A couple of decades ago I was 2^nd Mate on one of our ships coming up the west coast from Baja California to Portland, Oregon.  On our ship the 2^nd Mate stood what is often called the “mid watch”.  On this watch you were responsible for navigating the ship from noon to 4 p.m. and midnight to 4 a.m.

As we headed northbound with crew only, repositioning for our spring Columbia River itineraries, the weather progressively worsened the further north we sailed.  Nearing the mouth of the Columbia, two separate weather systems were colliding, one to the north of our position and one to the south.  The seas built coming from the north and south resulting in what is know as a “confused sea state.”

The short of it is that the ship pitches, rolls, and yaws violently in no predictable way.  To try and sleep in these conditions is really secondary to just staying in your bunk.  When the ship crests a large wave and dives into the ensuing trough, you literally become airborne and then fall heavily back into bed.  When the ship rolls, you are thrown side to side.  You get out of bed sore from the thrashing.

At the mouth of the Columbia River is a bar you have to cross where it shallows up.  Large ocean swells approach the bar unimpeded by any land for thousands of miles and build steeply at the shallow bar and run into the opposing river current.  During an ebb tide the effect is exaggerated by the increased volume of water spilling out of the river.  Consequently, you want to shoot for a bar crossing at slack tide (the short period of time between the change between ebb and flood tide) when the effect is at its minimum.

On this particular night, I came up to the Bridge at 11:45 to take the watch from the Chief Mate.  I had about an hour sleep in the previous 24 and am sure most everyone else on board had the same.  The trip from the crew quarters up 3 flights of stairs and 60 feet or so to the Bridge is an adventure in those conditions.

I staggered in to the Bridge and the first thing that caught my eye was the radar.  We were about 5 miles off the Oregon coast headed straight toward the beach.  The Chief Mate Jill (who, for the record was one of the best 2 or 3 Mates/Captains I had ever known or worked with) looked pretty haggard and said “Sorry Dwayne.  We have to kill some time before slack at the bar and this is the best ride I could find to keep from breaking anything or hurting anyone. Turn around when you get close to the beach.”

A short time after she left for bed we had approached land close enough for my comfort so I turned around.  Things really started to get tossed around.  I altered course and speed several times, searching for something that was comfortable.  But as it turned out, she was right.  The least uncomfortable ride was going straight to the beach.

I heard the bar pilot boat on the radio calling a nearby ship.  Bar pilots are people with local knowledge of waterways who jump onto large ships in all sorts of crazy conditions and guide the ship across the River bar.  I knew they had just crossed the bar in the pilot boat so called them on the radio to find out what the conditions were.

Shortly after my radio call, my long-time great friend Mark, who was the Captain, called me on the Bridge and asked how it was going.  We talked for a minute and came to the conclusion that it was no worse at the bar than we were currently experiencing.  Mark said let’s go for it and get out of this mess.  He was on the Bridge minutes later.

After crossing the bar, there was immediate calm.  The ship stopped rocking and rolling.  There was a feeling of overwhelming relief.  You realize how hard you’ve been working physically just to stay on your feet.  Finally, peace both mentally and physically.

On Tuesday I had my first post-treatment MRI to see how things were going and to get some indication of how I was responding to the treatment.  As the day neared we battled ourselves mentally, fighting off anxiety and fear.  I repeated a line from a popular song on Christian radio; “fear is a liar.”

I felt a total sense of peace.  Family and friends from around the country were praying for us.  I truly felt it.

Everything went well.  The MRI results were good.  The doctors seemed happy.  Mom had flown into town and I was glad she had a chance to sit there and hear from them first-hand and to meet the people who were there to help on the medical side of things.

That night as we were laying in bed, still processing the day’s events, I asked Lisha how she was feeling.  The thing that came to her mind was Psalm 107.

Verses 23-31 say,

“Some went out on the sea in ships;

they were merchants on the mighty waters.

24 They saw the works of the Lord,

his wonderful deeds in the deep.

25 For he spoke and stirred up a tempest

that lifted high the waves.

26 They mounted up to the heavens and went down to the depths;

in their peril their courage melted away.

27 They reeled and staggered like drunkards;

they were at their wits’ end.

28 Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble,

and he brought them out of their distress.

29 He stilled the storm to a whisper;

the waves of the sea were hushed.

30 They were glad when it grew calm,

and he guided them to their desired haven.

31 Let them give thanks to the Lord for his unfailing love

and his wonderful deeds for mankind.”

 

I have first-hand experience of that feeling and having worked on the ship and wrestled with motion sickness, so does Lisha.  This passage for us has special meaning for us now.  Calming peace of deliverance from the storm.  Everyone faces trials and hardships, and certainly we will have more in our future of all kinds, health and otherwise.  I am so thankful for God’s calming peace in the storm.  I am also so thankful for the many friends and family who rally around us in times of trouble and look forward to the day when I can return the love.