This Advent Letter is going to be a tad more difficult than any since I began the series, as I'm in process of a rather bumpy ride at present (both actually, as you'll probably he getting this once I've embarked on a Windjammer odyssey through islands new to me in the Caribbean; and spiritually, as the Adversary has put up some exceptional challenges to my fidelity this year). Fear not, however, as I was reminded a few Sundays ago in Paul's letter to the Philippians, which he wrote while in his final prison, in Rome: "Rejoice! And again I say, Rejoice!" So, make it through the letter with me, and I hope you'll feel some of the peace and sense of rich existence which have come out of it all.

But, let's begin with the fun of last year's ending: for the 20th year - following time at the Jail and Midnight Mass at the Advent (which I taped to be able to replay through the journey on Christmass day) - left Boston for San Juan for a week of indolence and recuperation. A it had been a normally hectic Holiday season at the Jail anal at work, was delighted finally to have St. Stephen's day without an alarm clock, woke to the caressing waves outside the window of my bungalow on the beach.

The first week, in fact, I spent most of the time preparing a brief for n jail suicide case I've been working on for a family in Pennsylvania. As it's to be tried in Federal court in a jurisdiction new to me, it's furthering my goal of getting the Courts to mandate the kind of attention to suicide behind bars which Massachusetts has shown in the first legislation in the world specifically addressing the issue. A happy milestone here: since the passage of the legislation, we in the Commonwealth have been experiencing but 10% of the deaths behind bard that had occurred previously. But, isn't one death quite too many? How can you tell a bereaved survivor that the death of their loved one was statistically good!

New Year 1988 having been joyously welcomed in San Juan, over to Antigua to board the Windjammer MV Fantome, my first such venture. Given that, I chose but the middle week of the vacation for the voyage: who knows how it would work?

An amusing aside: while waiting to board the Fantome, I wandered into a shop by the harbor, picked up a few postcards, took them to a wizened shop lady who was presiding over the operation from behind her sewing machine. When I told her it was such a joy to be going to sea, she replied that she remembered me from when I was last there. It being but minutes after my arrival at the harbor, I replied that she must be wrong. "No, [she replied], you work with suicidal prisoners In Boston; I remember you bought postcards of Antigua's Police Band then." Indeed! Over twelve years ago, on my way up from Curacao, I had had a several-hour layover in Antigua and had wandered down to the harbor, where I had bought a few postcards. If she remembers an insignificant purchase of postcards from so long ago, what of the island's secrets escape her?

So, onto the Fantome (a 282-foot barquentine, originally the floating palace of the Duke of Westminster, which had been bought by Onassis as a wedding gift for the Raniers but never delivered!). In brief, the Windjammer fleet of seven 3- and 4-masters have been renovated and made fit for modern sailing as a way of keeping the old ladies afloat. How lucky we are that they are. After visiting 20 Club Med's, I find she ship to be a sea-going equivalent of the Clubs: no cares, no obligations, no fuss, just as much - or as little - to do as you want each day. A delightful custom: each morning at first light (about 5:30!), we make landfall of the island which will be our place for a day; as the new harbor comes into view, "Amazing Grace" is bagpiped over the ship; similarly, as we leave the harbor that evening at sunset, out comes "Amazing Graces again. Even now, I can't hear it without getting an immense nostalgia for the sea. Each evening, the 120 passengers were regaled with local musicians, dancers, entertainment. I wouldn't want to record how late in the night some of those revelries went on.

What a vacation: once I learned that there was early breakfast at first light (with hot from the oven breads), I didn't miss one of them. You must understand that, the last meal having been at midnight, I could hardly be expected to wait till 8:00 for breakfast! Though perhaps not as overwhelming a number of choices as at C.M., the variety, quality, and abundance of the food for all five of the day's meals were fine. One man's problem, another's gain: those who were cursed with seasickness simply allowed for the hungry among us to feast away.

First stop Saint Bartholemy, as characteristically French as any village in Provence could be. One of the bonuses of Windjamming is delightful relief from packing and unpacking, even though every morning brought a new island to explore. Very helpful is the Captain's morning "Story Times" at which we're advised of points of special interest, things to watch out for, best beaches, restaurants, and shops on the new island. As the Fantome generally anchored in the harbor, with launches shuttling us all day, there was no worry about security.

