The Prophecy

A Short Story

I am writing this account of my deepest inner thoughts and wonderments after becoming a seafarer, as many of my ancestors were. I have no literary talents that I know of and this is not meant to be a dramatic or flowery type of story. Rather, this is a true story of a most extraordinary experience that I had just before my first sail – alone, without my family or mentors. My point in writing this account is to try and give a bit of understanding and foreknowledge to those about to embark on their first outing on the Great Ocean.

            I imagine that I must begin by telling you a bit about myself, and my background. My name is Almus Tafa. Spoken together, my name means, “The Prophet.” I was named by my father, although I think he had Brahmin in mind when he named me. You will understand a little better, later in this story.

            I am a sailor like my father and my grandfather, and so on back for the past nine generations in my family. Each of my ancestors had his own ship, eventually, after many years of sailing and learning. All of them, as myself, grew up on the Sea. To know Her, as a small child, is to enjoy the opportunities of having small, cold waves baptize your feet and to have sand squish between your toes. We all did this as children. But to know Her as one fully grown is entirely different and sometimes quite alarming. Each of us becomes mature with age, but we who grow up in this way find that the Ocean makes a person wise – if, indeed, wisdom is sought earnestly. “Why?” you might ask. Who knows? Anyone here in this small towne will speak of our ancestors as great wise folk. And you might ask, “Well, were everyone’s ancestors sailors… the ones that lived in this towne?”

            Yes! In this seaside towne? Oh, yes! And if you ask the folks in this towne if they are yet as wise as their ancestors, they will say, “No.” But you get them to talking and you will soon begin to understand.

            Many of the young here will say, “I will not be as my father or my ancestors! I will conquer the Ocean! It will not swallow me up as it has many of us here!” But, soon enough, they too become wise and find themselves telling other young seafarers how they learned not to fight Her, but to accept Her on Her own terms, and not on theirs.

            Well, this has been the way of our people for countless generations. Even the women of our towne have come to understand, and they attempt to raise their daughters and sons to know as they have known; to understand and be ready to live with their husbands who set sail and are away for long stretches at a time. It is hard for our women. Many of them are widows because their mates were taken from them, lured away and swallowed up, literally or figuratively. It is especially hard on the young mothers. They still have babies to raise. But the older, more experienced women are there to help when the going gets too rough.

            This thought reminds me to say that many of the children who grow up here, grow up without a father to teach them The Great Truths. There are many older men who were not so consumed, and these teach the young people as much as they can. The mothers of these young ones can raise the children only up to a point and then the more experienced must teach and show what must be learned.

            This was my case. My father died when I was only a small child. I knew some about my father from what my mother and the elders told me, but I wanted to know more: like how he felt out there – alone and without a lighthouse, and no land for miles. Nothing to ground him, no sure footing. I still had so many questions in my head. I often wondered if the bellowing of the foghorn would keep a person company – if they were even close enough to capture the mournful sound, or perhaps the constant rhythm of the waves would be enough. I had such thoughts for a very long time. I had gone to the old sailors to inquire what it was like for them to be out there, but their answers would never satisfy me.

            Until I had this most extraordinary experience. Oh, by the way, just in case you were wondering, I haven’t told this to anyone except my own children. My son, now of age, sails in the open sea and will soon have a ship of his own. I have been sailing for many years now and have found that when a person first becomes seafaring, he is, more times than not, totally scared and will often try to fight back or change the rules that belong only to the Ocean – which is the worse thing you can do. She has her own rules – and they are Eternal.

            Well, I imagine I should begin my own story now. This experience took place not far from the towne in which I lived. This was the place in which I was born, in which I was raised, and to this day I keep my home in the same small towne.

            This place has stayed the same for many years. The only change that has taken place was about twenty years ago when we laid stones in our streets in place of the dusty dirt, rendering travel on wheels much easier and cleaner. And we put up some fire lamps to light the way for our residents when they walk the lanes at night. Anyway, if a person stands on the beach with his back to the water, he can see the firelights on the lanes. And for this reason, because the towne is so close to the water, most of the business is fishing.

