spoke some words of wisdom that tugged at my conscience. “Concentrating on materialistic activities of the world is like shuffling the deck furniture on board the Titanic.”

Somehow, I was hearing all this phenomenal wisdom, but not listening. Like most, I was listening instead to the message of the media and the world, especially that of TV. “Work harder and make more deals and more money, and arrange a good retirement because in the end, the guy with the most toys wins.” And get as much pleasure out of life as you can in the short time provided. Quality of life is the number one goal. Right?” I wrestled with these two opposite philosophies.

Real estate deals came naturally to me, and I began to accumulate and trade property, once again, until I had amassed several million dollars worth of real estate. We had done it before, and would have been really well off by now if I had stuck with developing, rather than “blowing it all” by running away from the world with our kids.

It was about this time my sister, Margaret, sent me a copy of a letter Dad had written years before. The letter described in detail the incident he had related to me personally, and which had such a profound impact on his view of life. I didn't realize he had put the story in writing. As I said before, Dad was a dedicated atheist. We could not talk about God, prayer or church in his presence without upsetting him. My older sisters spoke of how they used to make their way to catechism classes by way of back alleys in order to avoid his knowing. It's interesting, in most families now, the situation is reversed. The parents can't discuss spiritual matters without the children becoming upset.

Dad was a good and kindly man, however, and everyone loved and respected him. We prayed for him constantly (when he wasn't around). My mother prayed for him for thirty years. Then, in 1950, her prayers were answered rather abruptly when Dad was struck with the vision. Many others have reported identical experience.

After reading and searching and praying and getting over being seventeen, I began to understand. Now, I was in the process of making a large scale attitude of adjustment, myself.

Following is a copy of Dad's letter to my sister Margaret Duran in 1950. Our parents had six children and thirty-six grandchildren. This letter had done more for their spiritual growth and that of many others, than any of his condemnations ever did to turn people away from God.

He wrote:

Marggie, I had the dream * of a lifetime not long ago. Words are a very feeble means of trying to describe what I saw.
(*When he described the vision to me, he said he was not asleep but very alert and awake.)

What I told you of the marvels of the Northern Lights would amount to less than one percent of the vision seen in sleep. Two thousand artists, painting two thousand years, could not produce all I saw in that brief instant of a dream.

Not being an architect, not being religious, where originated the picture? Briefly, I was standing with several on the edge of a gently sloping draw when thunder began to roll and lights flashed across the sky, to be replaced by a scene not bending around as the earth does, but in the opposite, always sloping upward higher and higher of magnificence, splendor, color, architecture, nature, spires, domes, cathedrals, steps, arches, trellises, flowers, shrubs, foliage in beautiful colors, quiet and peaceful, like an old oil painting. Before us, as far ahead and as far behind, we could see was a line three and four deep of boys and girls, all approximately about twenty years old; all smiling and tripping happily along, singing a most beautiful tune I had never heard. I cannot produce the notes nor the words, except one line, “Come on with us to Zion.” **

(**Zion: Dad had to ask my Baptist Aunt what Zion meant because he wasn't familiar with the term.)

They becckoned to me to join them, and all who could see the vision, told me that this was the end, to leave all my worries and troubles behind. Seemed like Mother, David and Jim had been with me, and I wanted them to go along too, but was told we would all meet ahead, except those who had not seen the vision would have to remain behind for further trial.

It was about then that I woke up. * Most vividly was the picture impressed in my memory, more marvelous than man or words could do justice to. Had I been a religious fanatic or a visionary architect, there might be some reason for seeing what I did. No, I have not slipped no worse than usual—tish—tish.”

(The letter continues with news about the farm).

I often offer a copy of this letter to friends who have recently lost a loved one; it does a lot to provide the consolation needed in this unbelieving world.

Later, when we began to pray the scriptural rosary, something about one of the bible quotations used in the rosary tickled my memory. I had heard it somewhere before. (Rev. 11,19 and Rev. 12,1)

“And the sanctuary of God in heaven opened. Then came flashes of lightning and peals of thunder. Now, a great sign appeared in heaven: a woman, adorned with the sun. She was standing on the moon, with the twelve stars on her head for a crown.”

I'm a little slow, but it finally dawned on me, that it was in Dad's letter where I had seen it before. Dad wrote, “I was standing with several on the edge of a gently sloping draw when thunder began to roll and lights flashed across the sky.” The way it sounded to me, when the woman appeared to the kids at Fatima, Lourdes and many other places, the sanctuary of God in heaven opened and they were able to see someone from heaven. They stated that her clothing was brighter than the sun, but didn't hurt their eyes. (“A woman adorned with the sun, with the twelve stars on her head for a crown”). In Dad's story, thunder began to roll and lightning flashed across the sky, then he was able to see into the sanctuary of God and experience all the beautiful scenes he described to me. This later fed the fire smoldering inside of me.

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I did use it a bit at the monastery but never got as proficient as I was with the old program. So I have that learning hurdle to jump and its a pretty big one. BUT - I found an super tutorial place called Lynda.com that has tutorials for almost every program under the sun. I signed up for a month (only $25.00) and am making great progress. Really excited about it.
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Sailing Beyond the Sea by Jim d'Urfe Proctor, DVM Queenship Publishing Company ISBN: 1-882972-86-4 Visit my mini bookstore to purchase Sailing Beyond the Sea If you are enjoying Catholic Book Talk, please Tell A Friend!

 

CHAPTER 13

VANCOUVER ISLAND

Some sailing adventures end in success, others in disaster. Those with unhappy memories generally move to the land and never care to set eyes on the sea again. Those who, like ourselves, have a memorable experience, become attached to the sea. We were torn between the desire to live near the family in Spokane and our yearning to be by the sea. After a year, the real estate business had lost its charm.

