CICERO, New York (BP) — Terry Robertson has officially entered retirement this month after serving over 20 years as the Baptist Convention of New York’s executive director. But as is the case with all pastors, “retirement” is a subjective term. Returning to his native Alabama will include training through the state convention to become a transitional pastor. He hasn’t ruled out serving as an interim.
April 1 was the 54th anniversary of Robertson surrendering to the ministry. That time has come with a lot of stories, one of which he recently told Baptist Press.
July 1, 1976, began innocently enough. He was going go fishing with a friend, someone Robertson planned on sharing the Gospel with that day.
The day included fishing, but ended with about three hours of drifting down the Tombigbee River, gas burns and a very shocked wife.
“We were in a small boat, checking his trot lines up and down the river all day,” said Robertson, the 21-year-old pastor of Nicholsville Baptist Church at the time. “We left at one point to get more bait and, getting back, I realized there weren’t any life vests. I asked Billy about it and he realized he had left them hanging on his carport to dry.
“I’ll never forget him saying, ‘If it’s OK with you, let’s chance going out without them one more time.’”
Motor trouble had been pestering them all day. It was after dark when Robertson’s fishing partner, 41-year-old Billy Black, became particularly fed up and gave the pull cord a particularly hard yank.
The motor started, but the boat also lurched one way and brought in a small flood of the Tombigbee. Black overcorrected brought another deluge. Before they knew it the boat was rapidly sinking underneath them.
Robertson wasn’t a particularly strong swimmer. The current was stronger than they expected and it became apparent they were not going to be able to make it to shore as they furiously treaded water.
“Just then, the gas can that was bolted to the boat came floating up,” said Robertson. “Popped up right beside us, so we held onto that.”
He estimates the can held about two gallons, so it wasn’t particularly big. They would still have to tread water somewhat. Robertson took off his jeans and tied himself to the can’s handle.
It’s hard to come up with an occasion where Robertson’s next words would be timelier.
“Bill, have you received Jesus as your Lord and Savior?”
Black had not and prayed as he and Robertson bobbed downstream. They would stay there for about three hours.
Robertson remembered from earlier in the day when they passed a sharp bend. He felt it was their best chance to make it to shore. He was right as the two kicked their way up to the muddy riverbank.
They made it but now had to figure out what to do. They had no car, no cell phone, not a single lux-ur-y.
It was then that Black discovered something else. Gas in the can had continued to seep out onto him in the river and he was now experiencing chemical burns in the night air. Roberston suggested putting the cool mud on those areas, which helped. To signal someone, they gathered wood and put the rest of the gas on it.
There was one problem. “Billy, are you expecting God to send fire?” Robertson asked on how to light it.
Black remembered his lighter with Bear Bryant’s face on it that had floated in his pocket the entire way. Somehow, it was able to still light the flame. Roll Tide.
Soon, a barge appeared. It was in the channel where they floated but eventually moved on. Some fisherman happened by later, though, and gave the two a ride back.
Betty Jean Black had been waiting hours for her husband to get home for the fried catfish dinner she had prepared. Shocked at his muddy appearance, she didn’t even notice the shirtless preacher beside him.
“I know you have a story,” she said. “I was about to send out a search party.”
She had no idea.
They went back the next day to see if they could salvage any of Black’s equipment. In the process, they met a local policeman.
A barge had apparently struck a small fishing boat, bringing up the fish hanging on trot line and other equipment. There was no sign of the fishermen, though. A recovery party was being organized for the presumed dead men.
“Sir, I think you’re looking for us,” said Black.
“We learned that no one had been known to go into that part of the river and survive,” Robertson told BP.
Three days later, Black was baptized at Nicholsville Baptist Church on the nation’s bicentennial. It was Sunday, July 4.
Independence Day.
Billy Black became a faithful member of the church. He worked for 32 years in maintenance as an oiler for Georgia Pacific paper manufacturing and raised three kids with his Betty Jean. His obituary says he “cherished moments spent on the river catching fish alongside his wife” of 71 years.
He died at 90 years old on March 4. Robertson returned to preach the funeral on March 22.
Black’s friends and family had heard about the night he spent three hours in the Tombigbee. Questions on any of it being embellished could be put to rest, because The Other Guy was standing right in front of them.
Robertson talked about that night, but also the Savior whom Black had asked into his life. Just like all pastors, retired or not, he had a lot to say.
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