The Oar
About thirty miles above San Francisco sits the small fishing port city of Morro Cove. It’s a wee dot on a Wal-Mart Road Atlas, population 2,000. A large breakwater, built in the 40’s by the U.S. Core of Engineers, forms a small cove of water a half mile long, with an oyster farms, a museum and in the low backwater a hatchery for albacore. The body of water separating the breakwater from the town is 200 yards, and scattered length to breadth of the cove, anchored boats of all descriptions. A pier jets out of the embarcadero 600 feet, T-ing on the end. Fishing boats tie up with large ropes wrapped around metal tie downs on pier . It’s the summer fishing season, early afternoon, and back from the days activities fishermen are busy unloading their catch. Seagulls swoop down to the decks to pick and fly away with fish innards. Two, flapping their white wings, have a tug-a-war with a piece of sea perch. A cluster of pelicans fly south over the boats and skim the tops of the waters in the bay searching for schools of smelt.

A boy, his white mongrel dog following, parked his bike at the end of the pier and walked up past the boats tied to their slips He was well known on the docks as he spent all his spare time visiting the fishermen. He was small for his fourteen years with windblown auburn hair, ruddy cheeks, and a freckled face. The boy, a pest at times, with his frequent questions was well liked, and most didn’t mind his hanging around. Each summer afternoon he could be found there when the fleets arrived.

At the end of the pier an old dilapidated wooden line vessel had tied up. The boy hadn’t seen it before and he raced over to look at it. It had been painted dark blue and the paint was cracking. The rails were showing rust spots. On the aft side, in black, was the name, El Pilar. An old man sat on a upside down silver bucket, bent over working on some fish lines. “Hello,” the boy shouted up at the man.

The old salt stood up, walked over to the edge and looked down. His face was weather beaten and dark brown from sun and salt air. His grey beard glistened in the afternoon sun. A blue captains cap was pulled down over long silver hair, and a briar pipe perched on his lips. The old salt removed the pipe, blew a grey ringlet into the air and placed his foot on the railing. “Lo,” he said, “What’s yer handle?”

“Rodney, sir.”

“You from here, Rodney?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m ‘bout to fix some lunch, care to join me?”

“Sure,” Rodney answered and to his dog, “Sit…stay, Oliver.”

The man offered a hand up and Rodney grabbed hold and was swiftly brought up to the deck by his powerful, huge hand. Rodney followed the sailor into the cabin sitting aft. It was small, with a bunk at one end and a tiny galley in the opposite corner. A smell of freshly caught fish whiffed in the cabin. The walls were covered with various maps and charts.

“Aye, grab a seat, son.”

Rodney sat down at a little kitchen table on a wooden bench swung down from hinges on the wall. He felt a little uneasy as he sat there as he was taught be aware of strangers.
“You can call me Captain Mac,” Mack said tossing his cap into a corner. He walked over to a cupboard above a small sink. “Now what’ll ya have?,” he asked, “Peanut butter an’ crackers, err salmon an’ crackers?”

“I’m not really hungry…a little thirsty…do you have some pop?”
“Aye, I think I might have one in here.” Mack smiled a friendly yellow toothed smile, and taking a coke out of an ice cooler tossed it to Rodney. Mack reached back down in the ice and brought up a small bowl of salmon and taking a box of crackers from a shelf he sat down.

“Well, Rodney, what do you think of me boat?”

“It’s nice, sir.”

“I bought her twenty-five year a go. This boat’s taken me up an’ down this coast from Canada to Mexico. She’s been durm good to me. We’re both getting on in years. I think this’ll be our last summer. Can’t hardly afford to hire anyone and layin’ these pole lines is back breaking. I’ve got a couple men hired but they want over half the profits an’ that don’t leave much fer me an’ the boat. It’s just too much to keep up any more.”

“Have you been to sea all your life, sir?”

“Call me Mack. All my life I haven’t been fifty miles inland. I’ve been all over the world on the sea. It’s been a good life, a few bad times, but mostly I wouldn’t want ta be anywhere’s else.. Are ye gonna’ take to the sea when ya grow up?”

“Oh, yes Mack, I’m going to sail to all the sea ports.”
An aged, weathered oak oar about eight feet long was draped on two hooks above a porthole. Etched in the flat end was “1970 - “Savior“. “Gee, what’s the story behind this oar?” The boy asked.

“Well, son it’s a long story an’ if’ ’n you have time I’ll tell it. Let’s go up on the foredeck.“ Mack wiped his mouth with a dirty handkerchief from his back pocket. Shoving it back in, he grabbed his sailors cap, put it on and walked out onto the deck. Rodney followed and sat on the rail opposite Mack who sat back down on the upturned galvanized bucket. The old salt attempted to relight his pipe, sucked on it, tapped the old grey ash out against the rail, refilled it from a pouch from a pocket of his shirt, tamped it down with his thumb and lit it again. He blew a cloud of grey cloud smoke into the air. The sailor picked his hat off and scratched the top of his head. He looked up at an overcast sky trying to recollect his thoughts. Rodney waited patiently.
The old man took another drag from his pipe. “We sailed September 30th, 1970. I was the third mate on a freighter out of San Francisco. It was a small ship , called “Vast Provider“, 296 feet long, with goods for Japan. There was twenty-one sailors aboard her. No problems ‘till October 13th as we entered the North Pacific, 40 miles south of the Philippine Sea. Our short wave said a storm was brewing. We didn’t know it but one of the largest typhoons of the decade was forming 300 miles south of Yap, called Kate. We were heading directly towards it’s path.