While traveling, we discussed, “where would be the best choice in the world for a family like ours to settle?”

Having experienced a good share of the Pacific, all things considered, Vancouver Island seemed to be the best choice. The advantages were many; numerous uninhabited islands, protected waters, uncrowded, good weather, and just plain beautiful. There sat Maritashan, tied up alone in a Victoria marina.

After fourteen months in Spokane, we decided to take a short leave and visit old friends in Terrace. As we sailed north, we ventured into the seaport of Comox, one-hundred and twenty miles north of the U.S. border on Vancouver Island. There we met the Wearns, former cattle rancher friends from Smithers. Greg introduced us to the local veterinarian, Dr. Zaelstine, affectionately known as Dr. A. Several months later, after we returned to Spokane, he invited me to fill in for a month while his assistants were away.

That kind of settled it for us. I returned to Spokane, collected our belongings, moved to Victoria and took up residence on the Maritashan. I inquired at the first clinic that came into sight, Cranston Animal Hospital, and went to work the following day.

That was a comfortable and easy way of life, working for someone else, without any worries. Living on the boat, it was no problem to let the shorelines go and take to the sea for as many days as we had off, or just play around in Victoria.

Many sailboats and sailors reside near Victoria, so it was like old home week, spinning yarns and retelling ocean adventures. The Maritashan, with its caved in bow pulpit and broken stanchions, created a lot of attention and was the talk of the town for many months. After a reporter from the Victoria Times Colonist interviewed us, a full page of the weather-beaten boat, and a story showed up on the front page. The most important story they found to report was our jail term in Mexico! We thought the six kid crew would be a much greater scoop.

We are not real high-tech sailors; more “raise the sails, fill them with wind, and go type.” We didn’t keep abreast of all the latest sailboat jargon or knowledge. In Victoria, there are many knowledgeable crews that are “someday” going to go offshore. For some, Victoria is the end of the line. We were big time offshore adventurers, and some sought us out for experience on how to survive the awesome sea. One evening, while visiting with a large group of sailors at a local pub, someone mentioned a fixture on a boat that was unfamiliar to me. It was something on the mast, as I recall,, and evidently a well known component, as I soon learned.

“What’s that thing you guys are talking about?” I innocently inquired.

Instantly, I was overcome with self-conscious embarrassment when all eyes focused on me in disbelief. In one voice they chorused, “You don’t know what that is?” My fame as a worthy seaman vanished into thin air.

When we moved to the island, our eldest daughter, Marggie, newly graduated from high school, remained in Spokane. Turning our first daughter loose into a world that was so rapidly dropping morals and values was terribly disturbing. It felt like we were releasing her into a den of hungry vipers and there was nothing we could do about it. Carita stayed, as well, to finish her last year. The sad feelings were the same with her. Bob, Mark and Shannon joined us in Victoria, where they soon settled and found new friends.

All the while, I was having difficulties over philosophy of medicine at the hospital where I worked and found it necessary to leave. The poor kids. Maybe we move more often than is healthy. I was in deep deliberation over these conflicts when the phone rang. Dr. A’s assistants in Comox had moved (Dr. Jack and Dr. Jill had gone and moved up the hill), so he wondered if I would consider working full time with him. It’s always amazing how developments occur automatically in our lives.

The ever gentle and mild mannered Dr. A apologized for suggesting we move. “I realize how difficult it is to pack and uproot, but I surely could use your help.”

“Moving is not a real problem,” I replied. “All that’s required is to unplug the telephone, release two ropes, and raise the sails.”

That we did, and in less than a week were moored in Comox, working at the Comox Valley Animal Hospital. Poor little Shannon cried at leaving what she hoped were some permanent friends. The nomadic spirit was alive and well. Or was our life being arranged for us?

Comox became our home for two full years, and after six months, we even purchased a house and moved onto the land. This, too, was a fascinating practice dealing with “all creatures great and small.” For instance, I treated an injured seal in our swimming pool for a time. That didn’t go over too well with some because seals don’t toilet train, nor pool train for that matter. Neither do they cooperate at feeding time. A stomach tube was required. He was pretty cute. Nonetheless, we were happy to turn him back to mother once he recovered.

Another amusing event in Comox raised some curious questions once again. A government experimental farm is located North of Comox where Dr. A and I were often called to maintain the health of a large Holstein cow herd. On one occasion, he was called to care for a cow which was unable to stand or eat. Before he could leave the hospital, Diane, a worker at the farm, called to report that the cow was well and his help was no longer required.

When I asked Dr. A what happened, he replied, “She wouldn’t tell me.”

A few weeks later, he was called for another case. While there, he pressed Diane for information on the recovered cow.

“She got well,” Diane replied.

“How did she get well?” asked Dr. A.

“You don’t want to know.”

“Yes I do,” he insisted, “That’s my job.”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Come on Diane. I have to know,” he insisted again. “It’s my job.”

“OK, but you have to promise not to laugh.”

Dr. A promised. Then Diane sheepishly uttered. “We prayed over the cow and she got up and started eating.”

Dr. A replied with his usual wry sense of humor. “You know people like you could run veterinarians out of business.”

That was not the end of the events with Diane. I remained dubious about that sort of incident so once again, filed it away.

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The meeting ended because it was time for the next Mass. I decided might as well go to that as well, since I was there. Our new pastor is not only fun he is very uplifting. This was my third Mass (I went to the 5:30 Mass last evening) and I loved everyone. Hearing the same sermon never bothers me - partly because it always changes a little bit and partly because if a sermon is good - I love hearing it more than once so it sinks in better!

The only Mass time I haven't attended now is the Spanish Mass. I want to experience that. Maybe next week.

Blessings,

Patricia

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Sailing Beyond the Sea by Jim d'Urfe Proctor, DVM Queenship Publishing Company ISBN: 1-882972-86-4 Visit my mini bookstore to purchase Sailing Beyond the Sea If you are enjoying Catholic Book Talk, please Tell A Friend!