            I was twenty-three when I had this most unusual experience. I was going out for my first big sail. Oh, I had sailed before, but always with one of the elders there to teach, or simply reassure me. And they would always watch me – watch to see if I would make any number of mistakes in handling the rigging or the parts of the schooner. During all the years of my intense training, my mentors had been instructing me what to do in case of a tidal wave, or if the rudder broke, or in case my sail became destroyed in too fierce a wind. If the wind direction changed even one degree, I was supposed to know just which sail to put up and which sail to take down. I was supposed to know what every line of rigging meant and when to use each one. I was to know how to get along with other seafarers whom I would encounter on my journeys. Much of this intense training began when I was small, giving me the opportunity to become very familiar with the craft, and with the life on the Big Blue.

            This time, however, I was sailing alone. Out there – with the most experienced of sea captains in the harshest of environments – true soldiers of The Sea. My familiar teachers would not be there to reassure me that I was doing things right. I would have to know if I was doing them right or not, and if I did something wrong, I would have to learn to take what came from this new and unforgiving world.

            So, here I was at twenty-three, waiting on my first sail. And I was scared. I was scared for fear that what was told me would happen all on this first voyage! I still had so much to learn, and I knew it; but only experience could teach me. And I prayed, would teach me. And yet, I was getting to know The Ocean from having encountered Her so many times before. She seems so much larger, however, when you face Her alone. So much more treacherous, more alive.

            I was to sail before dawn the next morning. That night, having already prepared my belongings for the voyage, I walked down to the sand very near the water. It was very cold, but I pulled my coat close about my neck and sat down. It was cloudy that night, and as I looked up, I discovered that the sky was almost completely starless. Only the moon shone enough to pierce the intense darkness.

            It was quiet out there except for the familiar rhythmic sounds of the tide and I had time to think about my future. I realized that I would eventually come home only to sail again and again. I was trying to imagine what it would be like out there with only the ship, the other sailors, and maybe the foghorn to keep me company. Of course, there is the Ocean Herself, but She can’t keep a person company, or can She? I never thought that She could, but people say that She does.

            I was deep in thought when the foghorn bellowed. Yes, the foghorn. Does that really keep a person company? I imagined that it would be comforting. It means that land is near. It is said, however, that the Ocean becomes part of a person, that She will call him back again and again. Yes, even the Ocean, with all Her great emptiness, becomes home, and that home on the land becomes only a place to go back to, to see loved ones and to rest.  But each time the sailor goes home, he waits eagerly to embark on the next voyage. He anticipates the next ship that will sail, the next adventure, not knowing what it will bring. The Ocean calls him back. It beckons, to teach Her own unique lessons.

            The foghorn bellowed, yes, even cried out, again. This was a bit of a relief because I was in such deep thought. But, soon my mind wandered again. I was trying with all my mind and soul to listen to hear what I could hear. I was sure that I would be doing a lot of that – after tomorrow. I could hear the sea lapping against the rocks and crags and coming onto the beach close to where I sat on a low wall between sand and cobblestones. I could hear the foghorn bellow again, and the sea gulls sound their distant cry now and then. And I would hear the toll of a bell on one of the buoys caused by the gently rhythmic rocking of the water. Already, this was a familiar sound to me, but being Out There, it would mean that land is near. And land is security. Or is it? Is there security Out There? What do sailors on the Great Ocean feel when they are Out There? What do they think about? What is there besides space and water and loneliness, and no one to fill the ache that is eating away at your heart and soul from… what?

            I pulled my coat closer about my neck to keep out the bitter cold. Now and then I would dabble in the sand to free my mind from such intense thought.

            Soon, my mind traveled back a few years to one special old man: old Brahmin. Yes, wise old Brahmin, whose name, translated, means “Abraham.” He had sailed since he was a small boy. He stands out in my memory because we had a keen sort of friendship. I always had the sense that he understood me through and through, but I could never understand him or make sense of the things he would tell me. We would talk for hours at a time and he would speak very intensely and intentionally, and with a strange sort of kindness in his eyes. He had a peculiar squint, and he would frown when he spoke to me as if he were forming everything in his mind before he said it, so it would come out just right.  I always felt that Brahmin was trying to tell me something and that he could never quite tell me the way he wanted to, or perhaps it was that he wanted me to know some Great Truth or Secret, and he was afraid that he would not do it justice to tell me outright. I never asked him about this though, because I knew that if I did, he would tell me no more. He always said that things would come in their appointed time.

            People were Brahmin’s life. He had such concern and compassion for them. His voice was very deep but gentle as he spoke, and he seemed to always have time for others. Oh, I’m sure that he had burdens of his own that were, from time to time, too large to bear, but he would shed these, at least temporarily, so that they never showed. No one could ever know all the experiences and knowledge that this man possessed. But he would share sections of his life and experiences with others, as they were needed and as his hearers were able to understand.

