There were two look-out points on Martindale Island. One was on the western side of the island . . . near where we lived . . . and the other was on the eastern side. Each location had a cannon and a storage crate that held a ram-rod, gunpowder, cloth wicks, matches, and a spyglass. I had never given any thought to the names of these two locations, simply calling them both “The look-out point.” But this duplication of names bothered Rachel a bit, and she said:
Rachel: They should have different names.
I: And what do you suggest?
Rachel: We can call them “Look-out point number one” and “Look-out point number two.”
And that was what they became.
It sometimes rained on the island for three or four days straight, which meant that, if we wanted to eat, there were times when we had to brave the elements. We had matching rain gear outfits . . . poncho-like garments and rain hats that had tie strings . . . that I had made from sail material, and we’d venture out into the storm together to fetch some fruit or, it might be, some fish. It was always a warm weather rain and it was usually a fun chore for us to do.
This one day, while Rachel and I were swimming off the beach near our home . . . and all was sunny and dry . . . we heard a hissing noise coming from out on the ocean, and it brought our horseplay to a stop. There, far out on the water, it was raining, and the rain storm was heading our way.
I had, of course, seen rain storms many times, but they had always started from above . . . never from the side . . . like this one. As the wall of rain got closer, we could hear the slapping of the raindrops on the water’s surface and we could see the millions of tiny water ripples they were creating. And then this . . . moving waterfall . . . covered us. Rachel squealed. I laughed. And we just stayed out there . . . splashing around, splashing each other . . . for ten minutes or so before heading up to the cottage to dry off and warm up.
Later that afternoon we sat down to practice Rachel’s reading. It was a long session and she tried hard. Afterward, while we were playing a game of checkers, she spoke:
Rachel: Jimmy?
I: Yes Rachel.
Rachel: We are lucky.
I: Very lucky.
Rachel: We are happy and we have everything we want.
I: I can’t think of anything I want that I don’t already have.
Rachel: We are lucky . . . indeed.
I: Indeed.
After we finished playing checkers I decided to tell Rachel about God.
The time seemed ripe for it. Her soil, figuratively speaking, had been prepared, and now it was time to plant the seed.
It was a lot for a child to understand . . . as it is a lot for an adult to understand . . . but she accepted it with that great child innocence and trust.
That evening, as we were walking along the beach, we stopped to look at the sunset. Twilight is perhaps the most pleasant part of the day, and we watched as the sun slowly went into hiding behind the horizon. Rachel then spotted a conch shell half-buried in the sand. She pulled it out and inspected it. It was a nice shell. I curled my fingers inside to make sure nobody was at home and then rinsed off the sand. And Rachel carried it with her for the remainder of our walk. Once we were back in the cottage she put the conch shell on the table next to her bed . . . a place of honor . . . so she could look at it while she was going to sleep. And that was the beginning of Rachel’s seashell collection.