First Night Passage

The sky exploded in angry and thunderous protest. Our evening was not evolving gracefully. The air crackled with impatient energy that tingled the peach fuzz on the back of my neck, long overdue for a haircut.

It wasn't going to be an easy passage, contrary to what was forecast.

The slightly lumpy surface became a portent of gut-twisting challenges to come this night. Thankfully, my first mate and chief contingency planner, Kay, had prepared a thermos of hot soup we could sip when descending to the cabin below would become too dangerous, and would give us warmth while keeping watch in the throat of this dark tempest.

Our traditional forty foot motorsailer was a rock solid platform. Her gear was old but trustworthy. If only our personal confidence in undertaking this first overnight passage offshore spoke to us as loudly as the thunderbolts now shattering our confidence, along with the air all around us. We would be OK, though, wouldn't we?

As sunset marched over the horizon toward our stalwart little ship, we shortened sail, just in case, so there would be no need to trifle with that in the stormy darkness as the winds would inevitably escalate. We'd have our engine driving the boat, along with the sails, as an additional security blanket. I could no longer clearly see to the top of our fifty-four foot mast. The lights up there now irrevocably obscured by torrential curtains of rain that had pressed in on us without much prelude. This is just a normal cold front weather pattern. Nothing to fear. Right. Why is it that darkness evokes dark doubts like a sunny afternoon never could? And experience is no tonic, as every sortie harbors its own mysteries.

Now for the next twenty-seven hours and a hundred and thirty plus nautical miles to the south, we resign ourselves to be strong as we charge into stygian blackness. Our resolve is not quite as sterling as it was in safe harbor a few hours ago, but will remain strong enough and long enough, right? Simply put, it must be so.

Confined to our helm seats by the erratic pitch and yaw of our self-made island of refuge, we sip our never-so-tasty soup as we foolishly look forward to the end of this night, when we will surely delight that our first nocturnal passage will be behind us.

As shoreside lights fade further beneath distant unseen waves, our course takes us ever farther offshore. We can finally but cautiously revel in the insular solitude of the moment, despite the now constant rushing roar of wind and waves and rain battering our hull and our senses. Noisy silence. Isn't this why we go to sea? Fear, born of courage, and the desire for some small sense of adventure. Not too much, mind you, but enough to remind ourselves that this is an energizing alternative to wishing away the advent of our golden years in some shoreside condominium. Golf and Dominoes and Bridge could come later after we lose our sea legs, or when they just start to hurt too much.

But by then, we'll have memories and tell stories, perhaps lying just a little bit about the magnitude of our courage on nights such as these.

I wonder what our kids and grand kids are doing right now? Do they wonder what the old folks are doing? Do they imagine what boring lives we must lead compared to their every exciting moment of evolving young life events constantly bombarding them?

Paradoxically, we will no doubt become once again impatient for the next one to begin.

Such were the vagaries of our first night passage offshore.