            But when Brahmin and I would talk, he would say things to me like, “Almus, you will become a sailor soon. Yes, even as your father was, and many of your ancestors. I knew your father well and had the opportunity of teaching him many things before he sailed. Before you go, my child, there are many things you too must learn.” Brahmin had been a great sailor, but he was now a potter. He would be working on his potter’s wheel, intently forming his next creation to be given away to some deserving person in the area or as a gift of love. However, he would stop spinning his wheel when he began forming a thought. He would pause and look at me; then, he would begin dispensing his wisdom in digestible morsels. It was not always what I could understand, but it was always what I needed to hear.

            And he would say to me, “But, Almus, you must understand that there is no loneliness out there. Seafarers panic at the thought of loneliness and do all sorts of things to run from it. It can get the best of a person and eat at his soul and ruin him. Yes, there is the foghorn and the buoys to keep you company, and the ship itself, as well as the others around you who also tread the uncertain waters. And the Ocean really does keep you company, too. All these things are there. But still a person can get so lonely that he feels that he cannot bear it any longer and he begins to ask the Ocean to take him. Do you know what a person gets lonely for, Almus? Not his home, not even his family. Sometimes he doesn’t even know what his soul cries out for. Yes, there is the lighthouse and the ship and the water, but there is more, Almus. You must realize this – there is so much more.”      

            And then Brahmin would stop talking and start spinning his potter’s wheel intensely. I knew our conversation was over. I would slowly and contemplatively get up and go out, leaving Brahmin with his own deep contemplations and his wisdom that apparently had no limits. We would say no more to each other for the rest of the day. We both knew that Brahmin could say no more about what he was telling me and teaching me. Now, many years after his death, I wish he could know that I took to heart everything he said to me and that it had a great effect on me in my later years.

            Also, I wish that he could know about my experience that I am unfolding for you. Since this experience, I can understand everything that Brahmin had been trying to tell me… and that he had been trying to speak into my soul.

            There was another time that Brahmin and I had been talking, and again I did not understand what he was telling me. He said to me, “Almus, you must always listen to hear what you can. There is a lot to hear. You still have a lot to learn, and understanding and awareness come only by way of listening.” I did not fully understand what he was saying. We sat in silence for several moments and I was really trying to do as he said and to hear what I could. Then I said to him, “I am trying, Brahmin, to listen and hear like you said, but I do not hear anything.”

            Old Brahmin was so wonderful and kind, and he said to me, “Listen not only with your ears, but with all of your mind and soul and heart and strength. Do not give up, for soon you will begin to hear and to understand.”

            The foghorn sounded again, and my mind brought me back to my present place on the sand wall near the water. The night had gotten darker now, and even the moon could hardly be seen. It was so cold earlier with the icy breeze coming in from the ocean; but, for some reason the bitter cold was gone now. I was listening. Yes, for the first time in my life, I was really listening as Brahmin had told me to do so many years before. Everyone in the towne had closed their shutters for the night, and I was alone on the beach, and yet I was trying to hear, as I knew that Brahmin had heard. What was it that he had been listening to all his many years? Yes, for the first time in my life, my whole being was straining to hear.

            I looked up from where I was dabbling in the sand and looked in front of me toward the Ocean. There was nothing but darkness. Then I looked all around and behind me. Except for a few street lamps behind me, there was thick dark, and yes, I was very much alone. And yet, I had this distinct feeling that I was not alone at all. I would have been content to just sit there and meditate on this a while longer, except that this feeling overcame me. I thought about this for a moment and decided that I must be alone because when I came here earlier, I was by myself. I heard no one come near the water. I would have at least heard his feet on the sand if he came at all close to where I was sitting. I became a little uneasy and thought how ridiculous it was of me to feel this way. I tried to push these thoughts to the back of my mind, but I could not.

            I then thought to myself, “Well… just in case someone is here with me…,” so I said, “Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?” I felt so stupid talking into the empty darkness.

            “Almus?” I looked all around me and there was still no one near me, and yet someone spoke my name! Someone called out to me! It was so strange because as this person spoke, I no longer felt uneasy or afraid. His voice was beautiful, like no other voice I had ever heard.

