He pulled into the nearly full parking lot, took his gear from the trunk and locked up, then stood by the Mustang, peering into the murky light. People were huffing coolers as big as coffins out of vans and cars, muttering, calling to each other, laughing, slamming doors.

More than once, he'd heard charter boats called party boats, and fervently hoped this was not one of those deals.

Raining a little harder now, but nothing serious. He wiped his head with his hat and put it back in his pocket, checking his watch. Five o'clock sharp.

He hefted the cooler and started walking, looking for Blue Heaven and trying to get over the feeling he was still asleep and this was a dream.

Someone materialized out of the gray mist, smelling intensely of tobacco and shaving lotion.

"Mornin', Father! Let's go fishin'!"

"Otis? Is that you?"

"Cap'n Willie told me you were on board today. I didn't want you goin' off by yourself and havin' too much fun."

Otis was schlepping a cooler with a fluorescent label that was readable even in the predawn light: Bragg's for All Your Cement Needs.

A bronzed, bearded Captain Willie stood on the deck wearing shorts and a T-shirt, booming out a welcome.

"Father Timothy! Good mornin' to you, we're glad to have you!" He found himself shaking a hand as big as a ham and hard as a rock. "Step over lightly, now, let me take that, there you go, welcome to Blue Heaven."

"Good morning, Captain. How's the weather looking?" It seemed the boat was lurching around in the water pretty good, and they hadn't even gone anywhere yet.

"Goin' to fair off and be good fishin'." Captain Willie's genial smile displayed a couple of gold teeth. "Meet my first mate, Pete Brady."

He shook hands with a muscular fellow of about thirty. "Good to see you, Pete."

"Yessir, welcome aboard."

"This your first time?" asked the captain.

"First ever."

"Well, you're fishin' with a pro, here." He pounded Otis on the back. "Go on in th' cabin, set your stuff down, make yourself at home. And Father . . ."

"Yes?"

"Would you favor us with blessin' th' fleet this mornin'?"

"Ah . . . how does that work, exactly?"

"All th' boats'll head out about th' same time, then after the sun rises, you'll come up to th' bridge an' ask th' Lord for safe passage and good fishin'. Th' other boats can hear you over th' radio."

"Consider it done!" he said, feeling a surge of excitement.

"We'll have prayer requests for you, like, the last few days, we've all been prayin' for Cap'n Tucker's daughter, she's got leukemia."

"I'm sorry. I'd feel honored and blessed to do it."

"We thank you. Now go in there and introduce yourselves around, get comfortable."

Father Tim stuck his head in the cabin.

Ernie Fulcher, sitting with a green cooler between his feet, threw up his hand and grinned from ear to ear. "Didn't want you runnin' out th' first time all by your lonesome."

"Right," said Roger, looking shy about butting in. "We didn't think you'd mind a little company."

Madge Parrott and her friend Sybil Huffman appeared to be dressed for a cruise in the Bahamas. They were clearly proud to announce they were from Rome, Georgia, and this was their first time on a fishing charter. They were out for marlin, would settle for tuna if necessary, but no dolphin, thank you, they'd heard dolphins could sing and had feelings like people.

Both were widows whose husbands had been great fishermen. this trip was about making a connection with the departed, as they'd heard Chuck and Roy talk about deep-sea fishing like it was the best thing since sliced bread. Madge confessed that even though she and Sybil didn't drink beer, they didn't see why they couldn't catch fish like anybody else.

He noted that the group shared a need to explain what they had in their coolers, some even lifting the lids and displaying the contents, and issuing hearty invitations to dip in, at any time, to whatever they'd brought along.

"You run out of drinks, me'n Roger got all you want right here," said Ernie, patting a cooler as big as a Buick. "Got Sun-drop, Mello Yello, Sprite, just help yourself."

"And there's ham and turkey on rye," said Roger. "I made two extra, just in case, plus fried chicken."

Everybody nodded their thanks, as the engines began to throb and hum. Father Tim was mum about the contents of his own cooler-two banana sandwiches on white bread with low-fat mayo.

"Y'all need any sunscreen," said Madge, "we're loaded with sunscreen. It's right here in my jacket pocket." She indicated a blue jacket folded on the seat, so that one and all might note its whereabouts in an emergency.