Next on to Sint Maarten/Saint Martin: a postage-stamp sized island with Dutch and French culture and government schitzophrenically juxtaposed on each other. A sociologist could have a field day exploring how two such discrete peoples have been able to preserve all of their differences without warfare. What more appropriate entertainment that night than a Scottish troubadour singing his treasure - Irish folk tunes! This Brit was an appropriate mood-setter for Saint Kitt's the next day. Though I had been in the Caribbean before, I had never quite grasped what a panoply of cultures and heritages exist in such a small area. In fact, the islanders seem to make special effort to preserve all facets of their roots. Entertainment that night was a steel band; on this trip, my tape recorder was as essential for preserving souvenirs as were my cameras.

Now over to Statia (Saint Eustatius), the Dutch island which was the first to recognize U.S. independence two hundred years ago and almost got itself blown off the map by humorless Brits for doing so. With less than 2,000 residents and no real pursuit of the tourist trade, it was the most idyllic of our stops. As I was walking from the harbor to town, a lorry passed me; the driver called out, "Hi, Rev!" Though he didn't stop, I recognized him as one of the jail's alumni: there's someone who has found how to escape the fast-life temptations of city living! As a sort of special blessing on this island as we were sailing out, a magnificent double rainbow filled the sky. I had feared the Captain's dinner that night would be a return to the mores of conventional cruising; not so: though a tie was de rigeur, nothing else was - escape from civilization continued.

Can't imagine how it was learned that I concentrate on suicide, but I was approached one evening by one of our shipmates, concerned that his buddy had barricaded himself into his cabin and was talking about suicide. Turns out that the bloke, who was on his first vacation in ten years, found it almost impossible to get into the fun he saw all around him and was mortally aware of how totally his life had become wrapped up in his career. With the end of the cruise coming, he despaired of finding the light pleasures he had been denying himself. By the time we debarked, he had put together a good plan for working out his new awarenesses. Others asked if it didn't bother me to get into such serious stuff on vacation; on the contrary, I count myself lucky that I was able to be there.

Also, a passenger was aboard with a friend who had come to work out his despair at the recent suicide of his son; after we spent quite some time talking, he expressed his gratitude, noting that most people feel so uncomfortable with his tragedy that they had been unwilling for him to talk about it. Again, no advice, just listening: so great was the man's relief that I gave him an ear - this simple insight of the Samaritans is a miracle in its effect.

With a final playing of "Amazing Grace" we finally made our way back to the harbor in Antigua. What's My verdict on Windjamming: well, now with seven ships in their fleet, and each of them doing two different week-long trips, I'm looking forward to at least 14 weeks' of my forthcoming trips being all taken care of. Was delighted to meet such a variety of people aboard, both passengers and crew. One senior couple had been to many of the lands I so treasure; we spent hours reminiscing about the special little memories that each place named brings back.

Made it back to my Beach House in San Juan just in time for Happy Hour, prepared to spend a final week of indolence. Had unfortunate reminders of reality twice in that last week: in broad daylight on a busy street one noon, was jumped by three teens, who attempted to relieve me or my camera bag and its contents. Jumping into the middle of the street and yelling "Policia!" so loud that it almost scared me, I was saved from trouble by a gracious lady who stopped her car and told me to jump in. She drove me to a police station (one of the leitmotifs of my travels); the officers even drove me back to my place. Two days later, crossing a street in the early evening, I stepped aside so a car could pass me. They had other plans: the passenger jumped out, drew a pistol, and demanded my money. Was it worth the two dollars I had on me? Again, the police drove me home - no cab could be cheaper.

Glad finally to get back to the safety of the Charles Street Jail in mid-January. My first day there, began the event I alluded to at the top of the letter: I went by one of the cells where people on suicide precaution are lodged. Saw a young Vietnamese crouched in the corner; asked him if he wanted to speak with me. No, he wanted only to get hack to his own cell. That objective was the wedge I used to convince him to talk: he tells me his story, I see if he can be moved. Thus began several months of learning about what led Ho to the Jail. Having been through several tens of thousands of inmates in my 20 years in the Jail, and having like most people in the system having become rather cynical about the capacity of a person to climb out of their past into a new future, I was so taken by the details as they unfolded that I became especially interested in the tale Ho recounted. Though the story in the particular has some special pain for me, so far as it is archtypical of so many Vietnamese refugees, it bears recounting:

Ho was born in Danang, the son or a U.S.[?] marine and his Vietnamese wife, the year Before the Tet offensive. When in the fall of Saigon his father was killed, ho, his sister and mother returned to Danang. Then he was six. His mother feared he had no future in Vietnam; she put him on a fishing boat bound for Hong Kong. After several months there, he moved with his step[?| brother to the States, having added five years to his age in Hong Kong so that he could work. Entered 4h grade in Milton, did well enough to skip 5th; completed high school requirements in l0th grade, was given full scholarship to a good college.