            “Almus?” he said again. This time as he spoke, his figure emerged from the Ocean mist in front of me. He was tall, with broad shoulders and he was wearing what looked like a hooded gray robe. It was long, to his feet, and heavy for the winter. I could not see his face because part of him was hidden by the dark. I thought that I might ask him who he was and where he came from, except that those questions didn’t seem important then. Suddenly, I realized that it was no longer cold. I was warm now and unafraid of anything.

            It never occurred to me to ask this man how he knew my name, so I said, “What do you want?”

            “You are sailing for your first time tomorrow, aren’t you?”

            “Yes,” I said. The more he spoke, the more I was sure that he knew all about me. This man was a stranger and yet I didn’t feel at all strange in his presence; somehow, I felt calm and sure of everything.

            “May I tell you a few things before you go?”

            “Yes, of course,” I replied.

            “You see, Almus, I know the Ocean as no man does. I would like you to know some things before you go.” He continued to stand between the Ocean and me as he spoke. I felt that this man was special somehow and that he was about to teach me things in a way that no man has been taught – in a way that no ordinary man could teach. He knew my fears, my weaknesses, my apprehensions, and my strengths. When he spoke to me, he spoke to every part of me, not just to me as a sailor, or to me as a person, or a husband or a father, but to all of me.

            “Almus, I have been listening to you tonight as you have sat here on the beach.” He had been listening, just as Brahmin had taught me to do years before. My thoughts had never gone beyond my own head, and yet this man heard each-and-every one of them!

            Again, he spoke. “I have heard you tonight, Almus. I know that you are afraid because of your sail tomorrow. Let me reassure you and tell you a few things. I will talk so that you will understand what I am saying, but you must listen very carefully to me. Alright?”

            “Yes, I will listen to you.”

            “I was born in the womb of the sand,” he began. “When I was old enough, I came face to face with the Great Ocean of Life. Its powerful waves carried me into this vast mother of eternity. In my early age, all was smooth and calm. Then I would bump into a mass of coral or become entangled in webs of seaweed. Once again, peace and calm would reign. Ripples of time would carry me further out to sea. At one point in my life, a great storm arose and carried me to a place I did not want to go, and then carried me to a place of eternal peace and joy. Nobody knows the Ocean of Life as I do. She can be as fierce as a badger and She can be as gentle as a dove. She can swallow you up and sink you into eternal darkness or She can carry you safely to the opposite shore. All these things are up to you, though, Almus. She calls, but you must decide.”

            He paused for a moment. I said nothing, for there was nothing that I could say. I was so taken in by what he was saying that I was held in a relatively tranquilized state - mesmerized by his words and the gentle authority of his voice. The way he spoke was too wonderful to imagine.

            Soon, he began speaking again. As he spoke, I could see a slight breeze move his garments, and he would shift as he stood there. He used his hands and arms to gesture while he talked and the very fact that I could see him proved that I was not imagining this.

            Again, he began to speak, teaching me great things. “Your father knew me, Almus. He would often ask me if you would ever come to know me. He was worried about that. Because your father knew me, I taught him many great things. Brahmin and your father knew each other for many years before you were ever born. Then when you were six years old, your father died on his own ship. Before he died, though, he had asked Brahmin that if anything should happen to your father, would Brahmin take care of you and train and teach you. Brahmin did this very faithfully after your father passed over The Sea.”

            He paused speaking for a moment, and so I asked, “Did Brahmin know you too?” I don’t know why I asked this, for I knew the answer already. Brahmin had known this man very well.

            He patiently went on to answer my question, though I am sure he knew my every thought already. “Yes, Brahmin did know me. He began telling you about me before you could even begin to understand what he was saying. And yet he knew that what he was saying would stay with you. He knew that you did not fully understand, and yet he kept teaching you, for he knew that you would learn with time.”

            Again, he stopped talking, so I began posing questions to him. I had so many that were unanswered; this man knew that, and as if he had all the time in the world to spend with me, he uncomplainingly answered each-and-every-one that I asked of him.

            “Is it really lonely out there on the vast Ocean? Brahmin said there is no loneliness, and yet men die because of it. Why is this?” I asked this question from the bottom of my heart and soul. I didn’t want to die from loneliness.

            “Brahmin was right. There is no loneliness - if you have the knowledge that your father and Brahmin had.” He paused for just one moment so that I could think about what he had just said. Then he went on. “I will tell you one more thing, Almus. Listen very carefully to what I am about to say.”

            “Yes, I will listen.”

