Thunderstorm photo courtesy of NOAA |
The only good thing that can be said about sleeping in
clothing is that it makes for a very fast start to the next day. And after the night of a million mosquitoes, an
early departure was exactly what we had in mind. Another long day and we’d be across the
Albemarle Sound, a body of water famed, like the Chesapeake, for its short
choppy nasty waves in bad weather – and bad weather was predicted to arrive
late that afternoon. We hoped to be well
across before then.
The winds started to pick up around noon as we reached the
mouth of the Alligator River where it empties into the Albemarle and I started
to have my doubts, but the weather turned out to be absolutely benign for the
crossing. In fact, I decided that the
Albemarle was a rather pretty body of water, blue and sparkling in settled
weather. Then just as we got to the
other side and dropped the sail, the winds pick up and the sky began to take on
more threatening colors. But we were
across – and it would just get more and more sheltered from here.
We were still about an hour from our next available
anchorage and the winds continued to build and the sky to roil in ominous
shades of blue-gray-black. Weather radar
showed huge blobs of reds and oranges (the colors that indicate very strong
storms) coming towards us, and the Coast Guard announced increasingly frantic
special marine warnings about the storm.
Clarification: the Coast Guard themselves are never frantic, they are
the ultimate professionals, they just relayed NOAAs increasingly frantic text
warnings that “mariners should seek safe harbor immediately…” (yep, we’re doing
that, okay) “winds in excess of 34 knots…” (i.e., gale-force winds from
unpredictable directions, good thing we’ve already got the sails down) and “frequent
cloud-to-ground lightning” (uh, huh. We
live at the base of a 50-foot lightning rod also known as a sailboat
mast.) The race was on. It was dark as twilight and the chill wind
was pushing us sideways – the sail cover alone
was acting like a small sail. We pushed
the engine to the max (thank you Gary at Deaton’s
Yacht Service for the excellent tune-up you just gave it last week!) and
anxiously watched the sky. When we heard
the first rumbles of thunder and saw the first flashes of lightning, we
contemplated the minimally sketchy shelter in front of us. Should we drop anchor here, where we’d be
uncomfortable but probably okay, or do we think the storm will wait just a bit?
In another 20 minutes or so we can get to the better spot just a mile ahead?
(Note to self: this is where the expression “any port in a storm” literally
comes from.)
We decided to press on while the storm loomed ever
closer. We got to the spot we had picked
out on the chart … and it didn’t look like we remembered! But it still looked pretty secure – any port
in a storm indeed – and we were HERE and so was the storm. We set the anchor faster than we ever had,
and let out extra scope so it could hold us even more securely in a blow. I couldn’t help but remember that two years
ago we were just a few miles from this spot when we were hit by the downdraft,
and was scared of a repeat. I pulled up
weather radar again – there was that line of reds and oranges marching westward
toward us – and we went below to finish our storm preparations and wait. In addition to the extra anchor scope, we
left the engine idling and put our cellphones in the oven. (Huh? What’s THAT all about? Should we be
struck by lightning, it would of course scramble all the electronics; the
theory I hope never to have to test is that the metal box of the oven would act
as a kind of Faraday cage, dissipating the charge and protecting the phones so
we could call for help. We also have a
handheld GPS, handheld VHF radio, and backup hard drive similarly protected.) We sat, away from the mast and other metal,
and waited.
It wasn’t long at all before the first rain drops fell. Then
… nothing. Just a light, gentle spring
rain. It was as if we were shielded by
some magic cone of protection. The barometer
was rising again. How could the storm
possibly have missed us? I took a chance
on the weather radar – all the storms had dissipated when they reached the
western shore of the river, and we were anchored just off the EASTERN shore no
more than a half-mile away. Just like
that – gone! Whew! And, wow!
Sometime after dinner, it hit us. Too much adrenaline during the afternoon, and
too little sleep the night before, and we were done. Cooler than last night, and the wind is
certainly blowing the bugs away. We were
in bed by 8:30, planning on staying put the next day while the storm blew
itself out.
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