The salt stung my eyes as waves smashed over the deck. I gripped the rope ladder so hard my hands bled, but it didn’t matter—not when the ship felt like it might shatter underneath us at any second.
I’d signed on as a deckhand days before we left the port in Caesarea. It wasn’t my first journey, but from the moment Paul and those Roman guards came aboard, this one felt... different. Julius, the centurion in charge of Paul, treated him more like a guest than a prisoner. I figured Paul must be some quiet priest or teacher. But I quickly learned: when Paul spoke, everyone stopped to listen.
I remember the first time the sky turned dark. Paul warned us. “Men,” he said, raising his voice above the wind, “I can see our voyage will be dangerous. We could lose the ship—or even our lives!” The guards laughed. The captain shrugged. A prisoner giving sailing advice? Not worth more thought, they decided.
But they should’ve listened.
For two weeks, the storm beat us without mercy. Sky and water blurred together like black ink. We tossed our supplies. Then the sails. Then the anchor. Some men collapsed from exhaustion. Others wept as they whispered prayers into the wind. I saw the cook wrap his arms around the mast and scream for his mother.
And still—Paul stood calm.
One night, when the waves had calmed just enough for us to catch our breath, Paul called us close. His face looked different—strong, peaceful, almost... lit from within.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Not one of you will be lost. An angel of God stood by me last night and said I must stand trial before Caesar—and God has granted me the lives of all who sail with me.”
I stared, too tired to be amazed. But something about the way he said it—it didn’t sound like a wish. It sounded like a promise.
Three days later, we saw land.
We cheered, but it didn’t last. The next wave split the ship down the middle like dry bark. Roman guards grabbed swords, ready to kill the prisoners so none would escape. I backed away, heart racing. I couldn’t watch Paul die—not after all he’d done to comfort us.
But Julius—yes, the same centurion who first brought Paul aboard—shouted, “No! If any survive, it’s because God let them.”
He ordered everyone to jump. Those who could swim dove in. The rest grabbed wreckage. I wrapped my arms around a broken plank and prayed.
And somehow—we all made it.
Every single person. Not one lost.
Later, when we stood shivering on the shore of Malta, I realized something: the storm had destroyed the ship, but not Paul’s faith. And because his faith held steady, so did we.
I saw plenty of strong men break down in fear. But Paul? His strength came from Someone stronger.
We thought the island would be our end. It turned out to be God’s rescue.
I haven’t stepped back onto a ship since. But I remember that storm each time the waves in my life rise too high. And I remember what Paul said—as if he were speaking to me: “Take heart. I trust God. It will happen just as He told me.”
He wasn’t just saved.
He saved us all—with nothing but a word from God and faith that didn’t break like the ship.
The salt stung my eyes as waves smashed over the deck. I gripped the rope ladder so hard my hands bled, but it didn’t matter—not when the ship felt like it might shatter underneath us at any second.
I’d signed on as a deckhand days before we left the port in Caesarea. It wasn’t my first journey, but from the moment Paul and those Roman guards came aboard, this one felt... different. Julius, the centurion in charge of Paul, treated him more like a guest than a prisoner. I figured Paul must be some quiet priest or teacher. But I quickly learned: when Paul spoke, everyone stopped to listen.
I remember the first time the sky turned dark. Paul warned us. “Men,” he said, raising his voice above the wind, “I can see our voyage will be dangerous. We could lose the ship—or even our lives!” The guards laughed. The captain shrugged. A prisoner giving sailing advice? Not worth more thought, they decided.
But they should’ve listened.
For two weeks, the storm beat us without mercy. Sky and water blurred together like black ink. We tossed our supplies. Then the sails. Then the anchor. Some men collapsed from exhaustion. Others wept as they whispered prayers into the wind. I saw the cook wrap his arms around the mast and scream for his mother.
And still—Paul stood calm.
One night, when the waves had calmed just enough for us to catch our breath, Paul called us close. His face looked different—strong, peaceful, almost... lit from within.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Not one of you will be lost. An angel of God stood by me last night and said I must stand trial before Caesar—and God has granted me the lives of all who sail with me.”
I stared, too tired to be amazed. But something about the way he said it—it didn’t sound like a wish. It sounded like a promise.
Three days later, we saw land.
We cheered, but it didn’t last. The next wave split the ship down the middle like dry bark. Roman guards grabbed swords, ready to kill the prisoners so none would escape. I backed away, heart racing. I couldn’t watch Paul die—not after all he’d done to comfort us.
But Julius—yes, the same centurion who first brought Paul aboard—shouted, “No! If any survive, it’s because God let them.”
He ordered everyone to jump. Those who could swim dove in. The rest grabbed wreckage. I wrapped my arms around a broken plank and prayed.
And somehow—we all made it.
Every single person. Not one lost.
Later, when we stood shivering on the shore of Malta, I realized something: the storm had destroyed the ship, but not Paul’s faith. And because his faith held steady, so did we.
I saw plenty of strong men break down in fear. But Paul? His strength came from Someone stronger.
We thought the island would be our end. It turned out to be God’s rescue.
I haven’t stepped back onto a ship since. But I remember that storm each time the waves in my life rise too high. And I remember what Paul said—as if he were speaking to me: “Take heart. I trust God. It will happen just as He told me.”
He wasn’t just saved.
He saved us all—with nothing but a word from God and faith that didn’t break like the ship.