            “Do not ever fear being alone. When you are ‘out there,’ you will miss your family; this is only natural. This is not what it is that eats away at a person. Try to remember everything that Brahmin told you and use this in your life. And as you have done tonight, listen with all your heart and mind and strength to hear what you can. By doing this, Almus, you will be carried safely to the opposite shore at the end of your life.”

            “Could you be with me tomorrow as I set sail?” What right did I have to ask this of this Stranger? Where on earth such a question came from, I had no idea! And yet, he said to me, “Yes, I will be with you tomorrow and each-and-every day. But you must listen to me as you have done tonight. Do you understand?”

            This man was a total Stranger to me as far as I knew at that point, and yet, I was asking him to be with me as I sailed alone for the first time the following morning – across the vast Sea. I had no right to ask this of him and yet he so kindly assured me that he would be with me each day if I would but listen to him.

            He asked me again if I understood that I should listen for him as I had done. Did I really understand? I thought I did, so I said that to him. “Yes, I think that I do. I think I do know what you mean.”

            “There are many things, Almus, that you still do not know. But I say to you that before this night is through, you will know many more things. I will be with you tomorrow. Watch for me. Listen for me.”

            The fog was creeping in and the night was getting a bit cloudier. I could not see this man quite as well as I had before, and yet I knew that he was still there. I felt him. So, I said, “Where will you be tomorrow, so that I will know you?” Suddenly, I realized that he was gone! I began calling for him. I felt strangely frightened that he was no longer standing there in front of me.

            “Where will you be that I may know you?” I spoke anxiously as I stood to my feet, looking fervently for his form. I looked intently into the fog and the darkness to find him, but I could not see him anywhere around.

            Then, I heard his voice speak to me once more. He said, “Do not be frightened, Almus, for I am still with you. You will know me and recognize me each day.” His voice was all around me as it had been when he spoke to me before, when I could see him. His voice came from in front of me, it came from behind me, and from above me and from beneath me. It was wonderful! I even thought that maybe his voice came from inside me. I did not feel frightened anymore for I knew that he really was with me.

            Then, once more his voice spoke. He said, “I will not leave you, Almus. You may know this: I will never leave you. But you must always listen to me and I will always hear you as I did this night. And I will continue to tell you things that you could never know on your own. You will be blessed and will live a happy and peaceful life and at the end of your life, you will be carried to The Opposite Shore and you will be with your father and with Brahmin. I will be there to greet you when you arrive.”

            At that moment, all became quiet except for the sounds of the ocean. The waves gently kissed the rocks and cliffs while the foghorn cried once again and the sea gulls called out to one another. I noticed, for the first time, the lighthouse with its beacon of hope reaching deep into the darkness.

            I knew that I would never again be alone. Yes, I would long for my family while riding out the waves, but when I died, it would not be of loneliness.

            I slowly turned toward the village, no longer fearing the morrow, but rather, I looked forward to it. When I reached my home, I entered, and closed the chilled night air behind me. I went to my window that faced the water and took a second longer to look out onto that scene where my experience took place. Before closing my shutters, I again noticed reflections from the lighthouse on the rhythmic ripples of water. My feeling was beyond words.

            Before I prepared for sleep, I knelt beside my bed and said, “Oh, Brahmin, if you can hear me… thank you. I know that I am now really beginning to understand. I really listened tonight. And I heard. Amen.”

            I then laid down for sleep and it was not long before I heard the many sounds in the streets as all the village people were preparing for their sons to sail. Knowing that if I lingered, I would be left behind, I quickly gathered my belongings, which included my grandfather’s well-worn Bible, and his compass.

            Before embarking my ship, I hugged my wife, kissed my children, and embraced my neighbors and friends, as the other sailors did with their relatives.

Upon boarding the ship, and not forgetting the miracle of the previous night, I stopped for a moment and listened. I listened from within, hushing the cacophony of sounds from the docks that crowded in on me. Turning my head away from the view of anyone close by, I looked up and whispered to that Stranger on the beach, “Are you still with me?”

            I am still not sure if I truly heard him say, “Yes, Almus, I am with you as I promised” - or whether the impression was just very strong. Or maybe I heard his voice in the wind. But I knew for sure that he was with me, and I confidently helped the crew to set sail.

            Now, decades after that experience, I, Almus Tafa, (or Al Mustafa, as my name should be written), do testify that He is still with me.

The End

Author: Catherine Steveley

(Original story written in 1972,

Revised October 16, 2018)