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David Frederick
I was born in 1943 while World War II was in full swing, however the tiny town where I was reared was safe in Midwest rural farming country, surrounded by hardwood forests we explored as young boys...voir plusI was born in 1943 while World War II was in full swing, however the tiny town where I was reared was safe in Midwest rural farming country, surrounded by hardwood forests we explored as young boys, lots of creeks to wade in, abandoned mines to explore, tall trees to climb and vines to swing from, raspberries to pick wild, and the feeling someone good was always looking out for us no matter where we wandered. We were safe. Life was like that in my home town. Peaceful.
When I was 25, delivering a 33-foot sailboat to its new owners in the Virgin Islands, I was caught in a full January gale. I was alone in 60-foot waves, fighting for 72 hours without sleep to claw away from the fatal rocky northern shore of the Dominican Republic. It was impossible to see through the driving rain beyond the bow of the boat. I was uncertain of my position, doubting my progress to windward away from the certain death being driven on that shore would mean.
One prays in such situations.
I prayed and promised to read the next Bible cover-to-cover if I survived.
The storm suddenly abated, and the next day I was safe at anchor off the shore of Aguadilla, Puerto Rico resting before continuing my journey to St. Croix where the new owners awaited their boat delivery.
I kept that promise for the past half-century and read not only the Christian Bible but every religious text I could find that tells the age-old story of man and his quest to understand the ultimately unknowable power that is the God of every religion.
The power that pacified those angry waves long ago, allowed me to live and write this book.
The power mankind can agree upon, power by which we can build bridges of agreement between diverse cultures and beliefs, bridges toward a lasting global peace... for the children’s sake.
And, may we all heed the sounds of that drum and bugle corps and the solemn reports of their rifle salute at our soldier’s cemetery that echoes still in that small Ohio town and in this little boy’s heart.voir moins