The Canvas Can Do Miracles: Seven Sailor Tales

By Lee B. Mulder

If you love the sailing life, this book is for you. The islands, the clear water and the characters one finds on them inhabit these pages. From an unlikely encounter with an Anglican monk on a sailing vacation to a guy arrested for sleeping off a binge in St. John to what happens when a lone sailor rescues a woman marooned because her charter-mates chuck her overboard to the tale of a cigarette-bumming parrot to Sunday church in the harbor to a life-threatening love affair to what happens when a lifelong sailing couple decide to take a voyage for all time... you will laugh and cry and be inspired from beginning to end. These stories were written from the author's firsthand experience or based on crazy conversations overheard in some island bar. Armchair sailors and salty dogs alike are invited come on board this book for an enjoyable voyage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee B. Mulder
• Release date: Jun 10, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311131171

Lee B. Mulder

There are two things that drive this author. He needs to be in motion - traveling, moving, progressing. And he needs to feel productive. That last bit is the motivation for his wide variety of writing. Lee B. Mulder graduated with a Journalism degree from the University of Wisconsin at Madison at a time when the school was the epicenter for anti-Vietnam war protests. Reporting there led to a short newspaper career, then as a magazine staffer, then as a promotion writer, ad agency and public relations writer. Along the way he wrote columns for newspapers, stories for small magazines and novels. His first book "Toddler Tales: An Older Dad Survives the Raising of Small Children in Modern America" was published in 2006. A non-fiction book "They Call Me Mzee: One Man's Safari into Brightest Africa" was published in 2011 along with his novel, "The Missionary." As a ePub author, Mulder will release in 2014 a volume of poetry, several short stories with collections and maybe a novel. Raised in Chicago, Mulder now lives near a strong wifi connection. 2014 will be a breakthrough year for this author as he finally gets on Twitter. He loves to hear from his fans: email is [e-mail]

Book preview

The Canvas Can Do Miracles

Seven Sailor Tales

Lee B. Mulder

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Lee B. Mulder

OSC Publishing, Inc.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

The Monk of St. John

The Ballad of Gary Jonas

Landfall

Once Upon a Time in a Sailor Bar

Marooned

Sunday at Anchor

A Voyage for All Time

Introduction

Welcome to this collection of The Canvas Can Do Miracles: Seven Sailor Tales. You may recognize two of the stories, Marooned and Landfall as previously published and available as individual e-books. If you have read either or both of these pieces, you will greatly enjoy this collection. If you haven’t read them yet, they are here.

I spend a lot of time on the water and on land near water mostly because I find enormous peace and beauty and inspiration there. Those places also attract strange and diverse types of people which provides an endless supply of raw material for a writer like me.

The Monk of St. John was written after several years of yearning to build a boat on a pristine volcanic lake in Uganda, E. Africa. Actually, I still yearn to do what Brother Thomas did in this story. I have been to Uganda many times for humanitarian work and have been haunted by the presence of a large lake, plenty of wind and no boats other than dugouts or motorized canoes. It’s an adventure waiting to happen but for now, here is the story.

Once Upon a Time in a Sailor Bar actually happened to me and my son in the British Virgin Islands. He is now grown and still remembers that day.

The Ballad of Gary Jonas was a story told to me on St. John in the Virgin Islands by the guy who lived it. I’ve changed his name so the Virgin Islands Police don’t chase him down… again.

A Voyage for All Time is the ultimate love story for a lifelong sailing couple. Make sure you have a box of Kleenex handy at the end.

These stories are here because they have been screaming in my head for decades, trying to be heard. Please let me know what you think: [e-mail] and follow my blog at www.mulderbooks.wordpress.com.

Lee B. Mulder

Amelia Island, Florida

Well, it’s not far down to paradise,

at least it’s not for me.

And if the wind is right you can sail away

and find tranquility.

Oh, the canvas can do miracles.

Just you wait and see.

Believe me…

Christopher Cross

Sailing

The Monk of St. John

Look, I’m no fancy writer. I’m just a charter boat captain from the Virgin Islands who found himself smack in the middle of Africa trying to build a sailboat out of eucalyptus logs, but somebody needs to hear this story so I’m writing it down.

