BRINY TALES Romance of the Sea and Salvation copyright Doug Blair, Waterloo, ON, 2016
image thanks to Jody Squallace
The Prize*
She has been gaining on us Our hold heavy With burdensome loot Our riggings pock-marked From the shot of exchanges And the stress of this South Sea. Duties never change Sometimes lightened with song But many a time On our knees scrubbing. Or hauling sheets
Or scampering aloft. We know our lowliness Those skeletons of drink, darkness And debauchery ashore. Captain reads us Psalms Many a morn But the images are so foreign Like an exotic verdant isle Not yet landed. And this other bonnie ship Gaining this late afternoon All sails full and profiting This might be the last Of our nights for this flag. Close watch to lights and breeze We reckon. And who are they? And whose Crown? And will we be shackled Below decks? Or given happy privilege To serve and strain And sing yet again? For a different Captain Headed for a different land? With what seems Totally different purpose. (* Salvation starts with total despair of self, leading to an overthrow, a boarding, and a subjugation with ultimate gladness to a different Captain and King.)
Respite From the Wash
They sight a rare nor-easter The ship will roll and mourn And quite a ways And several days Afore we reach the Horn. The blast compels us ice-ward The rigging all a-sheen We hope for west And do our best With chop we’ve never seen. And two days back we lost one In seconds he was gone The wash was coy It grabbed the boy And this his thirteenth run. At first light sometimes quiet And Captain reads us Psalms A special hour We sense God’s power He whips up and He calms. This evening all exhausted
And in my bunk a whiles And Danny sits across from me And slaps my knee and smiles: “Your three percent is waiting Once we collect the loot In warmer seas Bright birds in trees. And roasted pig to boot.” It’s good to feel the promise That beats this awful chill And soothes the ache In friendship’s wake. And re-creates the will.
That Jonah, Newton
"I tell ya Chester, that Newton's a Jonah, he is. Temper quick as mercury. Wicked tongue ta shame even my drunken Uncle Tammas. He's no good for tha ship, I fear. Be lookin' fer whales, boy. Be lookin' fer this storm to roise." The other, moving his pipe to the opposite side of the large jaw, mumbled, "Mmmm... Why is it d'ya think that Captin shows 'im such peticular favour? Even afore I came belowdecks he had turned over the helm to John. I've had no fearsome grief from the lad, ceptin' for his dour looks betimes. But still ye could be right, old friend." And above, John Newton gripped the wheel these past forty minutes and noted the coming screech in the rigging. The plaintive growl and roll of the big hull. The wash of water being taken in. The pounding of his own heart.
He had overheard a litle of the "Jonah talk". Had seen the increasing scowls on the faces of men without guile. Men who were loyal and brave, but gravely superstitious. Was he near the end? Were all of them? After ninety minutes, relief came to peel the rigid hands from the wheel and to slap the back and to push toward the staircase. A dozen paces from his station, a giant surge soaked the deck and hurled John to the rail. He thought, 'Oh wretched, lost, vile, friendless man that I am'. Hurried below. In the closeness of his bunk, the others elsewhere on duty, he felt as condemned as the black cargo of despairing souls he had sometimes transported; as far from the love of God or man as that rebellious prophet at the bottom of the sea. Though Newton had never received theretofore any message or mission from on high. But now words and petitions were issuing from his innermost person, and a sense of the presence of God was leading him on and driving the storm from his consciousness. That night of May 10, 1748, one godless sea-farer received the quickening realization and release of "Amazing Grace". His subsequent message, music and ministry would help end the slave trade in the British Empire; would help many souls of all colours to cast off the shackles of unbelief and trespass. Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, And grace my fears relieved. How precious did that grace appear The hour I first believed.
Ship of Ships
It is sinking Irreversibly. Whistles abate. Bells diminish. The chuggings of
Lower quarters Grind and wheeze. Rowings are heard ‘Gainst the waves. Tempo setting in. Lifeboats all dispatched. But too few. Friends call to each other Cross the darkness. Deck fires paint a cracked Flash on the brine. Great ship lists Horribly To the fore. Stragglers and those resigned Sit at lounge chairs, Awaiting inevitability. Hands held. “I love you” spoken. One baleful voice Cries through the fog (As if alone, where Crowds had just streamed, Voices discordant.)
“Herbert, dear, I’m waiting for you.” Atlantic cold Clarifies the strains Of small orchestra. Dignified departure. Debussy. And this had been The Ship of ships. Frigid saline fingers Thanking the ice; Grabbing more and more Of its girth. Pulling it down.