We were on the latitude of Manila and our cap’s intentions were to outrun the storm. The next advise on our radio stated Kate had winds of 65 knots and I was hopin’ the cap would change his mind about the dash across the front of Kate. Better to sacrifice a day and stay safe. Then the word on our radio stated it was now running at 85 knots. I wanted to advise the cap, but it would hardly pass muster for the third mate to advise the ships master of anything. The seas begun ta swell violently with waves reaching the desk. Heavy winds became more frequent. There was a greenish, sickly light within the oncoming clouds and a leadenness to the air and electricity made the hair on my arms stand on end. The winds increased as the barometric pressure declined. The winds of Kate were now whipping along at 96 knots and would eventually reach an astounding 240 knots or 150 miles per hour. We thought the storm was 100 miles north, but in actuality much closer and directly in our path.

At 8 bells Kate hit us ferociously with sheets of water spay and winds that made visibility impossible. The crew attempted to lash down and secure anything top side before retreating below deck. A tie-down was loose on a mid ship life raft. The small boat swayed wildly half way over the ships edge. The nylon strap whipped through the air like a freed python. It had to be caught and secured or we would loose our escape if’n the ship went to Davy Jones. The 2nd mate and I fought the howling wind and stinging rain. The strap lashed inches from me head, and I jumped up, caught it in me right hand, and fell to the deck to secure it. The 2nd mate grabbed the end of the strap and we attempted to secure the line to the deck.

A sudden gust of tremendous wind hit the upswing of the boat dragging us over the edge and into the maddening, swirling void. I felt myself falling! Falling! Falling! through wind swept wetness until I was engulfed in the sea. It seemed I plunged down in swirling water for a long spell . I held my breath until my chest throbbed in pain and thought this is it, but started rising rapidly until I bobbed to the surface of a raging sea. Gigantic waves lifted me to their peak, then slammed me down again. My head hit something’ hard and I must have passed out. When I opened my eyes there was blue sky above and the sea had calmed. I was riding on a round piece of wood under which barely kept me afloat. My head ached from the blow an’ I realized it must be from the pole I was floating on. I felt along it’s edge and discovered it was one a the oars from the lifeboat.

Me eyes scanned about for the second mate and our ship, but they were gone. All the way to the horizon nothing but blue waves surrounded me , and above a misty grey cloudless sky. I clung steadily to me host, and floated onward from wave to wave throughout that first day and into the night. The following morning luminous, dark clouds were forming in the east. I had not slept for forty-eight hours as I was afraid to close me eyes and lose, my rescuer. Although I hadn’t eaten I was not hungry, but me mouth was dry, me tongue swollen. I thirsted for a drink of clear cool water. The sun blazed away on me head and I would dip down, and stay under as long as possible to escape the blistering heat. On and on we floated the oar and me.

That evening I heard in the far distance a loud rumble of thunder and lightning bolts lit up the edges of the darkness. I saw bands of curtained rain rushing towards me, and I knew we were in for it. It was not long before the deluge was upon us, the waves rose into mountains, and I was thrust up and slammed down into a bottomless black abyss, and shot up again through continues wetness. I felt the oar, my salvation, slip out of me hands and into the void. I preyed the Lord me soul to take for this was the end. At the crest of a wave I said an our Father and was slammed into nothingness.

I dreamed terrible dreams of evil spirits and the devil. Tied to a post, I was surrounded by burning wood, and next to me, the oar, engulfed in flames. I awoke suddenly to a ominously cloudy sky. The sun peaking through in the east, casting a back-light to the clouds on the horizon., announcing a new day. But I was doomed, for how long could I hang on without me rescuer. It was me end for sure. It was sprinklin’ rain and I turned on me back, opened me mouth and drank the falling water. Out of the corner of me eye something was bobbing a few feet in front of me. The Oar! With all my strength I swam to it, grabbed it and held on. It t’was another miracle.

Throughout that day and into the night I prayed and hung on to me oar, and on the following morning another miracle, a ship. The Lord answered me prayers. The El Bllena out of Manila pulled us up and they could not understand why I would not let go of the oar. I was told me ship the Vast Provider had made it safely to port a day ago and they had given up on me.” Mack took a long drag on his pipe, found it unlit, and tapped the ashes out on the rail. “So, that’s me tail an’ a true one. An’ why I’ve always kept the oar to remind me of miracles, and the power of the seas.“

Rodney visited the Captain everyday for a week, and sitting on the foredeck Mack would tell of his adventures which kept the kid spell bound. Mack did not go out to fish each day, but would stay painting and fixing things. Rodney noticed that Mack was in pain at times, and would hold his gut, and pause for a second, then continue whatever he was doing. On Monday, upon returning to the docks, the El Pilar was not harbored. Rodney asked a fisherman if Mack was out fishing. The man gave him a quizzical look. “He’s gone ta San Diego. This was only a stop off for him. Didn’ja know? Old Mack is dyin’ of cancer. He won’t be comin’ back, lad.” Rodney felt his eyes watering and he turned away. “But, he’s left ya sometin’. It’s over yonder.”

Rodney lives in San Francisco now, and has his own fishing boat . In the cabin, hanging on the wall is the oar, and you can barely make out the writing, “1970 - Savior,“ and in small black printing on the flat side the words , “Call on me and I will answer you, and show you great and mighty things, which you do not know. - Jeremiah 33.2” Some nights while at sea Rodney, sitting aft, looks out at the moon glistening on open waters and imagining Mack, sailing on his boat, The Pilar, one hand is on the rudder, the other holding the oar, a smile, and contented look, on his wind blown face.