Lost! [antikvár]

The soft summer wind abruptly died and it became eerily still, almost an omen. James Fisher stood in the bow pulpit of the thirty-one-foot trimaran he had built with his own hands, and he called out mightily to the God who dominated all of his days and nights. "Dear Lord," he cried, his voice passionate in its summons, carrying across the windless hush of the Tacoma marina and causing the other yachtsmen at moor to look up, "we ask for Your protection and guidance. We ask for Your hand upon the wheel. We ask for a safe journey, with a fair wind to fill our sails and hurry us to Your work. We ask that You watch over my brother-in-law, Bob, and his wife, Linda, and me, for we are Your children, going forth on a mission in Your blessed name. . . The prayed-for brother-in-law, Robert Tininenko, glanced up. He would tolerate with courtesy any man's prayer, but he disliked being included when he no longer believed in that specific God. A decade before, Bob Tininenko had quit the church into which he had been born, the Seventh Day Adventists. His wife Linda, standing beside him, caught the tension and squeezed his elbow. If he had had any intention of interrupting the prayer to disclaim membership in the