Thursday, July 10, 2003

Chapt 12, part 10

I have described the miracle of the rain. I have told of the flare that went faulty and became the means of providing fish for us to eat after our desparate prayer for food.

The prayer I uttered that afternoon was more than desparate. It was an anguished supplication, shouted above the wind and the rain. It came from the depths of my soul. And there were no mental reservations this time. I was calling to my God, who alone could save us. The answer was immediate and miraculous; it was the second of the two divine miracles.

Strength surged back into my shoulders and arms. I slashed at the man-eating sharks with the oars. They wheeled as though about to attack. But I didn't care. I was rowing again. I was rowing and bending those aluminum oars against the white caps. I say it was I who was bending them. That isn't true. Of himself, Jim Whittaker couldn't have bent a pin.

As the raft rolled steadily through the foam I was no conscious of exerting any strength, Indeed, it was . . . {missing pages!}

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