Holding the Captain's Hand

I confess. I recently held a man’s hand, and it wasn’t Woody’s.

Don’t worry. He knows about it. And he’s cool with it.

Here’s how it came about. As many of you know, we recently hosted an International Teams Latin America Regional Conference in Cartagena, Colombia. About half of the attendees opted for an afternoon snorkel trip in the Rosario Islands. Our group got a great deal on the outing because of connections through Jerry and Barb Manderfield, ITeams missionaries in Medellin. They are friends with a man who has served for years as a captain of a large ship. The captain arranged for a boat and crew with two powerful 200hp motors to take us out to the islands. The boat was not that large... we were just able to squeeze the 27 of us on it. But, boy! Could it fly!

We all boarded and donned our life jackets. One of the crew suggested I find a seat towards the center of the boat. I should have taken the hint. Instead, I happily perched on the bench at the far front. It was a wild ride! For 40 minutes we sped across the heaving seas, the front of the boat surging up before violently slamming down again and again and again! Thankfully, I had taken Bonine and didn’t get sea sick. There were times when I could swear I got compression fractures from the violent pounding.

We were all awfully glad when we got to the snorkel area. I would like to say it was some of the best snorkeling we’ve experienced, but there were some fairly inexperienced swimmers along, and Woody and I felt a bit like sheep dogs with flippers, trying to herd in the flock, doing all within our power to avoid a phone call to inform a loved one that their missionary son or daughter drowned at the conference!

I thought myself very smart when we boarded the boat once again for the ride back to shore. Instead of the pitching, tossing, and reeling front seat, I chose a more stable spot in the back. I sat beside Mike Timmer, a missionary to Bolivia. We were facing the side of the boat on a small, slippery fiberglass bench. We took off like a rocket, the Captain’s assistant roaring all 400 horsepower to life. As the boat lurched to life, I almost slid off the edge of the bench . Desperate, I grabbed for anything available. Mike’s knee was the only handhold I could find. I shouted to his wife, “Sorry, Bonnie! I’m holding your husband’s knee and there is no way I can let go if I want to stay on the boat!!” (I’m pretty sure his knee had five Susan-finger-sized bruises after the trip!)

The ocean seemed determined to make its power known to the four of us in the far back port corner. It was like sitting in front of a saltwater power washer. I swear I was wetter on board than I had been while snorkeling! As I spluttered and gasped, still hanging on for dear life to Mike’s knee with my left hand, the Captain reached over with his bronzed hand and firmly gripped my other hand. While everything else seemed to be in a state of salty commotion, the Captain’s hand was the only thing that remained firm.

The rest of the trip was filled with screams and laughs and plenty of saltwater. My left hand stayed clutched Mike’s knee and my right was in the Captain’s grip right to the end of the trip.

I take three things away from that trip:

A stiff neck.
A great story.
And an unforgettable lesson to put my hand in the Captain’s when the ride gets rough.