 

Bureaucracy is a many-splendored concept. We met it head-on when we returned to B.C. I drove Bill to the Vancouver airport for his return flight to Hawaii. When traveling on a sailboat, a visa is not required to enter or leave the U.S. or Canada. A passport only is required. When Bill applied for a plane ticket to Hawaii, a frustrating dialogue developed between him and the agent.

He was told, “Sorry, you need a visa to enter the U.S.”

“I don’t have a visa because on a sailboat, it is not required.”

“Then you will have to enter the U.S. on your sailboat.”

“I can’t. My sailboat is already in the U.S. in Hawaii, 2500 miles away.”

“Then you have to apply for a visa to enter the U.S. from Canada.”

“That will take several weeks. Besides, it has to be applied for in New Zealand, in person, and I have no means or money to reach New Zealand.”

“I’m sorry, there is nothing we can do.”

“But my wife and seven year old child are alone on our boat anchored in Hawaii and we are well overdue.”

“I’m sorry, our hands are tied. There is nothing we can do. We will have to close now for the weekend.”

End of discussion.

After traveling in four different countries, dealing with every kind of bureaucracy, we had learned the art of survival. We purchased two bottles of liquor, placed them on the rear seat of my car, then drove to the border crossing. When asked by customs, we told the truth. We were headed for a party in Seattle.

“No problem, have a good day.” We drove straight to Sea Tac Airport where Bill did not require a visa because he was headed for a U.S. destination from a U.S. departure. He returned to his anxiously waiting little family with no further complications. Later, I sponsored Bill to become a landed immigrant in Canada. The following spring, he sailed to Canada and settled in Sidney, B.C.

The crew, for our part, moved to Spokane nearer to our extended family. We purchased a home on Lake Spokane and I applied for a real estate license, something I have always carried a yen to try. The kids entered regular school. Although correspondence school did not hold a high priority on the cruise, we were proud of our gang when it was discovered they fit into the local school’s curriculum with no difficulty. They had pretty well managed one year of schooling on their own.

Once accustomed to a wanderers lifestyle, it is difficult to settle down to a normal life pattern. I was continually searching for new adventure while playing the real estate game, ever searching for that ultimate answer to what life is all about. The answer evaded me, just out of reach.

Not long after our arrival in Spokane, a geologist from northern B.C. phoned. He told of a large, sixty mile tract of gold mining claims on the Liard River in the Yukon Territory. Historical records reported story after story of rich gold discoveries, murder, and conspiracy in the area. Maybe I had found the adventure. We raised $200,000 for exploration, and I became president of Sayya Creek Mining Company. We leased fifty square miles of placer claims along the Liard River, built sixty miles of road over the tundra, and a quality air landing strip in the middle of the Yukon wilderness. I commuted between real estate in Spokane and mining in the Yukon.

My parents, the church, and nuns in early life, had taught that lying, cheating, and stealing under any form were unacceptable. It became obvious that to make a success of this mining venture, those methods would have to be employed. The good ladies had thoroughly ingrained positive values into my brain. When the inevitable became the obvious, I had no choice, but to drop the mining venture like the proverbial hot potato. Several, especially myself, lost a good deal of money in the process. Although it seemed eclipsed, the roots of the early Christian training my mother had tried so hard to imbue actually took hold.

During this pursuit of adventure and materialism, the Creator found another way to attract my attention. My brother’s family persuaded us to join them at prayer meetings in a place known as Tum Tum. My worldly mind was quite uncomfortable with charismatic prayer meetings. They seemed a little silly. Besides, I had seen and heard some questionable goings on in the past. Every movement has its damaging problem people, who can make the entire movement look bad. I remained cautiously reserved. While attending one of the sessions, a German lady, who once performed as a professional opera singer, began “singing in tongues.” Charismatics speak or sing in unknown tongues, and other gifted persons are supposed to interpret a message from this. This is all biblical, but as St. Paul advised, don’t scare people out of the church by displaying gifts they don’t understand. It all seemed a little ridiculous to me, but I went along with everything, just in case. I was half-asleep in my chair (which I quite often was during church services), when this enchanting Polynesian melody sifted through the room. I remember hearing “hoy” the word for love in the Marquesian dialect. Since I was daydreaming at the time, it didn’t register that Polynesian singing was a little unusual in a back woods Washington church. Very few outsiders ever reach the Marqueasas Islands. The prayer meeting over, we piled into the van for the drive home.

Our twelve year old, Shannon piped up, “did you here that lady singing in Marquesian language!”

“Yes, I heard that too,” Carole agreed and then quoted the Marquesian word for friend, and other words she had recognized along with that definite unforgettable Marquesian, Polynesian beat.

Several weeks later, without giving a clue as to what had transpired, I inquired of the German lady, “have you ever heard of the Marquesas Islands or spoken any Polynesian?”

“No, I’ve never heard of the Marquesas Islands, and certainly don’t know the language,” she replied.

Opera was her style. She was as curious as we when I explained the reason for my questions. I filed this episode away at the back of my brain for future reference. The lesson there must have been, “Don’t be so smug; you don’t have all the answers.”

We settled into the home on Spokane Lake at Nine Mile so we could be near the water. We all agreed this was the nicest home we had ever occupied, but something was missing. The sea, the islands, and the good ship Maritashan was calling. We learned how a fish must feel when trying to survive on the land.

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My session was really good. Decided I am getting too spread out in too many directions - so for the next four weeks or so I am going to concentrate on doing the book for the parish. I will keep up this blog and Catholic Book Talk but cut back on everything else that I can and put my full effort into making the book happen.