(Titanic, April 14, 1912)
Shipwreck
(Taken from the narrative poem Enoch Arden by Alfred Lord Tennyson) No want was there of human sustenance, Soft fruitage, mighty nuts, and nourishing roots; Nor save for pity was it hard to take
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a hut, Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, Dwelt with eternal summer, ill-content. For one, the youngest, hardly more than boy, Hurt in that night of sudden ruin and wreck, Lay lingering out a three-years' death-in-life. They could not leave him. After he was gone, The two remaining found a fallen stem; And Enoch's comrade, careless of himself, Fire-hollowing this in Indian fashion, fell Sun-stricken, and that other lived alone. In those two deaths he read God's warning `wait.' The mountain wooded to the peak, the lawns And winding glades high up like ways to Heaven, The slender coco's drooping crown of plumes, The lightning flash of insect and of bird, The lustre of the long convolvuluses That coil'd around the stately stems, and ran Ev'n to the limit of the land, the glows And glories of the broad belt of the world, All these he saw; but what he fain had seen He could not see, the kindly human face, Nor ever hear a kindly voice, but heard The myriad shriek of wheeling ocean-fowl, The league-long roller thundering on the reef, The moving whisper of huge trees that branch'd And blossom'd in the zenith, or the sweep Of some precipitous rivulet to the wave, As down the shore he ranged, or all day long Sat often in the seaward-gazing gorge, A shipwreck'd sailor, waiting for a sail: No sail from day to day, but every day The sunrise broken into scarlet shafts Among the palms and ferns and precipices; The blaze upon the waters to the east; The blaze upon his island overhead; The blaze upon the waters to the west; Then the great stars that globed themselves in Heaven, The hollower-bellowing ocean, and again The scarlet shafts of sunrise--but no sail. There often as he watch'd or seem'd to watch, So still, the golden lizard on him paused,
A phantom made of many phantoms moved Before him haunting him, or he himself Moved haunting people, things and places, known Far in a darker isle beyond the line; The babes, their babble, Annie, the small house, The climbing street, the mill, the leafy lanes, The peacock-yewtree and the lonely Hall, The horse he drove, the boat he sold, the chill November dawns and dewy-glooming downs, The gentle shower, the smell of dying leaves, And the low moan of leaden-color'd seas. Once likewise, in the ringing of his ears, Tho' faintly, merrily--far and far away-He heard the pealing of his parish bells; Then, tho' he knew not wherefore, started up Shuddering, and when the beauteous hateful isle Return'd upon him, had not his poor heart Spoken with That, which being everywhere Lets none, who speaks with Him, seem all alone, Surely the man had died of solitude. Thus over Enoch's early-silvering head The sunny and rainy seasons came and went Year after year. His hopes to see his own, And pace the sacred old familiar fields, Not yet had perish'd, when his lonely doom Came suddenly to an end. Another ship (She wanted water) blown by baffling winds, Like the Good Fortune, from her destined course, Stay'd by this isle, not knowing where she lay:
Acts Chapter 27
Some could swim And some seemed helpless Furious waves Their ship attacked Gone the load And gone the sunshine One last meal
For strength they lacked. But a prisoner Still in shackles Gave them hope That all might pass. True, his God Had seen the danger Brought the shore Of rest at last. Down the anchors Share the wreckage Bits and boards To buoy their swim “Off for land Ye hardy ship-mates Just put all your Trust in Him!” Not so pretty Seemed this passing Soaking rats Not hardly men But a captive’s Dauntless message Brought all safe Ashore again.
(see also Psalm 107: 23-31)
Opus
There’s a song in every Christian And it speaks of rough sea crossed And of dark nights of desertion
When the former hopes were lost And the world would brand it weakness And would silence the refrain And would drum their battle marches That precede the grief and pain Hoping for no other trophy Than another small tiff won Never dreaming, never seeing Total victory in God’s Son. But the song would call Him gentle Willing slave to all men’s worst Brother, Helper, Saviour, Jesus Matchless lyrics oft rehearsed. Now perhaps you sense the music Go ahead, relinquish, Soul And delight in light and rescue For the song has made you whole.
On the Right Side
Cast the net On the right side It is yours Used oft’ before And you put it down
And you play it out You seek fish Yes, many more. On that left side Lurks disaster You have dabbled Once or twice There greed and gain And thoughts profane And viciousness And vice. But the right side There’s the answer And so Christ’s word Has said A yield so fine His bread and wine And new life from The dead. John 21: 6 (Jesus is raised from the dead and serving breakfast to His friends on the beach.)
To the Islands
John Williams was dispatched by the London Missionary Society to French Polynesia in the Pacific (@1827). Eventually he died at the hands of cannibals. He relates one incident where he came across a farmer peasant, named Buteve, who through trauma had lost both his legs. Garden farming was a tedious matter of crawling around with the aid of some rudimentary assist. When assemblies were called by Williams, Buteve could only make it as far as the pathway by his lot, where he would inquire of passers-by as to a song, a scripture or any short message shared.
Williams heard of this simple, devoted man and paid him a visit in which he asked of the nature of his faith exercises: Answer: “Oh yes, I very frequently pray as I weed my ground and plant my food, but always three times a day, besides praying with my family every morning and evening.” Question: “What do you say when you pray?”
Answer: “I say, Oh Lord, I am a great sinner; May Jesus take my sins away by His good blood; Give me the righteousness of Jesus to adorn me, and give me the good spirit of Jesus to instruct me and make my heart good, to make me a man of Jesus, and take me to Heaven when I die.” (John Williams, The Martyr Missionary of Polynesia, by James J. Ellis, 1889, S.W. Partridge and Company)
The gardener got it! Simply by prayer, song, bits of scripture, meditation and dialogue. How much other “stuff” seems to occupy our pulpits these days. How many commentaries, testimonies and DVD’s keep us from the purity of this man’s experience of Christ?
It is often said that the Psalms constitute a little Bible within the Bible. All major themes of redemption and grace appear to be addressed. Praise and thanksgiving, petition, distress, Messiah, people of Israel, history, rescue, guidance, surprise, wonder, recollection, repentance and the regenerating power of God's Word. One can open the Psalms at any place and receive fresh air and hope. One can also see how the major psalmist, King David, did not hold back in honesty, pain, quandary or rejoicing in uttering these thoughts Heavenward. He was simply being himself, unadorned...and God loved it.