"And I've got Bonine," said Sybil, "if anybody feels seasick." She held up her package and rattled the contents.

"Have you ever been seasick?" Madge asked Father Tim.

"Never!" he said. Truth was, he'd never been on the sea but a couple of times, and always in sight of shore, so there was no way he could have been seasick. And for today, he'd done what Ernie and Roger so heartily recommended-he'd stayed sober, gotten a good night's sleep, and didn't eat a greasy breakfast.

"Only twelve percent of people get seasick," Roger said, quoting his most encouraging piece of information on the subject.

Ernie lifted the lid of his cooler. "Oh, an' anybody wants Snickers bars, they're right here on top of th' ice. There's nothin' like a Snickers iced down good'n cold."

Madge and Sybil admitted they'd never heard of icing down a Snickers bar, but thought it would be real tasty, especially on a hot day. Sybil pledged to try one before the trip was over.

Otis announced that anybody who wanted to help themselves to his Kentucky Fried, they knew where it was at. He also had cigars, Johnnie Walker Black, and boiled peanuts, for whoever took a notion.

It was the most instant formation of community Father Tim had ever witnessed. He felt momentarily inspired to stand and lead a hymn.

Captain Willie gunned the engines, and the stern of Blue Heaven dug low into the water as they moved away from the dock at what seemed like full speed. Father Tim realized he didn't know how he felt about riding backward, not to mention that the water seemed mighty rough.

Very dadgum blasted rough, he thought as they plowed farther out in an unceasing rain. He looked around the hull of the small cabin, where everyone appeared totally sophisticated about being tossed around like dice in a cup. They were all holding on for dear life to whatever they could grab, and yelling over the roar of eight hundred and fifty horses running wide open.

Otis Bragg was clearly tickled pink to have two women on board who didn't know fishing from frog's legs. He'd already begun a seminar on how to keep your thumb on the fishing line, how to hold the rod, how to hold your mouth, and how to position your feet when reeling in a big one. Father Tim listened as attentively as he could, then finally slumped against the back of the padded bench and peered through the door of the cabin.

Out there, it was rain, churning waters, and diesel smoke. In here, it was earsplitting racket and the worst ride he'd had since Tommy Noles had shoved him down a rocky hillside in a red wagon without a tongue.

The sun was emerging from the water, staining the silver sea with patches of light and color.

Pete Brady came into the cabin, holding a dripping ballyhoo in one hand. "You'll want to go up to the bridge now, sir. Better put your jacket on."

"Right!" he said. He was glad to leave the cabin; only a moment ago, he'd had the odd sensation of smothering. . . .

He stood, holding on to the table that was bolted to the deck, then made his way to the door, praying he wouldn't pitch into Madge Parrott's lap.

"You tell th' Lord we're wantin' 'em to weigh fifty pounds and up, if He don't mind." Otis chewed his cigar and grinned.

Father Tim clung to the doorjamb. "How do I get to the bridge?" he asked Pete.

The first mate, who appeared to be squeezing the guts from a bait fish, jerked his thumb toward the side of the cabin. "Right up the ladder there."

He peered around and saw the ladder. The rungs were immediately over the water, and went straight up. Three, four, five . . .

"That ladder?"

"Yessir, be sure'n hold on tight."

He peered into the black and churning sea, and made a couple of quick steps to a chair that was bolted to the cockpit deck. Pete was bustling around without any difficulty in keeping his footing, but Father Tim had the certain feeling that if he let go of the chair, he'd end up at the Currituck Light.

He turned and lunged for the bottom rung of the ladder, but miscalculated and bounced onto the rail. Too startled to grab hold, he reeled against the cabin wall, finally managing to grip the lower rung. Thanks be to God, Pete was baiting a hook and facing seaward, and his cabin mates were oblivious to his afflictions.

Lord Jesus, I've never done this before. You were plenty good around water, and I'm counting on You to help me accomplish this thing.

He reached to an upper rung and got a firm grip.

The spray was flying, the waves were churning, the sun was rising . . . it was now or never. He swung himself onto the ladder and went up, trying in vain to curl his tennis shoes around the rungs like buns around frankfurters.

He hauled himself to the bridge, grabbed the support rail for the hard top, and stood for a moment, awed. The view from the bridge literally took his breath away.