It was August of last year, the dead zone of the calendar when there are few paying customers. It’s hot. The winds are lazy. It’s hurricane season. And I guess people up north are busy navigating their own water while it’s not frozen. The one thing August is good for is maintenance. Paid crew needs to earn their keep, so we scrape and paint and sand and varnish. Boy does the varnish dry fast in this heat. Makes a great finish. We sweat in the engine room and power clean the galley. We whip the lines and we re-sew the chafing leather on the sails. And we drink beer. It’s almost as if we are recharging ourselves while we spiffy the boat – sweating out the toxins, laughing and scraping, hurling a season’s worth of pent-up curses at some tool that falls into the bilge. I like August even though there’s always the chance some tropical monster storm will come along and blast our floating abode to bits.

We were living on the hook over at Hawk’s Nest in a little cove with one or two local boats and one charter, a Moorings 36. I watched the rent-a-boat guy sail in on light air, round up, drop the hook and set the anchor all by himself, pretty as you please, without the engine, calm as can be. Well done. Tan guy. White hair, not real old. I clapped in appreciation of his anchoring job. He just looked my way and did a ‘twernt nuthin’ wave.

Over two days, I kept an eye on that boat while I worked. When it was barely dawn and already too bright for my beer-bleary eyes, I heard his dinghy rev to shore. Tan Guy would return at mid-day wearing a small backpack. Then he emerged topsides buck naked and jumped overboard for a half-mile swim. Slim guy. Fit. There were no interior lights after dark, no Bob Marley music, no sounds of clanging pans from the galley. No curses for a barked knuckle. You hear these things in small anchorages over still water.

On the afternoon of the third day, the barometer dropped and within an hour, the perfect sky, lazy with tall pillowy clouds thickened and flattened and turned greasy gray. We were in for blow. Just how hard we didn’t know, but in that hour, the wise cracking stopped and the crew leapt at stowing or lashing down everything that could blow away. I saw our neighbor putting out a second anchor. Good idea. I decided at that moment to invite him over.

I rowed over to the 36. Hello the boat, I shouted over the rising wind. Tan guy’s head popped out of the companionway. Reading glasses magnified the gray eyes and the crooked half smile was pleasant. Greetings, Neighbor. American.

We’re in for a blow tonight, I hollered over the wind. Wondered if you’d like to ride it out in a more comfortable craft. If so, you’re welcome aboard. Without hesitation, he nodded. He held up one finger with give me a minute. Two minutes later, he emerged in shorts and a chambray shirt with his backpack, slipped the weather boards in place and took a spot in the stern of the dinghy. What’s your name? I queried while rowing. Thomas, he said, pointing to himself. You? he said, pointing at me. Josh, I said. He nodded.

We reached the Cherie M and scrambled up the gangway. He just stood on the deck looking at the spars and rigging. Most everybody who comes aboard does that. It’s quite a tangle of cordage. Nice boat, he said. I’ve wondered what she looked like on deck.

Yeah, I offered. She’s a loveable old tub, 59 feet of wood and sweat. The tourists sure love her. Come on, I’ll introduce you around.

I led Thomas down below where three crew were lounging and one was cooking. I love to watch the eyes of visitors when they first see this salon with its polished wood and subtle lighting, crammed book shelves, a gleaming teak table for ten. This fellow just scanned the room with a little smile on his face. I could tell he liked it. Hey, everyone, our neighbor will be with us to ride out the storm tonight. Name’s Thomas. I pointed out the crew: There’s Doc, but don’t ask him to fix a broken arm; he’s a PhD in Philosophy. Next to him is Angela; we call her Angel. That’s Bethany; we call her Bethany. And in the galley is Skip, which gets confusing for people because I’m the Skipper. That’s us. On maintenance duty and R&R before another season begins.

I’m glad to meet you all, Thomas said. And thanks for the hospitality.

Skip’s about to force us to eat one of his galley experiments, I said. You want a beer?

A glass of wine if you have it.

We have it, I cried. An Island Chardonnay… which is what we call a bottle of California something opened three days ago. There was good-natured bantering going on. I poured Thomas a glass of wine and said, Very pretty anchoring the other day. It’s nice to see somebody who knows how to handle a boat. You on vacation?

I am on vacation and thanks. I heard the applause.

Food’s on! Skip bellowed from the galley. With that, everybody sprang into action setting the table, moving seats around, a candle appeared, bowls, plates, a big pot with a ladle and a plate of warm sliced bread. Fish chowder, he added. When everyone sat, he said, Dig in.

