The Log of the Voyage

I'm hoping this is not too long for the format. I've had the devil's own time editing and changing my blogs. What follows is a sailor's tale - it's long, and if I have to cut it down, I will ...


VOYAGE OF A SOUL

We all are on a journey from God unto God. I learned that in a Bahá'í song, several years ago. Well, consider the analogy thus presented, as a voyage. We're not given to know the length of the voyage from God to this way station. The return leg seems to be the longest -- but there's a strange dynamic for us to consider.

At intervals predetermined, but unknown to us, come opportunities to fulfill our individual mission. Like doorways - or dimensional 'gates'. We might see the flash, the wobble on the 'screen'. Lose a step, we miss the gate entirely. That's what this story is all about. Turning points in our lives are often the result of emotional experiences. Epiphanies will send us off in directions not previously anticipated.

On the night it began to happen to me, the 'night in question', you might say - I was wrapping up my tour of duty in Uncle Sam's Navy.

Common knowledge, both in 'the world' and 'in country' during the Vietnam era, was that drugs were widespread. Rare, indeed was the soldier or sailor who passed through that crucible without their mental "crutch". What follows, then, is a true account of an experience I had one night, under the influence of my own psychological experiment. I make no excuses, except as noted above. So --

On the night of July 28, 1970, I was supposed to meet a friend for a drive. We were headed to Fresno, about five hours from the shipyards. I had been doing some experimentation with LSD, also known as acid - just in case you'd forgotten. It's not something I was that proud of, later in life; but at this point, my idea was to get high, come down, and then examine the 'trip'. I found out some interesting things, but that's for another time.

This night, Slim didn't show up; no sweat - I was already launched!

Six and a half hours is too much to put into such a short space. I'm typing this on my laptop. it only gives me line and column; nothing noted about how many pages there are in this. I only hope a simple message doesn't become a tome. So, anyway, the gist, the whole gist, and nothing but the gist of that night - coming up:

Back when I'd first boarded the Coral Sea, she was in dry-dock, in Bremerton, Washington. You may know, Friend, or remember that the Space Needle, left over from an old World's Fair, had a revolving restaurant in it? I took the ferry across to that attraction, periodically. Sometimes with a few buddies, sometimes I'd fly solo, as in this case. By that time, I’d acquired the habit of sitting down to a good meal, at least once a month.

On the ride back, cruising around the mid-deck to stay dry, my eyes chanced upon a University of Michigan sweatshirt with - gasp! - a very attractive woman inside it! Well, since one of our Michigan homes was just across the street from Cousins Hall, a female dorm, I had an icebreaker. I decided to break some ice! "Hi. Did you actually go there, or just wear the sweatshirt?" Cold stare - not good. She went there. I told her about Cousins Hall, and went onto cruise control. Like I was a suave, debonair sailor type ... yeah, right! More chat, but not much more; we were coasting into the dock. I offered her a tour of what little I knew about the ship, and she accepted.

Up one ladder, down a chute. We ended up on the superstructure, where OI division had a lookout post we manned. It gave a panorama of the flight deck, and I could point out the forward and angle catapults. How highly entertaining of me!! Of course, I wasn't going to offer her Navy chow - not to a civilian! But she had to get home [that's what she said, at least] so I escorted her down to the gangway. "Thank you for the tour," says she, "but I can't say I've had a great time. Not your fault; I'm just uncomfortable around all this hardware, scientific know-how and energy, all put to the service of killing people! Bye." Down the gangway she went. After a short panic, during which I searched desperately for some kind of comeback, I yelled: "We could have gone to a movie!" Yeah, lame. Lamer still, I hadn't gotten her number - or even her name! Yeah, I was off to a great start in the state of Washington!

Well, there was no great injury in that incident - so, why do I bring it up? Well, the acid I took was just kicking in, when I got to the dry-dock where Coral Sea was. That parting shot of hers echoed through my brain, rattled around in my mind, took my heart and ripped it wide open - raw. My soul, by then, was in panic mode. And that was only the start - the next six and a half hours became grueling.