Blessings,

Patricia

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Sailing Beyond the Sea by Jim d'Urfe Proctor, DVM Queenship Publishing Company ISBN: 1-882972-86-4 Visit my mini bookstore to purchase Sailing Beyond the Sea If you are enjoying Catholic Book Talk, please Tell A Friend!

CHAPTER 12

ATTEMPT AT BECOMING LAND LUBBERS

North to the Island of Oahu and the big city of Honolulu, became the final crossing in our dream-like venture. During the night, as we sailed by, we could just make out the silhouette of Molokai in the moonlight, the island made famous by the leper colony located there.

I explained to the children the story of how those doomed lepers were exiled so society could pretend they no longer existed. I recalled the incredible story of Father Damian, the selfless priest from Belgium who came to live with the lepers. He became one with the outcasts to confer on them a shred of dignity. He labored for years to bring joy, some of them health, and finally, some of them rights. After years of sharing their life, Father Damian himself succumbed to leprosy and died in 1885. Unselfishly, he sacrificed his entire life for his brothers and sisters.

Why would a man leave wealth and a comfortable life in Belgium to live and die among the most depressed and miserable people in the world? “No greater love has a man who will lay down his life for his brother.” “Whatever you do to the least of my brothers, you do to me.” This was a sobering thought for a family on a fifty-foot yacht with all the amenities life could offer. (Another nudge from above?) I thought to myself, why does the media so love to concentrate on the few priests who commit scandal, while the majority of the 400,000 priests in the world more closely resemble Father Damien, the stories about whom we rarely see in the press. They seem to forget that 8.4% of the first twelve priests, hand picked by Christ himself, all blew their calling (Judas).

I began to pray, “God, You have given me more breaks than anyone deserves, the most precious wife a man could have, and six fantastic, healthy children. You have preserved my life over and again. Yet, what have I done in return? Show me what You want from me and I will try to understand.”

Several last carefree days were spent on the beaches of Oahu. Carole’s mother returned to Washington and my mother happily became an integral part of the crew. Now came the sad ending of our wonderful escapade. It was time to quit the roving life that had become so comfortable and return to earth.

October arrived and sailing directions warn that fall is not a good season to sail a small boat to Canada. New Zealanders play and sail in weather where others head for shelter. Bill Ketching thought it would be jolly good sport to sail our boat back to Washington for us. That way our kids would not be at risk in treacherous waters. Bill located three vigorous young American boys who felt the need for a challenging experience, and they agreed to help bring the Maritashan home. That was the first time we ever watched Maritashan sail over the horizon with another crew at the wheel. We felt like mourners gathering for a funeral.

The five kids boarded a jet headed for Spokane to be reunited with their grandmothers and many relatives. Carole, Puppy, and I flew to Los Angeles where we had stored our VW van with my sister, Margaret. As we flew, I pondered…"the rest of life could be a drag.” Was the time I have left on earth going to be a total bore? Had we done it all? Was there nothing remaining in life that could be fulfilling?”

Our flight to Los Angeles lasted four hours. When Puppy was emancipated from the shipping crate, you would have thought he had been imprisoned for four years. He went into orbit, knocking Carole to the pavement on her back. He then, trounced over her entire helpless frame. With both feet on her chest, holding her down, he gifted her with a total face wash. Some passersby first thought they were witnessing a mad dog attack until they discovered the give-a-way vigorous wagging tail.

We returned to Terrace, waiting in anticipation and growing concern during the next three weeks for word of the Maritashan and her new-found crew. We became extremely uneasy when Mom, who was listening regularly to U.S. weather forecasts, relayed foreboding news. Hurricane force winds up to 100 knots were reported off the coast of Washington. Semi-panic replaced worry when, a week after their estimated time of arrival in Juan de Fuca Strait, and no word had been received from the Maritashan. One evening, we were having dinner with friends, the Sariches in Terrace. We decided the time had come to sound the alarm and contact the coast guard to initiate a search. The crew was our priority; our Maritashan may have to be forgotten. That evening was our lowest moment. We hid behind smiling masks.

In the middle of the dinner, the phone rang. It was Bill!

“That was a jolly interesting ride we had, Old Buddy,” he chirped in that most welcome New Zealand voice, “but I don’t think we would care to try it again.”

The Maritashan and crew arrived safe in Neah Bay. Safe, but not so sound. The news from Bill confirmed that our worries had been justified. The weather deteriorated rapidly after they left Honolulu and winds grew more menacing each passing day. The heavily constructed turnbuckles on two shrouds supporting the mast had broken loose. The pulpit and several stanchions had been transformed into wrinkled scrap metal by the flaying half inch steel cables. Since sailing was impossible, the diesel in the tanks, enough for 1500 miles under normal conditions, was rapidly consumed by the hungry Perkins engine battling an angry sea. Without power and under bare poles, they often averaged 300 miles a day adrift, faster than we had traveled with all fifteen hundred feet of sail raised. They dragged two large truck tires and an anchor to slow the ship down and keep the bow pointed toward home. Due to heavy cloud cover, they could not use the sun for navigation. Dead reckoning presumed the ship’s location somewhere near three hundred miles off the coast of Washington State. They were in big trouble!

Radio instructions generally inform sailors in distress to use the code word “pan” to signify help needed. This they tried many times, but received no response, and concluded that the radio had packed it in. Finally, in desperation, one of the boys went to the radio and screamed “May-day! May-day!” In radio language, this means: “we are in serious trouble, in danger of sinking!”

Immediately, the U.S. Coast Guard replield. (They were later informed the Coast Guard only answers may-day calls). A rescue ship was dispatched posthaste. The Coast Guard confessed they had never before been called to venture into a storm so severe. Battling its way to the Maritashan, the rescue ship itself overturned in the storm. Although these ships are constructed to survive a roll, the maneuver completely disabled the rescue boat’s electronics. For a while, the question was raised; who would tow who back to port? Eventually the rescue ship was repaired, and Maritashan traveled the remainder of the journey under tow. After that performance, we developed a genuine affection for the U.S. Coast Guard.

