“We’ll be okay. We’ll be okay, love,” I said, trying to convince both of us.
In the darkness, the ocean was highlighted with thick white caps of foam—a boiling cauldron. The barometer had dropped way down the scale as the wind’s wail steadily increased, the seas becoming even steeper, angrier, more aggressive. We were terrified Raymond was catching us, but there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it but sail and motor as fast and as hard as possible.
We stayed on watch, taking turns going below to get whatever rest we could. Our muscles ached from fighting the wheel while trying to negotiate the pounding, erratic seas. Night had never lasted so long.
The next morning broke cinder gray with spotty sunlight shedding an overcast hue on brothy seas. Ocean spray slapped us constantly in the face. Wind was a steady forty knots. We reefed all sails and galloped with a handkerchief of a jib and mainsail. At least it helped steady the boat.
About 1000 the seas arched into skyscrapers, looming over our boat. The anemometer—the wind speed gauge—now read a steady sixty knots and we were forced to take down all sails and maintain our position under bare poles with the engine running. By noon the wind was a sustained one hundred knots. The churning spray was ceaseless. Richard came topside and handed me the EPIRB (emergency position-indicating radio device), as he took the wheel. “HERE, I WANT YOU TO PUT THIS ON.”
“WHAT ABOUT YOU?”
“TAMI, IF WE HAD TWO I’D PUT ONE ON. JUST MAKE ME FEEL BETTER, AND PUT THE BLOODY THING ON.”
So, I did. I fastened my safety harness tether to the binnacle and steered while Richard went below to try to figure out our location now and get an updated position of the hurricane. All he could hear between the pounding and screech of the wind was static. There was no way he could risk bringing the radio outside with the sea constantly cascading over the boat.
Richard came topside, fastened his safety harness, and took the wheel. I sat huddled against the cockpit coaming, holding on with all my strength to the cleat where my tether was fastened. We were helpless while staring at the raging scene around us. The sound of the screaming wind was unnerving. The hull raised to dizzying heights and dove into chasms. Could the seas swallow us? The ascent of the boat over the monstrous waves sent the hull airborne into a free fall that smashed down with a shudder. I was horrified Hazana would split wide open. Finally I shouted to Richard, “IS THIS IT? CAN IT GET ANY WORSE?”
“NO. HANG ON, LOVE; BE MY BRAVE GIRL. SOMEDAY WE’LL TELL OUR GRANDCHILDREN HOW WE SURVIVED HURRICANE RAYMOND.”
“IF WE SURVIVE,” I hollered back.
“WE WILL. GO BELOW AND TRY TO REST.”
“WHAT HAPPENS IF WE ROLL OVER? I DON’T WANT TO LEAVE YOU ALONE.”
“THE BOAT WOULD RIGHT ITSELF. LOOK, I’M SECURE,” he said, giving a sharp tug on his tether. “I’D COME RIGHT BACK UP WITH IT.”
I looked at his tether secured to the cleat on the cockpit coaming.
“GO BELOW,” he urged. “KEEP YOUR EYE ON THE BAROMETER. LET ME KNOW THE MINUTE IT STARTS RISING.”
Reluctantly I got up, leaned out, and squeezed the back of Richard’s hand. The wind sounded like jet engines being thrown in reverse. I looked at the anemometer and gasped when I read 140 knots. With my mouth agape, I looked at Richard and followed his eyes up the mainmast in time to see the anemometer’s transducer fly into outer space.
“HOLD ON,” he yelled and cranked the wheel. I tumbled sideways as the hull was knocked down. I fell against the cockpit coaming. An avalanche of white water hit us. The boat ominously shuddered from bow to stern.
Richard anxiously glanced at me, water dripping down his face, fear jumping out of his intense blue eyes. Behind him rose sheer cliffs of white water, the tops blown into cyclones of spray by the ferocious wind. My eyes questioned his—I couldn’t hide my terror. He faltered, and then winked at me, thrusting his chin up, a signal for me to go below. His forced grin and lingering eye contact disappeared as I slammed the hatch shut.
I clung to the grab rail of the companionway ladder as I made my way down to the cabin below. The frenzied cadence of Hazana’s motion prevented me from doing anything but collapsing into the sea hammock rigged to the table, and I automatically secured the tether of my safety harness around the table’s post. I looked up at the ship’s clock: It was 1300 hours. My eyes dropped to the barometer: It was terrifyingly low—below the twenty-eight-inch mark. Dread engulfed me. I hugged the musty blanket to my chest as I was flung side to side in the hammock. No sooner had I closed my eyes when all motion stopped. Something felt very wrong, it became too quiet—this trough too deep.
“OHMIGOD!” I heard Richard scream.
My eyes popped open.
WHOMP!
I covered my head as I sailed into oblivion.
WAAA-AH, WAAA-AH.
“Debbie, will you ease up on that sander, you’re gonna burn it out.”
“Tami, it’s not cutting through.”
“Well, change the sandpaper, Miss Lazy Bones.”
“Lazy! This is hard work—besides, I’m starving.”
“Okay, let’s break for lunch.”
The day was warm, as most summer days are in San Diego. The yard noise had quieted down for lunch, which gave the boatyard a peacefulness worth savoring. I dusted off the cockpit seat lockers with a rag and Deb and I sat down under the awning in the tepid shade. The sea breeze was light, tickling our hot, tanned skin. I pulled a tuna sandwich out of my lunch bag and a bright Red Delicious apple.
“Is that tuna again?” Debbie asked.
“Yes, white albacore. It’s full of protein. You should try it sometime. Is that peanut butter again?”
“Yeah, full of protein too. You should try it sometime.” Debbie took the largest bite humanly possible then chewed with her mouth open to irritate me. Suddenly, she almost choked. “Speaking of protein, check out this guy coming,” she mumbled.
I turned and saw a honey blond lion walking up the dock. I liked his stride and how his strong, square shoulders moved with a purpose. He had on shorts and a T-shirt, and Topsider shoes with no socks. Glints of gold sparkled from the curly sun-bleached hair on his strong long legs. As he got closer, I noticed that his full trimmed beard was amber, like a patch of wheat. It was complimentary—attractive, how it framed his face. Liking how he looked, I quickly said to Debbie, “Don’t say anything, okay?”
“Man, you’re so paranoid. What am I gonna say—hey, good lookin’?”
“Just don’t . . .”
Debbie and I were old friends and I knew it would be a miracle if she could keep her big mouth shut. But he started it, so she was off the hook.
“Lookin’ good, ladies.” His British accent surprised me.
“Thanks,” Debbie smiled wide, and then coquettishly added, “Brightwork by Tami. Every job looks good. I’m Debbie and this is Tami. We’re for hire.”
“Right-o, Debbie.” He smiled coyly. “I’ll keep that in mind, that you two brighten up a boat in more ways than one.”
“That we do, it’s only one of our many talents. Huh, Tami?”
I felt myself blush as red as my apple