Now begins the trouble: in Boston one evening, he called a friend to pick him up; the friend's uncle arrives; the car is stopped by the police, found to have heroin in it. The driver pled guilty, served six months. Ho claimed that he would not cop out, as he was not guilty. Began over two years or waiting for the wheels or justice to turn, part of them on default. As his papers indicated Ho to be five years older than he now claimed he was, he and I wrote his mother in Danang, asking for proof of his age, which proof would have shown him to be a minor at the time of the crime. Of course, it took 3 months for the mother's letter with Ho's birth certificate to reach us; she was so glad that someone had gotten involved in helping Ho to get started on his future again.

A fine attorney offered to represent Ho pro bono; after five months waiting in the jail (during which time Ho had become an exemplary participant in the LIFELINE program and an especially valued kitchen worker),he agreed to cop out, was given a 2-l/2 year sentence with 6 months to serve and 2 years on probation. All involved warned me that it was risky to try to help an ex-offender. I couldn't agree more; but how can we countenance spending our whole life avoiding putting our faith where our life is, acting on our hopes? Even the judge at disposition of the case expressed doubt that Ho could make it; he and the probation officer, however, saw that by investing myself into the kid's future, I was providing him with a better shot at it than the majority have.

You might recall that last year I spoke of Jessica thinking of going into nursing school; the effect of Black Friday on her career as a stock broker helped her to this decision, as did her acceptance into the Massachusetts General Institute of Health Sciences, which recently began an intensive 3-year program enabling the students to get their Master's in nursing. Given that there would be some belt-tightening involved; Jessica began looking for reasonable housing in Boston (now that's an oxymoron!). Planning a final Summer in Europe before the travails of school, she gave up her apartment in Cambridge and moved in with me, pending finding a new place. What a break: a unit in my co-op opened; now I'm but stems from Jessica (though we both try to respect that each other's home has a front door and a telephone).

Meanwhile, not wanting to move back to the population that would facilitate Ho getting involved with the drug trade, and not wanting to go into a Half-Way House (which for so many is simply half way back to jail), he and I agreed that he would move into my place till he got established. How well it began: days after freedom, Ho had gotten a job at the Boston Public Library, was ecstatic to be able to spend the day immersed in books. He was most helpful in doing some of the rough work preparing Jessica's home for her arrival in the Fall.

Further, having been the goalie for a Vietnamese soccer team before his troubles, he got back to them. Now I find myself, not with a teenager to shepherd, but with the whole team! They were typical of Southeast Asian refugees: keeping to their own community, they had not learned how to work with the U.S. power structure. So, we formed BRAVO (Boston Rejoice American Vietnamese Organization). They were diligent in practice (though knowing how I prize Saturday as the only day of no alarm clock, you must see how rough it was for me to get up Saturday mornings for their matches). As the team had a most impressive winning record in prior seasons, having won the Vietnamese Olympics organized in North America, they were eager to get up to Montreal for this year's Olympics over the 4th or July weekend. I was honored that they invited me (the first Westerner involved in their effort) to join them. There, Ho and I saw that BRAVO could be the nucleus or an umbrella organization for all of the Vietnamese sports teams in Boston (besides soccer, there were the basketball, girls' soccer, and tennis teams). Further, this effort could lead to educating the kids to how the system works here, while enabling them to preserve their heritage with pride.

On return to Boston, BRAVO determined to host a Soccer competition for the East Coast. Six teams agreed to participate, and the weekend was to be capped with a Vietnamese concert at Memorial Hall at Harvard. Never having been involved in such a venture, I'm glad my then temp. job was with an architectural firm in Harvard Square, as one has to get to all sorts of campus and municipal offices to get the affair arranged (police permits, okays by authorities from the college, arrangements with caterers, etc.).

Before the big weekend came up, however, Ho disappeared. Whatever the reason (incapacity to relate to caring people after 13 years alone, unwillingness to put one's needs in perspective of responsibility to others, transferal to others of anger at the evils that had befallen him?) Ho left without notice at the end of July. Jessica having grown into adulthood with substantially no really rough times for her parents, I was ill-prepared for the sadness his quitting Boston brought. Just the week before he left, I had begun a new temporary position in the orthopaedic department of a Boston hospital. The people there have been such a great group to work with (still there after four months and looking forward to returning to them after my Winter trip). Their good will and the busyness of the job (I'm now in the midst of transcribing a text on arthrogryposis, etc.!) have been a wonderful relief from some of the tense times I've been facing.

