Captain's Log #13
March, 2001

TROPICAL CYCLONE 'PAULA'
It's now just past 3 A.M. and it's been a long 36 hours aboard the motor vessel 'Galilean'. The winds are still hitting full gale force strength but the danger to us of a direct full force hit by Tropical Cyclone 'Paula' is past, she has veered south of her predicted course - our prayers are being answered. Vigilance is not an option in this never ending cycle, minute after minute, hour after hour, of checking and making sure the anchors are holding and the chafing gear (protective rags wrapped around the ropes where they touch anything to keep the ropes from parting) is still doing it's job. Inside the Galilean is quieter and calmer than outside but still the darkness is filled with the howling sounds of water pounding against the hull and the moans and screams of violent wind through rigging and the endless groaning of multi-ton breaking strain nylon ropes as they stretch like piano wire.
 

SAMSON
One of our JESUS Film team members, Sam (short for the Fijian of Samson) is clinging to one of the bunks and has dropped off into some form of unconscious exhaustion that's way beyond sleep. He is the only one who volunteered to ride out this storm with me and I'm very aware of how much trouble I would have been in without him. His faith is being stretched. Mine too. In the darkness I check the GPS co-ordinates again and instantly reach over and flip the radar to standby mode, unconsciously counting down the eternal 60 seconds of warm up before it will come to life. The information I'm getting from the GPS is of serious concern. If I had any adrenaline left in my system, I would go ahead and use it up now. Quietly and quickly I whisper to my closest friend once more...  'please keep the anchors holding Lord, don't let them move, let me have set them correctly and if not, You set them correctly now!' I probably have close to half a ton of ground tackle down out there in the inky blackness, anchored out at all four points of the compass... we did all we could... even diving down as the winds started blowing and darkness began to fall two days ago...  now, I'm thankful we did.

THE ANCHOR HOLDS
The helm area is filled with an eerie green glow as the radar lights up. The sweep begins it's 360 degrees around me, time seems to slow way down. I watch inside the danger line that I've programmed onto the radar screen, praying to see no returned signal from within it. I realize that my right hand is resting on the ignition switch, ready to fire the diesels. For what seems the millionth time I catch myself going through my check list, the survival lights are tied to the life jackets, knives where they should be, safety lines ready... etc. etc. One of my biggest fears is the huge ship that just took up position before dark at .13 of a nautical mile off my starboard bow. She had been running hard for cover from way out at sea. Some friends that I've made have gotten in from over 200 miles out - I am very aware that where I am anchored is where all of these have been running to - this is a good anchorage! Suddenly the island that I anchored in the lee of, is painted beautifully in the wake of the radar sweep exactly off my port beam where she should be and as the sweep comes around, there's the ship right where she should be. We haven't moved. The GPS was just picking up my swing as the winds change heading with the cyclone - the anchors haven't budged an inch. 'Thank you, Lord, thank you!.'
 
 
Harmon

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