Beacons - Lights Guiding Us Through the Darkness

It's Friday night at Zaragoza Air Base in Spain. Once more, I'm alone at the club, listening to the band of the month and dulling my solitude with inexpensive cocktails. Why am I here? The beaches of San Sebastian and the alluring, young, international sunbathers have been calling me for over a month now, ever since I bought a brand-new FIAT 124 Sport Spyder. Weekends have passed, yet here I remain.

I dislike going off by myself. I'm really tired of being alone. Plus, I don't speak much Spanish. Apart from the small group of airmen I work with at the Ground Control Approach Radar facility, there's the bunch of misfits I live with in the barracks. And, of course, there are the lost souls, like me, who visit the club every night, week after week, month after month, trying to get through their three-year tour, missing home, drowning their sorrows, and numbing their struggle with life and loneliness. Hey, there's Fuentes!

Gerry Fuentes, a Hispanic American air traffic controller who is my age and colleague, might be interested in a road trip. He would be an excellent interpreter and travel companion. After finishing my vodka tonic and gathering some courage, I approach him where he's sitting alone and invite him to join me at my table, which offers a better view of the band. He gladly accepts the invitation. As the server brings us another round, I introduce the idea of a road trip. It's great to discover that we both have the same desire to escape the base for a while, even if just for a weekend. Unfortunately, we also share the same minimal financial status typical of young airmen. We pool our resources and find we have a mere two mil pesetas (about forty dollars). Despite being broke, my 124 has a full tank of gas. With a strong urge to get away, a touch of madness, and very little money, we decide: San Sebastian, here we come!

Realizing that we won't be able to afford a decent meal during our journey, we both take out our club cards and treat ourselves to a couple of juicy steak dinners and a pitcher of sangria each. We enjoy the feast and toast to the trip with great joy. After celebrating a bit too much, we put our arms around each other's shoulders for support and make our way back to the barracks to rest up for an early departure.

Later in the morning, we pack pillows, sheets, blankets, a bag of snacks, and about half a dozen small bottles of liquor we both had into the FIAT's small trunk and back seat. With the convertible top down and sunglasses on, Fuentes and I gradually set off west-northwest, bypassing Pamplona, and aiming for the Atlantic Ocean.

Over the next two hours, we leisurely drive through the arid mesas of the central Basque region, until we both urgently need a pit stop. What a spectacular place to take a break! Parked at a scenic overlook high above the city of Pamplona, with no one else around, we pause, making a pact to road trip to Pamplona one day in July for the feast of San Fermin (the running of the bulls). After finishing up, we head down the mountains toward our destination.

Experiencing San Sebastian for the first time gives me goosebumps. It is far more stunning than I had envisioned. The city is located on Spain's Atlantic coast where the foothills of the Pyrenees curve inland, creating a natural, sheltered harbor. Dark, lush green mountains encircle the harbor like massive open arms. I imagine these arms have embraced generations of sea-weary sailors. Today, they welcome two poor and road-weary airmen. Fuentes and I agree that the embrace of the city's warm crescent-shaped beach will be a suitable place to stay for the night for travelers like us.

The Spanish sun is intensely hot. We take numerous swims to cool down. Between swims, we walk along the beach, hoping to meet attractive, young, Western tourists, eager to share in their good fortune. As the sun starts to dip behind the mountains, our hopes of being rescued fade away with it. Nonetheless, it was wonderful to imagine various fantasy scenarios. As darkness falls, reality brings us back to the Spider to gather our belongings and set up camp on the sand in the middle of the beach. From this spot, we can enjoy the full view of the harbor under the stars.

Stars quickly fill the night sky as the dark mountains around begin to shimmer with lights. At sea level, neon lights and pulsating music from dance clubs start to attract crowds like moths to a flame. We entertain thoughts of the fun we would be having if we had the money. We make another promise to return to San Sebastian with plenty of cash to enjoy the town properly (though we never would). For now, we settle for what we have: slightly inebriated relaxation, a clear, black velvet sky full of stars, and the hope for a safe night's sleep.

Stretched out in our makeshift sleeping bags, we silently gaze at the sky. For a moment, I wonder whether Fuentes is thinking in English or Spanish. It seems too trivial a question to ask, so I don't. I start reflecting on my life since arriving in Spain. Zaragoza Air Base is isolated, with nothing to do except frequent the club after work. I spend most of my free time there, buying drinks for myself and my less fortunate friends, listening to one band after another, and engaging in endless, meaningless conversations. It's no surprise I never have any money. I'm stuck in such a rut. Nothing will change unless I want it to. And boy, do I want it to.

The harbor scene transforms as the night progresses. The thousands of twinkling lights on the hillsides gradually diminish. Eventually, only the lights of the bars and discos remain to rival the stars. San Sebastian slowly quiets down and prepares for rest. As the final clubs shut their doors, couples holding each other pass by our sand hotel, giggling and staggering. With little regard for privacy, their sounds of pleasure soon fade, and the night returns to the rhythmic lapping of water on the shore.

