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The winds began to rise and soon the little ship was buffeted and thrashed about in a storm. Two days and two nights passed, but who could tell day from night? Waves crashed and rolled over the railings. The terrified sailors could do very little to save their passengers, their ship or themselves. Full of fear, Nicholas did what he could do: he prayed. Soon the sailors joined him.
Before dawn of the third day, the storm began to subside.
“We survived!” a bewhiskered sailor said. “And we have that young priest to thank. It was his prayers that saw us through.”
There were murmurs of agreement among the sailors. Nicholas responded only that he would give thanks in the nearest church.
But where had the storm taken them? By dawn they knew: in sight was Myra, the capital city, only twenty miles east of Patara!
The battered ship limped into harbor, but it was a jubilant crew that rode in on her. Nicholas too rejoiced as he saw the shores of Myra coming closer.
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