How could anyone doubt the living truth of what the psalmist said? "The heavens declare the glory of God, the skies proclaim the work of his hands!" He wanted to shout in unabashed praise.

His shirt whipped against his body like a flag; his knees trembled. This boat was flying, no two ways about it, and beneath their feet, the endless, racking, turbulent sea, and a sunrise advancing up the sky like tongues of fire.

Surely this was the habitation of angels, and life in the cabin a thing to be pitied.

He lurched to the helm, where Captain Willie was holding a microphone, and grabbed the back of the helm chair.

"We're glad to have you with us, Father! Greetings to you from th' whole fleet on this beautiful September day!"

His stomach did an odd turn as he opened his mouth to speak, so he closed it again.

The captain winked. "Got a little chop this mornin'."

He nodded.

"A real sharp head sea."

He felt sweat on his brow as the captain spoke into the microphone.

"We're mighty happy to have Father Tim Kavanagh to lead us in prayer this mornin'. He's from over at Whitecap, where Toby Rider has his boat shop. Anybody with a prayer request, let's hear it now."

The VHF blared. "Father, my little boy fell off a ladder on Sunday, he's, ah, in the hospital, looks like he's goin' to be fine, but . . . his name's Danny. We thank you."

"Please pray for Romaine, he had his leg tore up by a tractor fell on 'im. Thank you."

"Just like to ask for . . . forgiveness for somethin' I done, there's no use to go into what, I'd appreciate it."

Several other requests came in as he bent his head and listened intently, gripping the helm chair for all he was worth.

"That it? Anybody else?"

He fished in his pocket for his hat. Though the rain had stopped, he put it on and pulled it down snugly above his ears. Then he took the microphone, surprised that it felt as heavy as a lug wrench.

"We'd like to pray for th' owner of th' marina and his wife, Angie, too," said Captain Willie. "She's got breast cancer. And Cap'n Tucker's daughter, we don't want to forget her, name's Sarah, then there's Toby Rider, lost his daddy and we feel real bad about it. Course we'd like to ask God's mercy for every family back home and every soul on board...."

Captain Willie turned to the helm, grabbed the red knob, and cranked the engines back to idle.

In the sudden quiet, the waves slammed against the hull, dulling the gurgling sound of the exhaust. They seemed to be wallowing now in the choppy sea; they might have been so much laundry tossing in a washing machine.

His heart was hammering as if he'd run a race. But it wasn't his heart, exactly, that bothered him, it was his stomach. It seemed strangely disoriented, as if it had moved to a new location and he couldn't figure out where.

"Our Father, we thank You mightily for the beauty of the sunrise over this vast sea, and for the awe and wonder in all the gifts of Your creation. We ask Your generous blessings upon every captain and mate aboard every vessel in this fleet, and pray that each of us be made able, by Your grace, to know Your guidance, love, and mercy throughout the day. . . ."

The names of the people, and their needs, what were they? His mind seemed desperately blank, as if every shred of thought and reason had been blown away like chaff on the wind.

Lord! Help!

"For Sarah, we ask Your tender mercies, that You would keep her daily in Your healing care, giving wisdom to those attending her, and providing strength and encouragement. . . ."

More than three decades of intercessory prayer experience notwithstanding, he found it miraculous that the names came to him, one by one. He leaned into the prayer with intensity, feeling something of the genuine weight and burden, the urgency, of the needs for which he prayed.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Oh, Lord, who maketh a way in the sea, and a path in the mighty waters, we thank You for hearing our prayers, in the blessed name of Your Son, our Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen."

The captain took the microphone and keyed it, thanking him.

He noted what appeared to be a look of compassion on the captain's face as they shook hands.

"Blue Heaven, Salty Dog, come back."

"Blue Heaven, go ahead, Salty Dog."

"Just want to say we really appreciate Father Kavanagh's prayers, and sure hope he doesn't succumb to the torments of a rough sea. OK, Salty Dog back to eighty."

"Blue Heaven standin' by on eighty."

As the captain gunned the engines, Father Tim careened to the rail and leaned over.

The goodwill and fond hope of Salty Dog had come too late.

Twice over the rail should nip this thing in the bud. Already his ribs hurt from the retching; it was probably over now and he could go down the ladder and have something to drink, maybe even a bite to eat-that was the problem, going out on rough seas with an empty stomach. . . .