What was your favorite part of the trip?" my husband asked after we left our 37-foot ketch Honu in a Tahitian marina and flew home.
After two months of sailing around the Society Islands, I had trouble choosing. So I asked him to tell me his favorite.
Without hesitation he replied, "The beauty and power of that storm."
I stared at him. Here I was trying to decide between the tiny shrimp I found on cushion stars and the charming little pipefish with the sea horse heads, and there’s Craig fondly remembering a gale that scared me out of my wits.
Craig didn’t have to tell me which storm he spoke of because we encountered only one. It struck at the end of a 90-mile passage between Huahine and Moorea. During that overnight trip, wind gusts were up to 25 mph, and squalls prowled the sky like battleships. Honu did well for a cruising boat, sailing against the wind at 4 to 5 mph. It would be a long night of smashing into waves in the heeling boat, but this is typical of beating, a point of sail named well.
Craig, a lifetime sailor who never gets seasick, knew I was feeling queasy and offered to keep watch in the cockpit for the night while I lay below. Since he could steer better than the autopilot in those conditions, he also drove.
As dawn began to break, a flash of lightning had me poking my head out.
"There’s a squall to the south, but we’re fine," Craig said. "Look. There’s Moorea."
And then Moorea disappeared.
Neither of us had ever seen a storm move with such speed or strike with such ferocity. The wind peaked at 53 mph, driving rain into our faces like tiny needles. Lightning flashed. Thunder boomed. Waves rose like great gray walls, breaking over the decks and into the center cockpit.
"I’m afraid the mainsail will tear," Craig said, starting the engine. "You’ll have to steer while I take it down."
Craig crawled to the mast, dropped the sail and in seconds was back in the cockpit, taking the wheel from my white-knuckled hands.
"I’m really scared," I said, heart pounding.
"We’re fine," he said. "The boat’s doing well."
He paused. "And just look at this ocean!"
The storm raged for three hours. And then, as suddenly as Moorea had disappeared, it reappeared. We motored into the protection of Opunohu Bay, dropped anchor and wondered aloud. What just happened? Was that a microburst? A gale? The mother of all squalls?
"I feel like I just woke up from a bad dream," I said.
"I feel lucky to have witnessed such an amazing act of nature," Craig said.
"Well, yes. It was amazing and beautiful," I said. "Now that it’s over."
Part of the fun of traveling with Craig is that he causes me to look at events from his typical "macro" point of view. Now, as well as remembering that storm as frightening, exhausting and nauseating, I also see it an awesome ocean experience that we will talk about for years to come. It’s like getting a vacation twofer.
Even so, my first focus will always be on the "micro."
Now about those starfish shrimp and baby pipefish.
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Reach Susan Scott at www.susanscott.net.
