Carolyn’s words to me: “You can’t change the whole world.” No, but maybe with enough faith you can change one little corner. Isn’t that what Jesus did? Set out to change one insignificant, desolate little corner of the world and at his death didn’t even know he’d succeeded? No one knew until later, and even then his followers couldn’t hold on to the purity of his message. Maybe that’s the rub: sooner or later someone always finds a way to twist perfection to their own will, and God’s will flies out the window. Goodbye. Too naïve. Didn’t need you anyway. So you settle for a day and don’t ask too many questions. This day at the inlet was a heck of a good day to settle for.

John-John handed me the field glasses. “You wanna go say hi to the kid padre?”

I held the glasses to my eyes and corrected the focus. “I don’t think so. They seem to be doing alright on their own.”

I watched the three of them laughing together. Frankie bent and released the safety chord from his ankle, handing the board to Sagan. I wondered if this might be the “preppie” girl from the pot party that Frankie said was sweet on Sagan. She had the look, but in swim suits it was hard to tell the preps from the Goths from the jocks or the hicks and skaters. Another good thing about the beach, I thought: off come the uniforms of division, although the Goths of course would still be sporting their piercings.

I expected Sagan to take the surfboard straight into the water but he waited while his friend ran back across the white sand to retrieve his board. Together they waded though the shallow surf and began paddling out.

“Nice to have a girlfriend,” John-John said.

“You don’t?”

“I’ve had a few over the years. It’s OK, but most of ‘em end up being a pain, if you know what I mean.”

“Well,” I said, “I could tell from the way they reacted to you that night at the bar that … you know … women are attracted to you.”

“Yea, maybe so. Problem ain’t getting ‘em, it’s all the garbage they start dumping on me once I do.”

“You mean, like telling you their problems.”

“Calling me every time something‘s a little out of whack in their life. I mean, if they really had a problem I wouldn’t mind, but Jesus Christ … sorry padre … I don’t need to hear -- over and over -- that it takes too long for the water to get hot in the shower.”

“Some people would call that making conversation,”

“That’s why I like hanging out with you Dietrich; you don’t do the small talk bit. You’re a man on a mission.”

“You think so?”

“I can smell it. You’re going to make something big happen and when you do, I’m gonna be there to work in the trenches.”

“Good man with a shovel, are you?”

“I’d say so.”

I raised the glasses back to my eyes. Sagan and his friend had reached the outer break. She was sitting astride her board with Sagan in the water keeping her steady with one hand while he treaded water with the other. A three-footer approached and she laid flat to paddle while he gave her board a push toward shore. She popped to her feet, wobbled for a few seconds and toppled over. She was clearly a novice but had managed a short ride, maybe her first ride. I watched through the glasses as Sagan paddled to her on Frankie’s board. They were laughing over her small success. As they laughed he leaned close and kissed her. I lowered the binoculars.

“So, what kind of big thing is your nose telling you about, John-John?”

“I’m not sure padre. That’s your call. Me? I’d like to go along for the ride and pitch in where I can.”

“You getting any scent of God being involved in this … big thing?”

“Maybe.”

“If you get any detailed information, let me know.”

“You got my word padre.”

I was thinking again about Wesley’s words: do all the good you can in as many ways as you can – however it goes – thinking I’d try that and look for a lead. John-John was a practical guy. He would spot a fraud. A nod from him meant something to me. And I “smelled” something too – something cooking, simmering, smelling sweet. What it was … I had no idea. They needed a new feeding program in Daytona but that wasn’t it. Important work, yes, and Jesus fed people, but for him that was just a side show. … do as much good … just jump in and trust God … do as much good …. jump in … something’s cooking, simmering, smelling sweet. And John-John wants to pitch in. Good. I can use some blue-collar confidence.

“The water’s getting pretty thick with surfers,” I said.

“Word must’ve got around that the surf’s up.”

“Hope no one gets slammed into. When you’re a novice …”

“… Like the girl?”

“It’s harder to avoid trouble. That’s all.”

I reapplied lotion to my face, leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. Quiet. Even wearing shades I could feel the sun inside my eyelids, its warmth throwing off a pale orange presence. “Yes sun, wash away my thoughts.” Quiet … quiet … nothing said, nothing heard … eyes closed … waves falling gently one after another … quiet … quiet … distant voices joined in one soft lullaby … quiet … drifting deeper into the pale orange glow … quiet … quiet … quiet …

John-John was shaking my shoulder. “Padre. Hey padre ... you asleep?”

I opened my eyes slowly and took a deep breath. “Not exactly; I was in a far place, but it wasn’t sleep.”

“A far place, huh?”

“Very deep.”

“Was someone there with you?”

“Not ‘someone,’ maybe ‘something,’ but that’s not it either.”

“A far, deep place?”

“And a cleansing place,” I said.

“Meditating,” John-John said. “I do it pretty much every day.”

“You do? Good. When you meditate, is someone there with you?”

“Not really; just quiet.”

I was getting used to these revelations from him. “I’m not surprised you meditate, John-John. I guessed there’s more to—”

“I learned it in prison.”

“In prison? You were in prison?”

“A couple years. I was sentenced to five.”

“Do you mind if I ask … for what?”

“Well, I’d like to tell you padre, but confidentiality demands that I don’t.”

“It’s confidential?”

“And I wish it wasn’t padre. I’d really love to tell you. Nothin’ violent – I guarantee that!”

“That’s good. Was this recent?”

“No. Many years ago. Listen, if you really want to know, ask your father. I don’t think he’d mind telling you about it.”

Somehow, this didn’t surprise me. “Does my father just ‘know the story,’ or was he a part of the story?”

“Ask him. I want you to.”

I felt good with this news. I’d had questions … what was John-John doing so far down the beach that day we met? How does he know my father? Now I at least knew there is a story to it.”

“Alright,” I said. “I’ll ask him. I would like to know.”

“Good, padre. Oh, and one more thing: The nickname John-John? I may have given the impression I picked it up in college. Truth is I got it in prison.”