We had just reached for our spoons when Thomas said, Excuse me. Do you mind if we bless this meal? The crew looked around like mom just caught us doing something naughty but we put our spoons down. Heavenly Father, Thomas said looking around the table. Aren’t you supposed to bow your head and close your eyes and put your hands together under your chin? We thank you for this glorious day, for friends, for stout craft to travel the seas, for the good health we enjoy, even for storms, Lord, that humble us and remind us of your majesty. Lord, we thank you for this food we are about to eat and ask you to bless it and those who prepared it that we may strengthen our bodies to do your work. In the name of your beloved son and our Savior Jesus Christ, Amen.

Wow, I exclaimed. That may be the first blessing over a meal this year. Let’s eat. And you know what? The fish chowder was delicious, maybe more delicious than ever before with a little grace sprinkled on it.

So, Thomas, Doc said between bites. You’re on vacation. What do you do for a living?

Thomas nodded and swallowed. He looked up, serious as a heart attack, his gray eyes eloquent and then replied, I’m a monk.

Well, you could have heard a pin drop if it wasn’t for the wind whistling in the rigging. Faces froze around the table, spoons suspended in mid-air. The crew, most of us young and definitely not religious, looked at one another, eyes darting around in uncertainty.

A what? Doc asked.

A monk, he said. Anglican. They call me Brother Thomas. I am one of twelve in the Order of the Mukama in the Kigezi Diocese of Uganda, East Africa.

"Really, Doc said. You could almost hear the philosophy gears starting to crank. I could see it in his eyes. I hoped… maybe I prayed… the skinny little academic who looked a lot like Karl Marx didn’t launch into one of his deeply convoluted diatribes. Instead, he said, Shouldn’t you be back at the abbey laboring in silence or something?"

Thomas only smiled, breaking off another piece of bread. Skip, this is a feast. It’s wonderful. Skip nodded. We do labor quite hard at the monastery, he said, chewing. And in the local villages, not silently, I might add. That’s why we need a vacation once in awhile. We all have our favorite getaways. Brother Michael climbs mountains. Brother Seth heads to the Louvre in Paris. Sometimes we further our education. My getaway passion is sailing in these islands. No one spoke but you could see question marks on all the faces. He put down his spoon. I see you have questions. Probably the first time you’ve had an Anglican monk aboard, yes? If you’d like, I can tell you my story.

This was beginning to feel like Marlowe telling his creepy African tale in Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, but we were enthralled and had nothing else to do, so I echoed Doc’s smirky reply, I can hardly wait.

Good, the monk said. But let us first finish this magnificent meal. When does your tourist season begin? I could hear the wind whipping up and rain pelting in sheets but the heavy charter schooner with its thick plank sides hardly moved.

We chit-chatted about the charter business and cleared away the dishes and then passed the rum bottle all around for dessert. Brother Thomas did not partake.

So, I said. A sailing American monk from Africa. Wait ‘til Jimmy Buffett hears about this. Everyone chuckled politely.

Thomas said: The monastic movement has been alive for more than 1600 years. People who are drawn to it have a passion for service, a passion for people and most of all, a passion for God. In the early days, monasteries were fortified islands of believers in hostile lands. In the middle ages, they were fortified remote libraries, keeping the stories, the Bibles, the documents, the relics, the tangible pieces of an invisible faith alive across centuries of turmoil. Today, monasteries are not necessarily fortified but are places of retreat and reflection. Ours is a traditional place where we follow a rigid routine of prayer but with an overriding goal of serving the community we are in.

You are, what, sixty years old? Skip queried. "Don’t you have family or others who care about you? Are you retired?

Young man, the monk replied. I have been on this earth for 82 years. My brothers are my family. And I will never be retired.

I was astounded. 82? Really?

The work is hard, he continued. The days are long. And so, each of us is allowed a vacation. I spend my away time sailing and collecting seeds. Please… give me one more glass of wine and I will explain.

Then the real story began.

Twenty-three years ago I was in the office furniture business in St. Louis, Thomas said. "I was the CEO of the biggest company in town. We’d built it up pretty well and it was throwing off a good living for a lot of people. My wife and I had the big house and the cars, a boat, a summer place in the Ozarks, with all the debt