Ho's probation officer, who had visited us at home on a few occasions, asked whether I'd ever help another after this negative event. Perhaps I'll be a bit more cautious, but what value has life if it's spent wrapped up in one's self? Ho did finally make it back to Boston and the Jail, now charged with a new offense.

Within two weeks of his arrival there, the authorities told me I was fired. Whether it's from some diabolic fabrication he told them, or their own malicious imputations, I don't yet know. You might recall that, twelve years ago, I was fired by the former administration; after several months of legal steps, I was brought back. As punishment for my having won out over him, the now dead jail master assigned me to be in charge of suicide intervention. Look what has come of that: our LIFELINE program has flourished for 11 years, with loyal participation by a few Samaritans (three of them, for over seven years' each of dedicated attendance at our weekly meetings with the barred befrienders, over 450 of whom have worked to alleviate their colleagues' distress behind those cold wails); I've been called to testify as an expert witness in several Federal and state courts concerning jail suicide; people from as far away as New Zealand are requesting our assistance in getting them started with the program. Just this past year, the state prison in Rhode Island has decided to start a LIFELINE program, with assistance from the Samaritans from Providence.

When in fact the legal process is over, I'm looking forward to returning to that family of 215 Charles Street that is my vocation. However -and here's the good news of this odyssey - I can't adequately express my appreciation that I've been locked out of the jail for a time: I had never before had the luxury of time or peace sufficient to realize that I have in fact accomplished something with the lot I've been dealt in life. The Boss has been telegraphing this to me in the weirdest was since I was thrown out of the Jail! Before then, I had hardly ever heard from any of the Jail alumni, unless it was to see them returning. Since, however, several have called: one, now out ten years, has a wife and children, has bought a house, and is working as a chef. Another, from seven years ago, happened (?) to bump into me, noted that he's gotten a degree as a legal aide. Still another is manager of a half-way house for ex-offenders. Yet another is working as a fund raiser for police associations! Each of the four, by the way, reported that they had been seriously planning suicide when LIFELINE intervened. Another event: an EMT I knew called me one evening to report that they had been summoned to the home of a teenager in process of committing suicide; when they asked the caller (a down and out street person) how he had the insight to know the girl was suicidal, he replied that he had been trained as a LIFELINEr at the Charles Street Jail. Why, even a young man whom I had met eleven years ago up the Amazon in Manaus, grieving the suicide of his best friend, recently called to note that he's now completed grad school and working for IBM in California. Such grace notes from our Father!

Yes, the times are indeed rough for me in a material sense (when I noted to my attorney that his legal fees were exacerbating my calamitous financial condition, he suggested that I get my supporters to run a fund-raiser for me. Sure, ask an army of inmates to get me money; not quite), and I really am grieving at separation from my barred family. But, I've got my health; Jessica continues steadfast in her care-full attention to me; the folks at the Parish of the Advent have quite humbled me with their loyal and warm backing in this horrid time. Only because I've had this time for introspection, largely abetted by the insights (sometimes painful) from Jessica and a seminary mate, have I come to realize that twenty years of supporting my work in the Jail with a full-time job in the secular world were in fact a fruitless quest for approval from others, generally from those who by their nature and position lack the insight or charity to give such recognition

No, Saint Paul is right: when we come to a full realization of God's loving goodness to us in giving us undeserved redemption, we can no other than rejoice, and again I David say, Rejoice!

Okay, so I'm at the very doorstep of debtors' prison: how have I the audacity (six short hours after getting home from the Midnight Mass of Christmass at the Advent) to be flying off to Tortola, there to board the Windjammer M/V Flying Cloud for a week meandering through the British Virgin Islands, then down to Grenada on New Year's Day to join up with the M/V Mandalay for two weeks poking through ten islands in the Grenadines? How? For the first time in 21 years of Winter trips, I had planned this one all out last Summer and saved a bundle by paying for it in advance. My situation now: use it or lose it. Again, I'm convinced there are no accidents.

Please, a special prayer for me and for the people of the jail, that we might get this horrible time behind us. Also, please pray that I'll have the insight to know where I'm headed. In turn, I try constantly to thank God for your good will, and to ask Him that you be blessed in your journey homewards! I send much love to you at your home!