First storm

The Bay has swift thunderstorms that arise in  summer afternoons.  They are usually predictable and abate quickly.  Usually.   In our land lives, we close the windows, go inside, and wait it out.   Out on the water, we are exposed, vulnerable, and usually humbled.  Inside a storm, we are engaged.   Fully alive.  In the moment.  There is nary an extraneous thought except in the present.  There is sometimes regret and a hope for the future.   Time changes from a chronometer to event driven occurrences.  Memory become limbic.

Five years ago, Joan and I, with Noah,  went to Crisfield for a Hunter group rendezvous.   It was a beautiful summer week.   Our trip up the Bay was uneventful. We had no real cares except to decide when to motor or when to sail in the slight breezes.  Destinations and deadlines put a cripper usually on sailing.  We have tried to avoid it.   Dangerous decisions are made when we have deadlines and  schedules to keep.  Sailing is a kind  escape from our metric world.

 Noah and his friend Jake, two peas in a pod, happily engaged in some secret bond of nine year olds, utterly carefree.     How wonderful would it be to  be frozen in development as a nine year old...The problem of education would be how to de-evolve, how to retain fresh insight.   No storms intercepted our journey North, and we rounded Janeway island, into the artificial harbor of Crisfield,  Maryland.

The sail rendezvous was a warm and fuzzy event, filled with good, earnest people.     We met Mike Harker, one of the bravest men in the world, but he seemed lonely without a family.   His pictures of foreign ports were always with a different crew.   Gary Jobson reminded us to "sail fast" but his message was that of participation and not necessarily winning races.  We found community in fellow newbies and received good advice from the experienced cruisers.  Crisfield did not disappoint as the crab capital of the Bay.  I am deadly allergic to these crustaceans and admired their carnage to usually nice people.

We turned towards home after a few days, glad to be back on the water.  The sky was dark. A Bermunda "High" was off the coast, and I had to be on call in two days.   For Joan, this trip South was to be watershed of sorts, as she would not rely on my meteorology again.   After all of the great cruising stories, I felt a Pyrrhic confidence, as we left our slip, only to lose our dingh.   We returned briefly to retrieve.   This omen was ignored by a nerdy sailor who had confidence in science but trusted also the "art of medicine"

The air was different.  It felt heavy.  There was moisture.  A dense calm prevailed.    

There were no other boats leaving.   The Tangiers Strait, normally busy, was empty. 


These are signs that I now look for.  The swells were longer and more deep, and then, the winds came.  This was no summer thunderstorm, but one of those mini tropical "events" driven by the low that was now over the Southern Bay.  Rather than minutes or hours, we would be in its clutches for the day and in our memories for decades.  Like first love, this was our first "storm," imprinting our emotional responses and filtering our future rationality.






The wind shreiks in the shrouds, making a bone chilling howl. It is not musical.   Our course was due South, and with a headwind now over 35 knots, we made very little progress.  Song of the Wind bravely shuddered, rising with each wave, and crashing into the trough.  Cruel fate would have the wave length at 7 second, the perfect pounding rhythm.  Difficult to eat or sleep or go to the head.   Auto pilot more of a handicap.  Basic life functions reduced to perseverance.



I was a beginner.   Not yet skilled in dealing with extreme wind and waves, our bow slammed into the waves.  We should have been approaching at an angle and  then bearing off into the troughs.  We relied on the Song of the Wind's backbone, and hoped that the storm would be brief.    In prior brief flings, the thunderstorms roared over us and were gone.  This time, we were engaged, about to be be married.   We were in the narrow Strait of Tangiers, we could not run for a port or safe Harbour.  

As we passed the Eastern Tangiers entrance, thoughts of making the channel tempted us.  With Joan with the mal de mer, the boys looking at me like I was the Son of Sam, it is a easy solution, run for port.    I realize now, the salty move would have been to go back to Crisfield.   I had a destination home,  and it seemed like defeat to return when we just bravely left.     We did resisted the temptation of Tangiers, as the shallow and long approach,  broadside to the wind and waves, probably would have been disastrous.

We pushed on toward deeper water and the wider Bay.  The Southern Bay near Deltaville  is a wonderful body of water.  There are some areas outside of Cape Charles that are over 100 feet deep.  The military have decorated some spots with ordnance and nifty warning on charts denote 'bombs" below.  In deeper water, the waves became longer, and Song of the Wind became more playful, now sledding down the waves, and then slicing her nose into the next rather than slamming down indignantly.   We were very happy with the folks at Huntermarine who built the boat, because she was sturdy and kind to us, even if we were a little foolhardy.  

As we neared the Windmill Point marker, Joan was exulted and exhausted and somewhat mad.    The boys were hungry.  The clouds parted and  a lovely July evening with a cool breeze greeted our return to Deltaville.  Hardship transforms itself into stories when a victory of sorts is at hand.

After the trip, I  tried  to intellectualize and read every book on heavy weather sailing.  There is no  true consensus about what to do.  "Real Sailors" would note that a Cheaspeake storm is childs play compared to the rigors of the Gulf Stream and at  Ocean.  It is a matter or perception and preparation and size of your vessel.





Our kids are as different as there are different boats cruising different shores.    Each is capable in their own way.  Their temperament is almost inborn.  Reuben's determination is steadfast as the first week of his life when he clug onto the nipple that gave him sustenance.  He was the smaller discordant twin.  When he ruptured several foot tendons in his first race of his senior year, stepping into a rabbit hole, he still limped to the finish probably doing more damage.    Mark, his larger twin, has a joy of life, infectious in creating fun, and a fragile heart despite a tough guy countenance.  He does not know that he seeks our approval, but he does, even when he is afflicted by senioritis.  

We go through "storms" with our kids, and remember that we are all in the same boat together.   The shared memories of joys and hardships become the connections, the web that holds us.  Love is born of both temperament and aptitude and also a little luck.   We have to weather the storms of life to cultivate our love and our togetherness.  We hope that the lessons are not too harsh, and that our kids have a sturdy vessel to negotiate the voyage.  As Jack Mable salutes, "Fair Winds!"