All around us, a profound darkness envelops the surroundings, except for the top of the harbor's extended arm to our right. There, floodlights illuminate a towering statue of Jesus Christ, facing the sea with arms wide open, offering a reassuring welcome to sailors returning through the night. As I gaze at the statue, I feel myself merging with the warm sand beneath me. I surrender to this sensation, drifting into a deep, tranquil sleep.

Our peaceful sleep is interrupted too soon as the San Sebastian stirs to life. After a bit of stretching to ease the stiffness from our economy mattresses, we take a quick swim to refresh ourselves and wash off the sand. Once our gear is packed in the car, we search for a public restroom and then a bakery. With the few pesetas we have left, we each purchase some bread and fruit juice. Despite the luxury of our open-air hotel, it didn't include breakfast, and we're quite hungry. As we walk along the beach, enjoying our simple breakfast, we laugh at what the locals might have thought seeing us sprawled out on the beach like a couple of drifters. But who cares? We had a fantastic time. With no money left, we realize that if we want a proper meal today, we need to get back to the club on base in time for dinner. So, at noon, we put on our sunglasses, lower the car's top, and drive east-southeast back to the iconic Pilar along the Ebro River in Zaragoza.

 What a letdown. By the time we get back, the club has stopped serving dinner. To lift our spirits, we head to the post office to check for any mail from home. It's another disappointment. No food first, and now, no mail. As we leave the post office, we bump into Jesus Ted, who coordinates volunteers for the chapel youth group. He tells us he’s heading to Garrapinillos, a nearby village, where the group is gathering at the home of American missionaries, Bill and Rosie Stoner. He invites us along, highlighting that it’s a hot dog roast with all the trimmings. His words resonate with my empty stomach. Ted seals the invitation by mentioning that college students from the States will also be there. With a tentative yes, the allure of food and college students propels us to quickly shower and get ready. It seems there must be a God after all.    

As we search for the road to Garrapinillos, it begins to rain, and the gas tank reserve light turns on. We managed to reach San Sebastian and return, but we might run out of gas before reaching the village. The drizzle dampens our hopes for the evening. After riding on empty for half an hour, we head back to the base feeling quite defeated. Nearing the back gate of the base, we're surprised by a sign that reads: Garrapinillos - 7km, pointing in the direction we just came from. It wasn't visible from the base, and I drove right past it. Although it's late, we decide to scout out the location anyway, in case there's a next time. As we get closer to Garrapinillos, spectacular lightning dances along the white cliffs across the Ebro River to the north, and the rain starts to pound on the Fiat’s rag top and the road ahead.

 The small pueblo seems too tiny to house more than thirty-six families. Locating Americans here should be straightforward. I head toward the church, which usually signifies the center of every Spanish village. Upon reaching the town square, the church is on my left. Completing the square around the one-way street are a girl's school, a bar-restaurant, and a boy's school. In the distance, there's a large, well-lit house with a yellow school bus and a white Cadillac parked in front. I believe we have found the spot.

The casa, second in size only to the church, turns out to be the Stoner's home. I later learn that it was transformed from an old store. Fuentes and I drive by slowly, then head back toward the square. We start to question whether we want to be part of this group or if we're just here for the food. I warn that it would be difficult to explain later why we drove by without stopping, especially if anyone noticed my very uncommon yellow sports car. Convinced that we've already missed out on eating, we decide to stop and visit anyway.

 The downpour drenches us as we hurry to the front door and knock. Ted opens it and invites us inside. He hands us each a towel and gives us a moment to dry off before leading us to a spacious room. The area is crowded with teenagers sitting in a large circle on couches, the floor, and folding chairs. After some rearranging, a spot is made for the two newcomers. As the group assesses us, we are each given a paper plate heaped with a modest feast: two hot dogs smothered in chili, topped with cheese, and a heap of potato sticks on the side. The plate is flimsy and requires both hands and full attention to avoid spilling. There's no way I can eat like this while sitting here. Apologetically, I ask if we can move from the circle to the dining table. Once settled, we start devouring our first real meal in days. As we dig in, the group continues their conversation.

 The teens take turns sharing personal stories about themselves and their experiences related to Jesus, speaking as if they are close friends with him. This kind of conversation feels strange to me and gives me an odd sensation. Additionally, I have the feeling of being watched. Whenever I glance up from my plate, I catch group members quickly averting their gaze. Some seem to be whispering. The food suddenly becomes difficult to swallow, and the sound of chewing the potato sticks seems too loud. I feel conflicted between self-consciousness and sacrilege. As I try to swallow the lump in my throat, I notice a fuzzy black fly floating in my glass of iced tea. Dinner's over.

 The teenagers keep discussing "Him" as if "He" is alive and might enter the room at any moment. I've never been part of such a conversation before and am unsure how to respond. They appear genuine and eager to share their experiences. A sense of fear envelops me, and I suddenly want to disappear. What if they try to involve me? What if someone asks me to talk about the wonderful things God is doing in my life? What do I say? I realize I have nothing to share and desperately wish I hadn't come at all.