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Seven hour drive but not so bad, because my friend Barb was staying with a friend near Portland - so she drove back with me. In fact she drove the part to Spokane so I only had to do the driving one way. Worked perfectly. All things work out for good!

Blessings,

Patricia

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Sailing Beyond the Sea by Jim d'Urfe Proctor, DVM Queenship Publishing Company ISBN: 1-882972-86-4 Visit my mini bookstore to purchase Sailing Beyond the Sea If you are enjoying Catholic Book Talk, please Tell A Friend!

Darkness set in before we neared the bay at Hilo. We opted to drift at sea until daylight rather than hazard an unfamiliar channel in the dark.

We had grown accustomed to the kind of landfall that awaited us. We tied up at a wharf and were able to walk off the boat to shore; like downtown Tahiti but unlike most places in the south where the shore could only be reached by dinghy. Carole and I were treated to the coldest beer in the history of the world at a little restaurant near the wharf. We all stared in awe at the rows of fresh fruits and vegetables in the supermarkets as though we had never experienced anything like it before.

The Patience, Kermit and his crew crept into the wharf four days following our arrival in Hilo. They avoided us like the plague and refrained from speaking for several days.

Finally, one of the young professional crew members sauntered over and said, “O K, how’d you do it?”

Again I shouldn’t have, but the “devil made me say it,” With a kind of phony bewildered look I answered. “All I can say is, good boat – good crew.”

The sailor swore under his breath and stalked away. Time heals all and after several days they became cautious friends again. A good guy skipper would have told the truth about sailing directly north, but we preferred to bask in the glory. We might never have another chance to win a race.

A short time after our departure from Hilo, an earthquake and resulting tidal wave destroyed several boats tied up at the marina. The bay emptied of water causing the boats to fall over on their side. The most severe damage resulted from the raging torrent as the returning mountain of water refilled the bay.

CHAPTER 11

INTRIGUE CONTINUES IN THE NORTH PACIFIC

The entire voyage was so incredible! How could we ever describe it to the folks back home? One way would be to invite our mothers to join us on the final leg of the journey. As their age, would they dare consider the risk? My mother, Adelaide Proctor, to whom I owed so much, was eighty four years old, and Carole’s mother, Elsie Schell, ever loving but often questioned our sanity was sixty-one. Once we mentioned the ides, we couldn’t have kept them away with an army! Elated with the invitation, they both scrambled to catch a plane for a happy reunion with grandchildren about whom they once wondered, “Would we ever see them again?” Neither mother had been to the Pacific Islands, nor had they been on a sailing voyage. It was an opportunity to show them we cared. Mom was in excellent condition for eighty four years and ready for anything. Mom had thirty-six grandchildren and loved them all immensely and equally.

The seas between the Hawaiian Islands are unusually steep and rough, and waves close together. Many times the Maritshan groaned and creaked under the strain of heavy twisting seas, unlike any sounds we had experienced before, even in the middle of the sea. I noticed the mothers looked a little concerned.

They must have questioned, at times, if the trip was really that good of an idea.

Further north, the seas became calm and the “old girls” had a ball. We felt gratified to be able to share our sensational adventure with them.

Many places we visited have reminders that the renowned explorer, Captain Cook, had preceded us. Here, on the Big Island of Hawaii, he met his end. The misbehavior of some crew members raised the wrath of the local natives and they put him to death. (Let that be a lesson to the Maritashan crew.)

With the mothers anxiously taking in each new scene, we moved north to the island of Maui, a Mecca of opulence. In a rental car, we drove to the highest peak. There, snow and freezing weather shocked our tropic adapted systems. Since all of us were clad in beach attire, retreat followed quickly after arrival.

The Ketchings from Meridian II caught us with us near Maui. The three of them came aboard and joined us for a picnic and a day on the beach at Lania. The Dole Pineapple Island of Lanai is only an hour sail from Maui. Little did we realize that this innocent trip would lead to another brush with the sinister side of life. Because the wind had died half-way across, we were traveling under engine power. The crew on another sailboat, becalmed and floundering along the way, waved and shouted to attract our attention. When we motored over to investigate, they reported their battery was dead. Would we loan them our spare? None of us will ever forget the little “lady” spokesman. Her stature was small, but the cigar in her mouth was big. She wore a black beret topping off a masculine attire, including combat boots. Most unforgettable was her language. She poured out a string of four letter words we weren’t aware had yet been coined. They accepted our battery and resumed their travel to Maui. We thought no more of the exchange for the moment.

The Dole Company provided a picturesque little campsite among the coconut trees on Lanai. Large waves continually broke on the beach however, providing a most difficult approach. The crew and grandparents made an acceptable landing some distance from the park. I chose the direct approach and braved the waves. My timing turned out remarkably poor. The dinghy flipped upside down and flew high into the air causing poor Captain Wonderful into the sea. The dinghy then descended down on his head, an undignified arrival for Le Capitan de Gran Bateau.

There in the park we enjoyed a relaxing picnic followed by an “unlaxing” wrestling match, as the crew attacked the already wounded Capitan.

When we returned to the bay at Lahina, the people on the disabled boat had anchored out from the beach a fair distance. We drafted Bobby and Shannon to retrieve the borrowed battery in our dinghy. I still shudder when I think about sending them on that errand after the reports we subsequently received.

After our return to North America at the end of the voyage, Bill Kitching wrote often keeping us informed of events in Hawaii. In the first letter, he described his trip to Honolulu. The same little “lady” from the becalmed vessel, requested passage to Honolulu on Bill’s boat. “Her behavior was surprisingly quite pleasant,” he continued. Apparently he had learned to disregard her four letter vocabulary.

