Somewhere in the space between the stars

A few nights ago, Rob and I went all out, dropping a chunk of change on a seafood dinner at a place perched 500 yards off the South Atlantic. Jetty 1905. The restaurant sat on a rickety wooden pier, swaying ever so slightly with the ocean, like the sea was gently reminding us who actually runs the show around here. It wasn’t enough to ruin your meal—just enough to keep you on edge, like the floor might drop out from under you at any second, bound for a frothy and angry sea.

The scene was beautiful, in a way that makes you feel small. And a little eerie, like the ocean itself was watching. Then came the fisherman’s platter for two. And let me tell you, I’ve eaten seafood from Maine to Florida, California to Washington, all over Europe, England—hell, I’ve basically eaten a map. But nothing, nothing, prepared me for Namibian seafood. The plate looked like something dredged up from an alien planet. Not one single thing on that plate was recognizable, except for the French fries, which were carved into weird little cubes like someone had forgotten what fries were supposed to look like. But here’s the kicker: every bite? Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

So, yeah, if you’re ever stuck in Swakopmund and want a surreal dinner with a side of existential dread, Jetty 1905 is your spot.

So then, out of nowhere, Rob looks at me and says, “For an atheist, you sure talk about God a lot.”

This was after I’d gone off on some half-baked theory, trying to sound smart. But here’s the thing: I’m not an atheist. Atheists are worse than zealots. They’ve got the same smug certainty, just about the opposite thing. At least zealots have fire. Atheists have… nothing. A whole lot of nothing.

I am not a true believer. I don’t know about god. Not the gods in the sky, not the ones in statues, not the ones in churches or temples or living rooms with incense and candles burning. Those gods are like hand-me-down clothes we keep trying to fit into, even though the seams have split, and they smell like mothballs.

Humans make gods because they’re scared of the dark. Scared of dying, scared of getting lost in all this chaos. So they manufacture something bigger to pat them on the head, tell them it’s going to be alright. Every century, every culture has its mascot. A deity for hire, temporary solutions to permanent questions. I don’t believe in those gods. And I’m not convinced of the One True God. But I am not an atheist.

No, I believe there’s something out there. Something behind the gears, somewhere in the space between the stars. Like catching a glimpse of something shiny under a pile of garbage. You don’t know what it is, but it’s there.

I’ve even got proof.

Exhibit A: The Eye of God

It’s in a photo I took. You’ve seen it. Look long enough, but not too long, and it’s obvious. Something is looking back at you. It’s not judging you, it’s not pissed. Just… there. Watching. Like it’s happy to be included in the whole thing.

Exhibit B: The Hand of God

There’s this rock formation that looks exactly like a hand. Not sort of like a hand, not if you squint. A freaking hand. If I’d been quicker, I would’ve dusted for prints. But, you know, missed opportunity.

Exhibit C: The Flesh of God

The Earth itself. Could’ve been coated in lava or marshmallow goo, but nope. We got dirt. It doesn’t burn us. It doesn’t stick to our feet. And as a bonus, we don’t have to worry about being eaten by giant graham cracker monsters.

And Exhibit D, the bonus round:

God isn’t the view from Jetty 1905, or the weird seafood, or even the fact that the pier hasn’t collapsed into the ocean yet. The real proof of God is that Rob, in a worn-out metal band hoodie, and me, with hair sticking up in fifty directions, sat down at that table and were served a feast. By humans. From the ocean.

And we saw it was very good.

Keith Howard is a freelance writer living in Manchester, NH. He can be reached at keith.howard@gmail.com