In order to grasp what happened from this point forward, to the six plus hours that followed, we need to remember that the "Nuclear Holocaust" had become a backdrop against which we all played out our lives. To go through all that, to dredge up the old images, would be too heavy a burden -- for all of us here. But a light refresher will give you a taste of the "Sword of Damocles" which swayed precariously over all our heads. It will also provide a basis for what followed.

Try to conjure up all the images you can, yourself; by now you've seen the films, dramas and documentaries of what it would be like. Not only are the dramas speculative, they fall short of the mark! As good as our imaginations can be, they hardly measure up to the truths uncovered in the early 80s by Jonathan Schell, in his work "THE FATE OF THE EARTH" ! Just for openers, we tend to think of a nuclear scenario as one detonation only. Bad as that could be, an area the likes of the San Francisco Bay Area would take several!

So, you got all those pictures? That amounts to one isolated hot spot! No wonder we kept making up euphemisms for it! I mean, give us a break -- "Nuclear Device"!? A toaster is a device! A blender is a device!! The one I found particularly distasteful was "Complete Nuclear Exchange"!! Yeah, right? You take all my nukes, and I'll take all yours!

Coupled with the above, my limited knowledge of the military mindset sent me into a real spiral! The same gargoyles who sent us to Vietnam, still holding the paranoia that set all that up, were the same ones with their fingers on the proverbial buttons, weren't they? How many of them did we think there were?

My personal speculation that night went like this: Start with the military complements of all the countries in the so-called 'Nuclear Club'. [Picture them all in a club room, smoking cigars together, drinking port wine] From that whole crowd, parse out those individuals directly responsible for composing, transmitting and executing the orders which would start the dreaded fiasco. We hardly have enough to fill a good sized sports stadium [55,000 +/-, considering that the field would hold an additional few thousand]. Now, as a proportion of the world population at the time [3.6 Billion, +/- in 1970], what should we give it? .005%, maybe? Somebody better than I could work that one out on their computer or calculator!

But now, turn the equation around; that means that approximately 99.995% of the population of this planet would have absolutely nothing to say should those orders be carried out! More importantly, there would be extremely little time to say -- well, whatever they could say! Try this one on: Roughly 35 minutes from launch to detonation of the warhead. Twenty of those minutes would be spent verifying, launching a counter-strike, and -- oh yeah -- informing the public! That would leave fifteen minutes! I'll leave you to speculate what can be accomplished in that amount of time!

If you get the chance, read up on the bombing of Dresden, toward the end of WW2. Concentrate on what the affects were, especially on those who ducked into what bomb shelters were available. Now, magnify that - you’ll get an idea of the idiocy of so-called ‘civil defense’l Or, if that’s too difficult, read THE FATE OF THE EARTH by Jonathan Schell. He does several pages on this.

Well, after a few hours of soul-retch of that kind, I was about ready to take a swim, peacoat and all! Wouldn't have worked too well, though - and I wouldn't have been around to meet you. But that itself left me in a bind. How to tell anyone, much less the whole planet, what was in my soul?? I'm saddened even to be typing this - but that's for later. I had to find some positive way out of this, and quickly! Time continued to tick.

Ultimately, a vow emerged. I felt that the only force, program or way out of this mess that we keep generating was something called the Kingdom of God on Earth. I know that's as weird as it could possibly be, but I was spaced, desperate and fried! But it sounded great - if only I could find it. See, I felt sharply that, assuming it existed, and assuming that this was the only capable agent for transformation of the planet, there must be a way to locate it. If nothing else, this would give me some positive thing to do, an outlet for all this angst. Perhaps, it even held a genuine hope. We desperately needed hope!