The next letter carried a different tone.

“Dear Jim;

Do you remember the lady to whom you loaned the battery, and later I transported to Honolulu? Well, they recently discovered her body riddled with bullet holes, washed up on the beach in a burlap bag. There were several rocks in the bag with her, but evidently not enough, because she drifted to shore. No evidence or motive has yet been found.”

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On a short visit to see my mom and the sisters. Left early, early - like four o'clock. Still dark - but wanted to miss the Portland rush hour. Did that, arrived in Spokane about two o'clock. Tired. Took nap and then went to see my mom. Had a really fun and nice visit. It is so good to see what good and loving care she is getting.

Now I am at my friend Barb's house using her computer... and I have to hurry because its getting hot - and the computer wants to shut down. Doesn't like heat. Tsk. Tsk.

Blessings,
Patricia

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Sailing Beyond the Sea by Jim d'Urfe Proctor, DVM Queenship Publishing Company ISBN: 1-882972-86-4 Visit my mini bookstore to purchase Sailing Beyond the Sea If you are enjoying Catholic Book Talk, please Tell A Friend!

Sailing directions recommend that when making the passage from Tahiti to Hawaii, first travel in an easterly direction for several days before turning north. This would allow the winds and sail to line up for a good sail to Hawaii. Before leaving Moorea we talked to people who had recently made that passage. They convinced us to forget those directions and head straight north to Hilo. The winds were exactly right. We followed their advice, and the winds were perfect. That was the major reason we were able to overtake poor Kermit.

The trip was an exciting one. The winds blew twenty-five knots continually, right on our beam. That is the most efficient wind direction for sailing with the greatest speed possible. Often the speedometer would read twelve knots for long periods as we surfed down giant waves. Some days we averaged ten knots per hour for twenty four hours. At times it felt like Maritashan had sprouted wings and was flying over the sea. With that angle of wind the boat was well heeled over, and the deck continually wet from huge waves boiling over. Several times freak waves would sneak up behind and dump a great slosh into the cabin. One of those sloshed through an open port and destroyed our ham radio set, newly purchased in Tahiti.

On those long passages boredom remained the most difficult obstacle to overcome. Mark always showed the most ingenuity by inventing projects to busy himself as well as the others. Midway on the passage he had persuaded us to help clear the walk-ways on both sides of the deck. He wanted to jog and stay in shape, this ten year old! The deck was fifty feet long. So all things considered, if he ran around the entire deck 52.8 times he would chalk up a mile. This was great sport for all especially on a pitching and bounding boat. The kids developed another popular sport swinging out over the water on a halyard strung from the tip of the sixty foot mast. This trapeze performance caused the parents to shudder at times; best their mother couldn’t see.

Any boredom we might have felt completely disappeared one afternoon when disaster struck. Shannon was steering on one of those high speed, big wave days with a wet and slippery deck. Puppy used to hear things inaudible to us, like when the dolphins would chatter below the bow. That day the seventy pound dog raced around the deck for some urgent, unknown destination. He collided with Shannon’s legs flipping her upside down. Her head hit first and slammed on the hard deck with a resounding thud. No one could possible hit that hard without incurring a brain concussion or worse. I still cringe when I think back on those moments. We were a thousand miles and ten days from the nearest hospital.

Shannon lay motionless. Then a whimper, a muffled cry, and then, by some miracle, held her head, regained her footing, and took hold of the wheel ready to steer again. With astounded relief and prayers of thanks, we happily gave her a vacation from the helm. I immediately fastened a foot brace to the deck to prevent a repeat of that potentially disaster.

As an interesting diversion on that long journey, we decided to visit the uninhabited island of Palmyra, a little over half-way to Hilo from Tahiti. Carole was our radio monitoring specialist, and was receiving ominous reports of an incident on that island.

A couple had sailed to Palmyra from Hawaii. Each day they contacted their friends in Honolulu by radio. During their conversations they had described some unsavory characters on the only other boat anchored in the bay who made them quite uncomfortable. In spite of the uneasy feeling, they had accepted an invitation to join the unsavory couple for dinner. That was the last radio message the friends in Honolulu ever received from their sailing friends.

Carole is an accomplished snoop and daily communicated blow by blow reports of the scenario from radio broadcasts. Under those circumstances, Palmyra did not seem as romantic as we had first believed. The reports removed any desire to stop. We sailed on past the very place where a heinous crime may have been perpetrated.

After continuous pleading by the friends of the missing couple, the Hawaiian Coastguard made a flight to Palmyra, but found no trace of either boat. Weeks later, back in Honolulu, the missing boat arrived at the very berth in the marina where it belonged, only with a new couple on board. Although painted a different color, the neighbors recognized the boat and immediately notified authorities. When the police arrived, the new occupants of the boat engraved suspicion on their guilt by their actions. One dove into the water and the other attempted a retreat in the dinghy; both were quickly apprehended.

The trial continued long after we returned home because no victims could be found. Several years later, people on a visiting yacht discovered the bones of the murdered owners washed up on the beach at Palmyra. Originally the bodies had been placed in a metal box and sent to the bottom of the sea. The trial was consequently able to close and a conviction made. Seventeen years later we watched a made-for-TV movie retelling the entire incident.

Thus we continued north. A strange phenomenon puzzled us as we approached Hilo on the big island of Hawaii. Hilo is the highest island in the Pacific Ocean. The big Island came into view 250 miles away. Charts and experts claim a sighting is impossible at that distance. But there it was. Then when we arrived within ten miles it disappeared! Nor could we find a trace of the island when our charts showed it only five miles distant.

The kids used the opportunity to make cute, encouraging little remarks like “Nice going, Dad, here we are in the middle of the Pacific and you are losing it. Somebody bring me an airplane!”