 I come to the conclusion that there must indeed be a God, as I am saved by the bus just in time! The group's meeting concludes, and they stand to end with a prayer. Various people contribute, extending it further. I start to feel uncomfortable again when some include me in their prayers. I don't even know these kids, yet they choose to be concerned about me and, naturally, Gerry as well. Once the final "amen" is said, amidst a flurry of noise and laughter, the kids board the bus and disappear in an instant. Outside, the storm approaches, with thunder growing louder and lightning becoming more frequent and intense.

The Stoner family, Ted’s family, and the college students gather more closely on the sofas around a coffee table. We accept their invitation to stay and visit longer. Rosie Stoner ensures that everyone is properly introduced and has a fresh drink. As the drinks are refilled, the lights occasionally flicker off and back on. Rosie brings candles to the table, just in case. I inspect my refill for insects and find none. A brilliant, very nearby lightning strike leaves us sitting in the dark with candles but no matches. Rosie searches through her dark kitchen trying to find matches, while the rest of us continue our conversation. With each flash of lightning, the positions of everyone in the room appear slightly different. I think about how much the strobing resembles an old-time silent movie. I start to wonder how this movie will end.

The discomfort persists. Everyone is incredibly kind, genuine, and sincere, yet I feel out of place. While they seem to ignore the storm, I find it increasingly threatening. This night feels surreal to me, like a Hollywood production complete with special effects. It unfolds in the home of a man of God and tells the story of two lost young travelers in a foreign land seeking refuge from a fierce storm. They encounter a group of laughing teenagers who claim to know Jesus personally. Perhaps this is why everyone else appears at ease, while the travelers nervously fidget as the stormy wrath of God swiftly descends upon them.

Rosie ignites the candle on the table. Now, amidst the lightning flashes, a soft orange glow dances across each face. Ever since the bus departed, Fuentes has been in the corner with the Reverend, involved in what seems to be an extended private conversation. Whatever their topic, it surely can't be more intriguing than meeting the college students.

 Reverend Stoner eventually approaches the group, holding an open Bible in one hand and wrapping his other arm around Fuentes, whom he now refers to as brother. With enthusiasm, Stoner announces that Fuentes has been introduced to the Roman road to salvation and is ready to welcome Christ into his heart. Everyone is thrilled by this news, except for me. I am completely clueless about what is happening. Fuentes never once looks me in the eye. Has the sun of San Sebastian affected his mind? Or is it the lack of food clouding his judgment? Perhaps it's both? I urgently search for an explanation. As everyone focuses on Fuentes, the Reverend explains that Fuentes is ready to pray the sinner's prayer. Oh, this is going to be interesting, I think to myself. The reverend offers to say the prayer himself, with Fuentes repeating after him. They begin.

Someone must have shouted "cut" because the reverend abruptly stops and turns to me. Judging by his expression, he seems to have had a sudden insight. I am correct. Trying to capture the moment's full impact, he decides to combine efforts and invites me to join Fuentes in reciting the sinner's prayer. Silence ensues as everyone focuses on me. An overwhelming anxiety builds up inside me until I can't hold it back any longer. I leap to my feet, erupting in defensive anger. How dare they speak to me as if I'm some kind of heathen, like they're trying to convert an aborigine in the wilderness. I testify that I was born and raised in a Catholic household. I am familiar with the Bible, God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and all of that. Who are they to presumptuously assume otherwise? They can keep their nonsense. I realize that during my outburst, I've made my way to the door. I thank everyone for their hospitality and tell Fuentes that if he wants a ride back to base, he should come with me now. With that, I make my way to the car.

Flustered, I accidentally drop my keys into a deep puddle and have to retrieve them. Completely soaked once more, I get into the car and lock the doors. I start the engine and hear a knock on the passenger window. It's Fuentes, wanting to get in. My anger causes me to hesitate until I notice he is just as drenched as I am. We drive slowly through Garrapinillos's muddy, flooded streets, circling the square, passing the cathedral, and then head back to the base, nine long miles away, nearly out of gas.

Amidst the relentless rain beating down on the soft canvas roof, Fuentes interrupts the cold silence. "I thought you'd never get me out of there," he chuckles. "Shut up," I retort. "And don't speak to me again until you've grown a backbone." We fall silent again. In the dim, low visibility, I focus on staying on the unmarked road, looking out for turns, and occasionally checking the red fuel light that remains steadily lit.

In the distance, I notice a strong, revolving light. It’s the beacon from the Air Traffic Control Tower.  Thank goodness!! We’re nearly home. As I keep it in view through the pouring rain, I remember the illuminated statue over the harbor in San Sebastian and how reassuring it was.

Those individuals truly hit a nerve with me this evening. They definitely got under my skin. I'm feeling a bit embarrassed now. Maybe I overreacted. Those kids were remarkable. I can't forget the glow on their faces. Somehow, I sense that that glow will soon lead me back.