The vow, basically, was that if I could be set down in the vicinity of those people whom God Himself had placed here for that purpose, I would lend such support as my 165 lb. body could muster. Only two things I asked, to set up parameters: 1] The program needed to be peaceful, in and of itself. We already had college peace freaks as road kill on their campuses, trying to make peace by warring with the warriors. It wasn't pretty, and more importantly, it was ineffective.
And [2] Whatever the primary motive or belief system, it needs to be simple enough that, just to show it to someone would be to gain, if not acceptance, at least recognition.

June 14, 1971. We are in Mansfield, Ohio; at about 6:30 in the evening, it occurs to me that I have to wash my clothes. Now, when a bachelor says clothes must be washed, we are beyond the point where the ‘sniff test’ is applicable. More to the point, it can be done from thirty yards!

I put all my stuff on the bed, except what I was wearing, tied that up in the sheets, and trudged 3.5 miles away, to the YM/YWCA, where my good friend Jim Ringold roomed. We had a kind of ‘street credit’ arrangement, whereby if he needed some cash, which I had, or vice versa … the loan was approved for me that night, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

The entrance to the building was a recessed staircase, wide enough for ten folks. At the top was a double set of double doors - the recess was taken up with plate glass, about 14’ high. All visitors could look into the conversation areas - settees placed around tables - far ahead of their time. Or else I, rooming as I did in a private apartment , probably wasn’t up on the latest trends. Anyway, opposite the doors was a registration desk. I got there about 7:30 PM, put my load down in one of the conversation pits [isn’t this the pits?] and asked the receptionist to buzz J.R.’S room. Two tries produced no response, so I waited. What else was I to do? About 10:30, J.R. strolled in from the street, over to the desk, and asked if there were any messages. Smart-assed receptionist says: “No paper ones, but there’s one over there.” -pointing to me. JR comes over and says: “What’s happening?” [the precursor of “whassup?”] “I need to wash my clothes.” says I. Sniff-sniff “Why yes, I believe you do!” He loaned me $4.00 plus some change, stumbled off to his room.

So, if you’re keeping track, I’m at the right place, at the right time, and am about to meet the right people. Oh, and the first arrangement? Well, I was flat broke. Had I the money, none of this would likely have taken place. Or, it might have happened later. Or … who knows?

At the precise moment I hit the double doors of the Laundromat, in walks Gary Mitchell, a local Baha’I, and Ed Thompson. Ed’s a cross-country trucker from Fort Smith, Arkansas. He wouldn’t have even been there had he not been burgled and had all his cash stolen the night before - and needed to wash his clothes!

So, we’re loading our washers, soap, bleach, yadayada. Small talk - where we’ve been, books we’ve read. I let them know I’ve recently gotten out of the Navy. Blah, blah -- Ed approaches from my left, down the row of washers. I catch him in peripheral vision. Without warning or preamble, he says: “What would you do if I told you, you can be really happy?” I’ll never forget that moment -- partly because I’m reminding myself right now! I figure this guy, at that point, as either a direct marketeer, or a religious nut. Either one of which, I can handle. [checks the weapons cache - yeah, I got it all!!]

C-chunk! Up go the defenses - from behind my imaginary barricade, I’m loaded and locked. (Don’t let ‘em tell you any different. If you lock first, you got nothing in the chamber!!) I’m ready for any contingency -- except the need to be honest.

See, at this point. I’m the king (or, at least a minor prince) of the acid tongue. Acquired in high school, honed in nearly four years of naval experience - I have nothing to sweat. I fire a remark, calculated to throw Ed off balance. Must have done the trick, although I can’t remember what exactly I said. His rejoinder, “Uh, well -- have you ever heard of Baha’u’llah?” OOOooooooooookay! I got me a religious nut! This I can handle! I reloaded, but honesty and curiosity overtook me. I mean, roll that name, Baha’u’llah, around on your tongue. Trippingly, as the Bard said. “Well, no.” says I - because I hadn’t! He launches directly into the history of this movement. The very early history. I get more musical names: Tahirih, Quddus, Shaykh Tabarsi, Mullah Husayn.