The last vestige of daylight remained and we could hear the bell buoys on shore, but no island showed. Then all of a sudden at four miles distant, it suddenly exploded into existence. A colossal giant sprang up in the middle of the sea, orchestrating a grandiose entry solely for our benefit. Captain Wonderful was once again exonerated. No one ever gave a reasonable explanation for that strange illusion.

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There is something about summer that makes me think I should be on vacation - even when I am not. Today has been a very hard day to settle down and get anything accomplished. I keep thinking I'm on vacation. I shouldn't have to work.

But it's not true. There are lots of things I need to be doing. I have read many times that one should write out a "To Do" list the evening before. I think I better start that. Because this vacation snydrome is starting to take over my life!

Patricia

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Sailing Beyond the Sea by Jim d'Urfe Proctor, DVM Queenship Publishing Company ISBN: 1-882972-86-4 Visit my mini bookstore to purchase Sailing Beyond the Sea If you are enjoying Cathollic Book Talk, please Tell A Friend!

Chapter 10

RETURN TOWARD SOLID GROUND

Many tales could be told of the Maritashan’s South Pacific passage. Many volumes could be filled with adventures and anecdotes. As August, 1975 was coming to a close we felt the time had come to head toward home. We couldn’t be bums all our lives; or could we? Carole was not at all ready to return and the kids were becoming content with their vagabond life. Wayne and Bridgid stayed on and worked in Tahiti for a time and many of our other friends sailed on to the Cook Islands and New Zealand. Bill, Dawn, and Simon on Meridian 2 eventually joined us in the North Pacific. Economically, we would have done equally as well to stay, but something was drawing me to return. Adventures lay beyond that brought definite changes to our lives and to our way of thinking.

In my early years, reading material consisted of sciences and medicine. On the sailing trip I read only two small pocket books. The first one, “Life After Life,” was written by a doctor, Raymond A. Moody, MD, who interviewed a number of people injured in severe accidents or affected by a life-threatening illness. At one point they were pronounced dead. Later they were revived to tell of fantastic supernatural sights they had witnessed. This sort of story would not ordinarily interest me, but for the fact these people described exactly the same scenes Dad had related to me when I was known as a stable and knowledgeable person.

My first thought was “Gee, too bad Dad couldn’t be alive to read this.” Then something dawned on me and I had another thought.

I laughed at myself: “Hey, he’s there, he doesn’t need a book!”

The other book was written by Malcolm Muggeridge a famous non-believing writer who wrote about Mother Teresa of Calcutta.

Here is a lady who is accepted and revered by the whole world, when in fact, she is practicing exactly what the world is telling us is ridiculous and foolish. She was dedicating her entire life, every moment of her life, to the poorest of the poor for the love of her Creator. She called herself a fanatic. Malcolm changed his philosophy and was converted from just being in her presence. Even religious educators and leaders were telling us we must have a “balance,” don’t go overboard on this religious stuff. Mother Teresa meanwhile, like St. Francis was bubbling over with a joy unequaled by anyone seeking the pleasures offered by the world. St. Francis was considered a nut by the world’s standards.

One quote from Malcolm Muggeridge haunted me, “Anything that is not about eternity, is eternally worthless.”

My Mother, the one person who made the greatest impact on my life explained to us when we were young, “In the end nothing else matters but the condition of your soul. The way you behave now will determine your eternity. This life is just a blip: eternity is forever.”

One great advantage of sailing is the time it affords for deep reflection, free from influence by people’s hidden agendas, new conflicting philosophies, skeptics and materialism.

Before turning the rudder toward North America and home, we returned to Tahiti and the Warehouse Store for supplies. Enough food was stored to last for our next and longest crossing, Tahiti to Hilo, Hawaii, 3000 miles north. We made one last visit to Robinson’s Bay on the island of Moorea. This was such a magnificent little jungle, we wanted to remember the South Pacific just that way!

Seventy year old Kermit Parker anchored his boat Patience near by, Kermit was a boat broker from California. He and his quaint little wife of equal vintage had attempted the crossing to California several days before. They were intercepted by a violent storm and his wife thrown across the galley. Several ribs were fractured when she collided with the kerosene cook stove. The poor dear lady had to abandon her dream adventure and fly to California for recovery. Three young experienced racing sailors flew to Tahiti to help bring Patience home. Kermit was a rare character, in excellent physical condition for his seventy years and a lot of fun to be around. Kermit and I swapped views and stories over a beer at a sidewalk restaurant in Papeette one afternoon.

“You know,” he said,, “I shouldn’t be sitting here drinking like this. Drinking has caused the death of most of my relatives. Mom and Dad, and Uncle George all died from drinking. Aunt Helen and Aunt Martha, they both died from drinking. Granddad too, he died that way. They all lived to be over ninety five but damned if drinking didn’t finally get every one of them in the end!”

Kermit departed two days ahead of us for Hilo. As we parted, I said something that somehow must have offended him.

Innocently I joked, “Well Kermit, we will wave when we pass you by.”

He turned on me like an angry cat; the first time I ever saw him act other than jovial.

He was obviously insulted and barked in no uncertain terms, “You do not pass a forty-five foot Herschoff Racing sloop with more sail area and half the weight of your Force 50 dog. To say nothing of my professional crew. Your crew are nothing but kids.”

“I’m sorry, Kermit, I was only joking,” I mumbled with great humility. Guess he had a bad night or maybe it was the stress of undertaking the long crossing to California.

On the passage north we listened regularly to the single side band radio conversations. Every night Kermit’s loving little wife would contact Patience from California.

It was really cute to hear her squeaky voice end the conversation each evening with, “Good night Kermit, I love you.”

Each time she called, Kermit would report his latitude and longitude allowing her to map the progress of Patience. When we reached the equator, five hundred miles along the way, the readings showed Maritashan had passed the Herschoff sloop and was already 100 miles ahead. The kids, elated after the chastising Kermit laid on me, gave everything they had to maintain top speed.

