Most people go to boat races to see power, speed and thrills. But one man went and noticed what everybody else was missing: spirituality.
By SHARON TUBBS
Published October 17, 2003
[Times photo: Dirk Shadd]
The Rev. Jim Black finds himself called to a new flock, members of the fast-moving world of powerboat racing.
[AP photo: 2001]
If an accident occurs, such as this flipped boat during a race off Key West in 2001, Black will be there to offer spiritual support. No one was seriously hurt in this crash, but about one racer a year is killed, Black says.
[Times photo: Scott Keeler 2001]
A pair of Super Cat boats square off near the Pier in St. Petersburg during races in 2001. Boats in the Super Cat class can reach 140 mph. “Even atheists, as they’re crashing, pray real fast,” racer Steven David says.
LARGO - The thing about Jim Black is, he really wasn't a powerboat racing fan. Hadn't heard of "deck to deck" racing. Didn't know much about a single-engine Vee hull, or that a racer who "hooks" in a turn is likely to flip over. He liked hockey, football, golf and, of course, talking about God, since he had been a minister for 28 years.
About three years ago, a buddy invited him to a powerboat race in Sarasota, similar to the one scheduled in St. Petersburg this weekend.
Black was going to lead a Bible study series in South Florida anyway. The race added some leisure to the trip away from his 1,000-member congregation in Tuscaloosa, Ala.
At the race, he stood along the shoreline and listened to radio announcers hype boaters' smooth turns and 100 mph speeds on the straightway. He saw fans with their binoculars and beers in hand. He keyed in on the racers and their spouses, crew members and kids.
Sure, energy and excitement were in the air, but so was danger. If a boat flipped and threw a driver out, hitting the water would be like hitting concrete. Helicopters flew overhead with expert divers prepared to slice into the gulf and save a life.
Sometimes a rescuer became a hero. Sometimes he didn't, and a family grieved.
The scene in Sarasota was incomplete to Black. Missing was a man of God who could pray with boaters and fans and comfort them if something went wrong. Other racers, like some NASCAR groups, already had chaplains available. But the offshore powerboaters didn't.
Black went back home, told his wife, his three kids and his congregation that he was going to be a chaplain for powerboat racers. He wanted to pray for their safety, counsel them in personal problems and help their families deal with injuries and deaths. "I just really felt impressed that this was an unreached community."
His flock thought Black was "a little nuts." Members initially refused to accept his resignation.
But he left anyway.
He was going to travel the racing circuit to California, Minnesota, Michigan, Texas, Indiana and New Jersey. Black figured a home base in Florida was best since a lot of professional racers - motorcyclists, race-car drivers, boaters - live here. He and his wife, Sandy, bought a house in Vero Beach.
At first, Black used his savings to get to the races and support his family. He later worked full-time for Motor Racing Outreach, an interdenominational ministry that provides chaplains for motor sports. But the organization downsized earlier this year. Black decided to stick with offshore boaters and unlimited hydroplane racers, ministering on his own dime.
The American Power Boat Association had agreed to let him hold chapel services. At a race in North Carolina, about 200 boaters were gathered for their routine meeting where the day's rules and such are outlined. The announcer said Black would hold his first service after the meeting. They could stay if they wanted.
Only two did.
Chaplains had no place on the water racetrack, some boaters were thinking. About 200 to 300 drivers and their partnering throttle men travel the circuit from April to November. They have a range of beliefs. Some Christian, some Jewish, some atheist. They didn't want anybody trying to force Jesus on them.
"Racers have pretty high egos," said Steven David, a Fort Lauderdale racer. "There's not a lot of spirituality there."
Still, Black was determined to continue his ministry. He didn't want to be pushy, so he hung out at the races to befriend people.
In May 2001, Black got a call from the APBA. A racer's son was killed in a car accident. He dialed the Indianapolis number they gave him and asked for Micheal Stancombe, who had been racing more than a decade.
"He told me to be strong and everything would be okay," Stancombe remembers. He didn't belong to a church and, after his son's death, he was looking for something more in life.
Two weeks after the accident, Stancombe traveled from Indiana to a race in Fort Myers. He wanted to get his life going again. His son used to go to the races with Stancombe, so the boaters knew his son, knew what happened. Black stood by his side through the whole race.