I stopped him dead in his tracks: “This is all well and good, but I presume it’s written down somewhere? I can read it at leisure? I want to know what this religion really is, what kind of life this Baha’u’llah calls his followers to, what are the principles?”

Ed says: “I thought you’d never ask!” I’ve been outflanked already! He speaks of the three onenesses - One loving Creator, one human family, one unfolding religion, progressively revealed. By this point, we’re folding our clothes, putting them into baskets - I’m tying up my sheet - Gary says the first whole sentence he’s managed so far: “You’re going to need a ride, right?” Naw, d’ya think? Or, could I trudge back three and a half miles, half-baked seeds of this message swirling around in my mind -- yeah, I could do that. NOT! In real time, I sounded like a doofus. “You bet!” He asks me if I’d attend a fireside.

Hmmmm. Fireside -- now, stay with me -- think like a bachelor -- a hungry bachelor. Bonfire -- hot dogs, other stuff on sticks being roasted; things to drink -- chips!! I’m there already! Sure it’s approaching midnight, but a hungry bachelor doesn’t care -- especially when he’s unemployed! The food is the draw. So we pile our stuff into Gary’s trunk, headed off to his apartment. Sure -- we’re picking up chips or sodas for the fireside. Forty five minutes later [OK I’m slow and hungry!] I caught on. Ooooooh – informal discussion! No hot dogs. Ah, but the spiritual food …

So, now it’s approaching 12:45 AM [0045, for the mariners in the crowd]. My mind is approaching its breaking point. ‘… and thanks for playing too much information.’ One thing did come through -- the principle of independent, unfettered search after truth -- the main principle which attracted me in the first place. Baha’u’llah raised that principle to the level of justice itself, and advised His followers:

"The best beloved of all things in My sight is Justice; turn not away therefrom if thou desirest Me, and neglect it not that I may confide in thee. By its aid thou shalt see with thine own eyes and not through the eyes of others, and shalt know of thine own knowledge and not through the knowledge of thy neighbor. Ponder this in thy heart; how it behooveth thee to be. Verily justice is My gift to thee and the sign of My loving-kindness. Set it then before thine eyes."
(Baha'u'llah: Arabic Hidden Words, Page: 2)

I learned that, in the mid-nineteenth century, this Baha’u’llah, while a prisoner and an exile, REPRIMANDED the kings and rulers of His time! Napoleon III, Kaiser Wilhelm I, Queen Victoria, Nasiri’d Din Shah, Pope Pius IX, were among the recipients. They were called, one and all, to return to God. Called upon to "give ear to the cries of the poor," to "heed the voice of the All-Glorious Lord." In no ambiguous terms, He told them to cease laying on their subjects burdens they manifestly could not bear. That was a revelation, in and of itself. It was foretold, one if the signs of the coming Messiah - in Revelations -- in the Bible.
With near unanimity, what He wrote was rejected out of hand.

"All the prophets of God proclaim the same faith." "The well-being of mankind, Its peace and security are unattainable, unless and until its unity hath been firmly established." "This handful of dust, the earth is one home. Let it be in Harmony." "The earth is but one country, and mankind its citizens."

After some more discussion, during which I had the audacity -- from curiosity -- to ask how one becomes one of these "Baha’is", (One loving Father and Creator, one human family, one unfolding, progressively revealed plan of God, which we call religion. Works for me! Simple enough! World peace, maintained by a word government and executive. Takes care of the first requirement … I’m aboard, show me my quarters please!), we went to another Baha’I who actually had declaration cards on hand. Now it’s a quarter after one -- this Baha’i we were going to see was one of two elderly sisters, who lived on the edge of the bad part of town. No one, of course, thought to call …

I signed my card that night; the rest, as the cliche goes, is history.

From that night [the assumption of my mission] to this, I’ve remained committed - even though my closest friends at the time said I should have been committed - meaning something entirely different - I took them at their word. My mission is simple: To share the message with as many people as I can, before I step off this rock. Please God, I may yet achieve it!