FOOD FOR THOUGHT	THE SEAS OF LIFE
		Fr Francis Marsden
		For 2nd July 1988

Out at midday upon the ocean of life, in the distance the coastline cliffs are just visible. The definitive map shows only one safe landing place, the harbour city of eternity. Along the rest of the coast lie rocks and reefs, sandbanks and dangerous currents.

Of course, not everyone wants to believe the map.

In the scheme of life, each person can have their own little dinghy and do their own thing. Alternatively, a family or group can team up and share a bigger boat.

On a larger vessel, you obviously have a better chance against being dragged off course by strong currents or sucked into whirlpools.  The bigger the boat, the more defence one has against sharks overturning you, and against pirate attacks.  On this summer’s afternoon, the seas appear calm, but many dangers lurk below the surface.

It is still early afternoon. There is plenty of time. Many people are just drifting, some in little family boats. They enjoy themselves picnicking, drinking, fishing, and sunbathing. It is so pleasant in the warm sunshine. One can swim in the water, so long as one takes care to avoid the jellyfish. Is there time to reach port before twilight? They have not really thought where they are going. They are just drifting in circles.

As the afternoon draws on, the sun sinks lower in the west. The radio is forecasting severe gales and violent storms. Every vessel must reach the safe harbour by nightfall or it will be capsized or smashed against the rocky cliffs.

A fleet of much larger vessels moves slowly and steadily across the seascape, heading towards the homeport. In the lead sails a battered giant ocean liner, the St Peter, registered in Rome. Her paintwork is peeling; she is encrusted with many barnacles, for she has weathered countless storms. She seems to sail slowly, but that is because she is so gigantic. She was not designed by human hand. She has powerful nuclear engines and excellent navigation charts. Smaller ships dart ahead of her occasionally, but then are easily blown off course or run aground on a sandbank. All the while, the Great Ship ploughs on unstoppably through the waves.

Her flags carry the emblems of the cross and the crossed keys. Her officers have centuries of navigation experience. Small boats continually pulling along her and ask to be taken on, for they are tired of fighting the currents alone. Fast motor launches roam out across the surrounding waters, hailing wanderers to climb aboard. 

On the Great Ship there are no idle passengers. Except for the sick and injured, all are reckoned as crew. Everyone has work to do, some in the galley or the laundry, others are lookout men or radio operators, deckhands or engineers, in the boiler-room or manning the guns against pirates, looking after the children or in the ship’s hospital. No one can remain id1e. Each has to abide by the ship’s rules.

Anyone who is continually lazy and refuses to work, or constantly breaks ship’s regulations, will be asked to leave. They are let down into the sea in little lifeboats, complaining, “I’m not having anyone telling me what to do. I’d rather go off on my own and have my freedom than obey all these stupid rules.”  Fair enough. It’s their free choice. Off they drift or paddle on their own.

An entire flotilla of smaller boats follows near the Great Ship. Several fly the Byzantine cross, others have replaced the crossed keys with a national flag or some personal emblem. These used to belong to the Great Ship. Through ancient quarrels they split off. Usually they keep close to the mother ship but their navigation equipment is not so accurate, their engines less powerful. They suffer from confused leadership, and arguments about which direction they should sail.

In stormy seas, they have to follow in the Great Ship’s wake, lest they fall behind or are swept off course by the heavy waves.

The day is ending now. The sun dips near the horizon. Some smaller boats have tried to make a landing on the coast but have run aground on sandbanks. Others have been holed on the rocks and capsized. A few teams have managed to land their boats in caves or coves along the shore of the supernatural, only to find themselves trapped there, with no way out and a rising tide.

The boats flying the £ or $ flag have spent hours fishing. They have trawled in hundreds of tons of fish. They are now so heavily laden that they can hardly move. Other parties have spent the time drinking and are too drunk to row anywhere.

A large factory ship flies the hammer and sickle. Its crew believes there is no coast to land on. Their ship can provide for all physical needs and is heavy that they believe it can weather any storm.

Time now is running short. The Great Ship is many miles off, nearing the homeport. The lights along the quays are visible. The final deepwater channel is very tricky. Pi1ot tugs come out. One or two fast launches are still around to take stragglers aboard.  Those who tried to row alone to the eternal harbour have found themselves defeated by strong counter—currents.

The sun has gone down and the light is failing. The wind rises, the waves swell. Into the harbour manoeuvres the St Peter. Legions of angels cheer along the quaysides. The Byzantine and Protestant fleets follow her in shakily, except for a few orange-painted boats which obstinately refuse to enter a port where the Roman liner has docked.

Wait, at the very last minute, the Lefevrists have abandoned the Great Ship and dropped anchor just outside the harbour, howling out that the captain has gone the wrong way. A swarm of little boats of all races and religions passes them by, swept in by the currents of the main Christian fleet. They had been waiting at the harbour entrance until entry permission was granted.

Out on the sea the severe gale now breaks. The horror-stricken occupants of the small boats find themselves capsizing. Weird monsters of the deep pull them down to the world beneath. They drown, but not to death, for oblivion would be a release. They sink into the underworld forever.

The communist factory-ship cracks its hull on the reef of mortality, splits in two halves and disappears into the black waters.

The boats of strange cults, which ignored the approved charts, and landed in coves or caves are horrified as demonic faces leer from the cliffs and sea beasts crawl over the rocks to devour them.

Meanwhile in port, the disembarking passengers must produce their baptismal passports and fully updated entry visas. Immigration control detains those whose papers are incomplete pending further investigation. They must wait - a few days, a few centuries, who knows?

The angels lead the blessed to dance in the meadows and gardens, before the crystal palace of the Eternal King.