Month: September 2023

There he is. The beach chair rental guy. He struts around with his sun bleached curly hair and his biceps. He thinks he’s such hot stuff with his flat stomach and bright orange swim trunks with the white stripes down the side. He always wears that brown panama hat………and he hates me.

No, really. He hates me. He must hate me, because every time we rent a tandem set of chairs from him he puts us in the worst seats on the beach. It’s become a dubious tradition. Every early September Sharon and I are finally able to get away for a few days to our favorite Orange Beach condo. And when I say we go to the beach, I mean that literally. We head to the waterfront and park our weary bodies on a lounger and watch the waves roll in. That’s all we do. We’re not there to shop, or visit the water park, or eat seafood, or swim in the pool, or go fishing.

We just want to relax under an umbrella, dig our toes in the sand, and let the rolling waves lull us to sleep. Our idea of activity is trying to read the banners trailing behind the advertising helicopters. They usually urge you to eat at the “world famous” local restaurant. Virtually every dining establishment on the beach claims to be world famous for something. Crabs, shrimp, calimari, sea shells that look like Barry Manilow, whatever it is, they are world famous for it.

No matter to us. We just want to bask in the hum of the roaring surf. Being basically a cheapskate, and lazy, I never invested in my own umbrella and chairs. Seems like a lot of effort. Dragging your own gear all the way down to the sand, desperately trying to dig that hole deep enough to keep your umbrella from dislodging in the wind and impaling a bystander. Why bother? We just rent a set when we get there. Of course, that means we have to deal with the chair rental guy. Did I mention that he hates me?

First of all, he always puts us in the most distant chairs. Once, we were so far away from the shoreline, I think my smart watch shifted into Eastern time. And you can be sure he will assign us a location right behind the large family that has erected a tent roughly the size of a small industrial warehouse. We can’t see the water, but we know it must be there because of all the sea gulls trying to eat the orange peelings the kids in the tent are throwing toward us.

Every few hours the rental guy will courteously visit other chair renters and offer to reposition their umbrellas so they can remain in the shade. Meanwhile we are usually left to pick up and tote our seats, like Lewis and Clark carrying canoes across a sand bar, in relentless pursuit of the shadows.

There was one occasion when he had put us a short cab ride from the water, and shortly afterward we noticed he set up a man right on the water’s edge, way closer than the other rentals. I couldn’t help myself. I had to ask him why. He explained that the man was blind and requested to be closer so he could at least hear the ocean.

Yeah, right. I’m pretty sure I saw the blind man playing volleyball about an hour later.

Even a person as thrifty as me reaches his limit. So this year I took the plunge. I bought all our own stuff. Our own umbrella, chairs, sand drill, cupholders, and the wagon with the wide sand wheels. The whole package. After loading it all up in the condo, I may have pulled several small muscles lugging the wagon into the elevator, down the walkway, and across the sand, but it was worth it. I made it a point to cross right in front of the rental guy’s little headquarters, where he sat with his boom box and his bodybuilding magazine.

I tried to sneer at him as I went by, but there was too much sweat pouring down my forehead to make my face visible. Anyway, I set up as close to the shoreline as I could. Even the blind man couldn’t have gotten closer to the water. I collapsed into my lounger, exhausted but feeling victorious.

After a few minutes, I noticed the rental guy was drilling umbrella holes in the sand just parallel to us. Again, I couldn’t help myself. I asked him why. He said because the beach is not crowded, he can move all the rentals up closer.

Obviously, he still hates me.

Sharon and I recently made the six and a half hour journey to Williamstown, Kentucky to take in the Ark Encounter. The magnificent structure is an intriguing mix of Bible fact and artistic license. The builders call it “ark-tistic license”.

You know the story. God told Noah to build the giant boat to the size of just under two football fields. Noah and his family, and thousands of animals, survived inside of it after forty days of rain washed out all life on the planet. The Bible supplies only limited detail about what the ship looked like and how it functioned. Because of this, many regard the story of Noah and the great flood as little more than legend.

To their credit, the builders of the Kentucky ark are very up front about having to fill in the gaps. The first thing you see when you board is a series of plaques explaining how much of it is based on Scripture, and how much needed to be guessed at, based on the resources available at the time.

I had no problem with this. After all, the mission of the Ark Encounter is not so much to convince you that the story of Noah is true. It is to convince you that it can be true, that you don’t have to suspend all rational thinking to accept it as fact. As such, the builders make a reality-grounded case that Noah and his clan, given enough time, could indeed have built it, gathered the animals, and navigated the flood, as per the biblical account. The exhibit also provides ample geologic evidence that such a flood did actually take place.

Of course, there had to be a few nods and winks to modern convenience to make the structure viable as a tourist attraction. I’m pretty sure Noah didn’t have ceiling fans, elevators and Coke vending machines, not to mention Uncle Leroy’s Candy Kitchen on the second deck. No matter. The large collection of visitors had little problem separating the meaningful from the marketing.

Speaking of the crowd, I probably did as much people watching as ark observing. I was fascinated by the diversity of the visitors, in age, gender, ethnicity, everything. At various times I heard folks around me speaking languages that sounded like German, French and Spanish. We met nice travelers from New York and Illinois. There were people from every stage of life. Seniors like me, young adults bringing their small children, teenagers in groups. I saw long hair, pink hair, nose rings and full body tattoos.

There’s a punch line in there about God sending two of every kind of human to the ark, but I’ll refrain.

I saw very little boredom. There was a palpable air of excitement. Everyone wandered the decks, read the plaques, watched the videos, stared wide-eyed at the displays. There were smiles. There was reverence. There was…..something else. I couldn’t put my finger on it. Was it vindication? Or just plain relief?

Most Christians want to believe the Bible, but it’s hard to keep doubt from creeping in because of some of the fantastical improbabilities. Adam and Eve, the parting of the sea, Jonah and the whale, David and Goliath, Daniel and the lions den. Does accepting the credibility of accounts such as these require some brand of blind faith that often must ignore what appear to be scientific facts?

Maybe not. Along comes the Ark Encounter. Here we see a logical, believable, realistic, step-by-step depiction of how the story of Noah and the flood can not only be true, but likely is so.

Perhaps that was it. That’s what I saw in the faces of so many visitors. The joy one feels when you discover solid evidence that supports what you so desperately want to place your faith in.

People today hear a lot of voices coming from a lot of different directions. We all have a need to believe in something, to invest our faith in a consistent source. If you find yourself twisting in the wind of troubled waters, take a trip to the ark. It just might help you drop anchor.