Stancombe started going to the chapel services and onto his races with newfound spiritual security. "No matter what happens," he says, "I know I'm either safe or I'm going to the right place."
Like others, Stancombe says his love of racing is worth any risk of danger. Racing is fun, exciting. Many racers do it as a hobby and have full-time jobs. Stancombe, for instance, has a marine service business and helps his father run nightclubs in Indiana. The 36-year-old says he has been racing for years. He has met friends in the community.
Others joined Black's services, too, including Jack Carmody, a Texan who started powerboat racing in 1995. Carmody raced at a record speed of 131.94 mph and broke three previous engine records. He won other awards and donated more than $100,000 of his winnings to charity.
"Jack was a very giving person, a very gracious person," Black said.
Then at a June 2001 race in Corpus Christi, Texas, Black saw Carmody's Super Cat flip as it came around the turn. Rescuers took Carmody to a nearby hospital. Black was the liaison between doctors and family.
"He's no longer with us," he told Carmody's brother.
The anger was expected.
Why did he have to do this? Why risk your life over a boat race?
"Every racing family says that," Black says. "There's a tremendous amount of stress."
He just listens. "There's no answers for all those things," he says.
His job is to stick around, be a security blanket for grieving families. If someone gets hurt and there's a long hospital stay, he contacts local churches and finds people to help loved ones with practical matters like where to shop for groceries or which hotel to stay in.
He stayed in Corpus Christi four days, then flew to Austin, Texas, the next week to conduct Carmody's funeral.
Black got used to hospitals. Broken arms and ribs, back injuries or bruises are common at races, and he wants to be there for boaters. About one boater is killed a year, he says.
After Carmody's death, more people started coming to Black's chapel services, from about 80 to occasional crowds of 200 or so. They sing a devotional song and listen to Black's sermon. They take up collections to help pay for his travels.
His ministry wasn't all about death. Husbands and wives came to him with marital problems. Others struggled with drugs, depression or the pressure to perform. He soothed tempers.
A racer cut you off and cost you the race?
"Well, you have a right to be angry," he would say. "You did get cut off. But you can't act on that anger."
David, who usually races in unlimited hydroplanes that can go 200 mph, had already grown closer to God. He began to welcome chaplains like Black. He has been flipped off a boat and knocked unconscious. He has stopped breathing.
One thing he realized, though, as the boat was flipping, he would call out to God. Other racers he talked to had done the same: "Even atheists, as they're crashing, pray real fast. Everybody says, "Oh, God!' "
In Key West a few years ago, David had a 3-mile lead and could almost taste victory. Suddenly, a part on his boat broke. His opponents sailed by.
When David got to shore, the chaplain was waiting for him. "It's just a circumstance," Black said.
Like the others, David says he'll keep racing. He loves it.
As for Black, he recently sold his home in Vero Beach and moved to Clearwater because more boating families live on the west coast.
He set up a nonprofit agency, Racing Performance Ministries, and got a part-time job with First Baptist Church of Indian Rocks in Largo where he helps with men's activities. At 6:30 a.m. Wednesdays, about 50 men filter in for Black's one-hour lesson. Most are on their way to work, wearing casual pants and button-down shirts and spectacles like 51-year-old Black.
Hugh Fuller stands out in running shorts, an Adidas shirt and sporty sneakers. He lives in Clearwater and goes to the Bible studies when he's in town.
Fuller and his partner John Tomlinson of Miami are world and national Super Cat champions. He gathers with Black and others at the races. They sometimes form a circle and talk to God before getting in their boats. Fuller prays "that the Lord will be with us" and, he says, "that my wins will be done for the glory of God."
Never do the racers ask God to help them win. "We don't use God as a good luck charm," Black says.
But God doesn't mind a little humor, so they have a running joke: "Lord, you don't have to bless me, just don't bless that other guy."
At a glance
GMC Pro Grade Series National Championship in St. Petersburg. The public can see the offshore powerboat races from Vinoy Park or the Pier in downtown St. Petersburg from 10 a.m. to 6 p.m. Friday, Saturday and Sunday. The event is free.