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Today I'm off to the beach at Newport, Oregon. The water is cold so I won't be dipping my toes into it much, but I will enjoy it nevertheless!

Doesn't quite match this Pacific adventure - but it comes close far as I am concerned!

Patricia

Patricia

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Sailing Beyond the Sea by Jim d'Urfe Proctor, DVM Queenship Publishing Company ISBN: 1-882972-86-4 Visit my mini bookstore to purchase Sailing Beyond the Sea If you are enjoying Cathollic Book Talk, please Tell A Friend!

Our stay in Tahiti lasted longer than any other anchorage, June to September. There was so much to see and do. We swam, we snorkeled, we hiked, and like every landing, we sampled all food offered in the country! Here, we attended Mass celebrated in French and Latin in their great cathedral. Most Polynesian people are Catholic with some others attending a branch of a Mormon church. We enjoyed visits with international airline travelers, sailors, and Tahitians.

Polynesians and Mexicans love kids and voiced their approval of our large family. This was in sharp contrast to affluent Canadian and American tourists lolling about in their various international condominiums or yachts.

One such questioned Carole haughtily, “Are all those your children?”

“Yes,” was Carole’s pert reply, "but they are not all of my children."

“I’ll bet the world hates you,” the lady retorted.

“Not the real world,” Carole countered.

Carita, Shan and Marggie found four girls their own ages; Monica, Leslie, and Karen, on a California boat. Aegir; and Joanne, Shannon’s age from the ferro cement boat, Babalatchi. Babalatchi was a Canadian boat from Gibson, B.C. The girls became inseparable during their stay in Tahiti, and dubbed themselves the “secret seven.” It was uncommon to find a spoiled child among the inconveniences of sailing. All kids were generally well-behaved, with one notable exception. We were mortified parents years later when the girls confessed to an evening in Tahiti when this naïve secret-seven were chased and nearly caught by a pimp. They had followed prostitutes and tried to spy through their window. They were lucky we didn’t learn at the time. They would have been immediately sentenced to the brig or worse.

One night in Tahiti, Puppy turned up missing. After two days of searching, panic ensured. Earlier, the kids were aghast to discovered butchered dogs, skinned and hung to age behind a delicatessen store. (Dog is a delicacy in Polynesia.) We had visions of him roasted and stuffed with an apple in his mouth. Many joined in the search, day and night. Great was our relief when he finally reappeared on the third day, his tail between his legs, but with a guilty smirk painted across his face. True facts of the three-day frolic were never revealed to the rest of the crew.

In Tahiti, we met the Kitchings, Bill and Dawn, and their precocious seven year old, Simon. We soon became lasting friends. They lived on the forty-foot Meridian II from Auckland, New Zealand. Bob and Mark loved to engage Simon in conversation; his accent was so cute and his behavior so clever.

Once, while observing the big dog, Puppy, he asked, “And why is it that you call him Pup, when he’s not a pup atoll.”

Simon watched us popping corn, something he had never witnessed before.

The seven year old declared, “In New Zealand, popcorn is virtually unheard of.”

Life must be pretty dull not to have kids to watch, While tied to the quay in downtown Papeete, Mark gathered several pieces of junk and fashioned a fish spear gun, a quality replica of the local native spear guns. Several adult natives were quite impressed with his project and came aboard to observe and to coach him through the final stages of his endeavor.

Next in line, the island of Moorea beckoned to us. It is only a short hop and within sight of Tahiti. There, we anchored under the cone-shaped mountain, Bali Hi, after which the movie Bali Hi was named. We will always remember this island for its giant plants, flowers as big as dinner plates, and spiders of equal size. When Carole was caught in a monstrous rain storm, I picked a three foot philodendron leaf for her, which adequately served as an umbrella.

It is impossible to describe the beauty and the exhilaration of visiting all these fantastic little Edens, especially by boat. Airline tourists never see the real outback culture of the islanders. Forty miles west of Morrea lay the island of Huahini, the next objective. One thing that kept us moving was the excitement awaiting each successive new horizon, and never were we disappointed. Each landfall revealed a whole new world.

While anchored in Huahini, we received a call on the AM radio. An urgent message was waiting for me at the Gendarme’s office in Bora Bora. Unable to learn the contents, we set sail for Bora Bora, a one day passage. The message; Dad had passed away.

This was a sad day, but somehow not so unbearable as I had thought it would be. I recalled the vision-like experience Dad had recounted to me, and how fascinated he was to discover that there really is a God and that afterlife is not just a fairy tale. I gave thanks that I had given in, less than a month before, to that overwhelming desire to return and be with him one more time. The government officials, who always seemed so cold and callused toward sailors, were ever so sympathetic. They led us to a concealed World War Two submarine bunker where we could secure the Maritashan. There, in that concrete barricaded refuge, I could rest assured the family and boat would be safe, even in the event of a hurricane.

The Gendarmes, with attentive care, organized flights from Bora Bora to Tahiti so that I could connect with a flight to Spokane. Mark joined me for moral support. He was Grandad’s special buddy. Everything progressed like clockwork so that we arrived in time for the funeral. It was good to be there. I managed to hide my ectasy at having Jim Jr. join us after so long apart. I didn’t want to embarrass the teenager. During the funeral, they played a tape of Amazing Grace on bagpipes. That hit a tender spot, with the gang 6000 miles distant and our friends with the bagpipe on the boat, Amazing Grace, standing by.

I was asked to say a few words at the funeral. I related Dad’s profound spiritual experience to those present. Most had never heard of the event and assumed he still maintained his unbelief. I broke down after that, reading aloud a most meaningful poem that Dad was reading the night he entered eternity. Now, he could enjoy fully that great loving vision he couldn’t find words to describe.

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