The Rock

I wish I could get the stories in my head to flow out through a keyboard to become paper without the painful experiences that are required. It has recently occurred to me that a blog might be a good way to force myself to write some fiction because it would impose some artificial deadlines to keep a story moving. I suppose we'll see.

The flat piece of rock and coral where I am building my new home is only a little bigger than a football field. It is stripped bare and pounded flat by three hurricanes in a little over a decade, located at the extreme south end of Bimini in the Bahamas. The relentless sun and unforgiving waves and storm surges of the years have also stripped it of almost all native forms of life other than the seaweed that grows among the rocks and the occasional gulls that land searching in vain for some scrap to eat from my compost pile. I say native life because I can’t count myself or Thomas the old black dog of uncertain parentage who jumped into my boat one day last spring and refused to leave. I suppose that Thomas decided that he’d take a chance on me in much the same manner that I decided to take a chance on the rock.

I am told that the previous occupants of the rock were both very wealthy and very stupid. Wealthy because they, like me, were intrigued by the idea of building a house on their own private island. Stupid because they were completely unprepared for what nature would do with a large pile of bricks and wood sticking up out of the sea in the middle of a hurricane’s path. The remnants of said house, now scattered and submerged off the east side of the rock, have formed the basis for a truly beautiful artificial reef after only ten years. While spear fishing among the debris I occasionally find some piece of kitchen equipment or furniture as a reminder of the challenge I face. I am not smug about avoiding the mistakes that they made because I know that I have made so many of my own.

On some nights I sit out on the flat ground that was to be a tennis court a short walk from the house and watch the crimson sunset fade to indigo and black. Thomas sits with me content to have a steady source of food and some company in his declining years. My ears have become so accustomed to the quiet that I can sometimes hear full conversations on Bimini more than half a mile away. But mostly I sip wine or beer and munch on fresh fruit and crackers with my daily catch while the world slips away and it is only me and memories and stars and waves. And God. He is always there.

That was not always the way it seemed to me. In fact, there were times in my life when I was all but convinced that He was not real or if He was He was distant and unconcerned with His creation, at least my little corner of it. Now, in the peace that comes after the storm, I believe otherwise.

There have also been times in my life when I thought I had Him figured out. Sure, I respected Him, even said that I loved Him. I raised my hands in worship and prayed with flourish and hung on every word of scripture. He was my answer for every question and I was certain that I had all those answers if not on the tip of my tongue then at my fingertips in the massive collection of books that explained to me all that I knew or would know. As I said, after the storm, I believe otherwise.

In those days when certainty was the rule of my life I felt what I thought was God’s presence in much the same way I felt the weight of the atmosphere. I could turn my attention to God and find some sense of Him as much as I could turn my attention to the air around me and sense its smell and color and movement. Now, I’m not sure if I feel Him but I believe that I do. I’m not sure if I am aware of Him but I believe I am and I believe I He is aware of me. After the storm, I believe. Before the storm, I was certain. I suppose that’s a good place to start a story.