Squalling in the Doldrums

 I imagine an aerial view of Moira; a frail bubble of plastic, a mere white speck, drifting in the path of a gigantic 50,000 feet high, eight-mile wide thunderhead. It bears down on us, slowly eclipsing the cheerful blue sky with its dark, unstoppable mass.

Doug and I make a good pair. Crazy as a gooney bird. Here we are, all sails set, calmly waiting for a monstrous tropical squall to hit us like some surfer floating lazily looking for the `big one' to carry him crashing onto a rocky shore.

"Squalling," I cheerfully announce. "We are about to go squalling, the wild and windy equivalent of surfing." Doug laughs. Freddy looks a little concerned hearing, I suspect, a note of repentance in my voice.

But we are hot and it is so calm and we are so bored with motoring in this flaccid area of weak, undecided winds. The winds puff gently from east, south, northeast, southwest, back and forth or none at all. The doldrums have mile after mile after mile of mammoth, beautiful, cumulonimbus clouds towering majestically into the stratosphere. Between the cloud mountains lie broad valleys where small puffy white clouds drift silently through glorious sunsets, sunrises, moonsets and moonrises. A stunning vista to visit but a terrible place to sail.

Roll in the headsail, roll it out, roll it in, roll it out. Let out the main and haul it in. Tack to port, tack to starboard. Jibe and come about jibe again. Drop the sails and start the engine, shut it down and hoist the sails. Glassy calm one minute and screaming torrents of wind and rain the next. Searing hot days tucked between sheets of chilly nights. A place of natural contradictions at once monotonous and exciting.

A gust of wind. Moira comes alive, dancing forward over the glassy sea. I slide the bow into the wind and run close hauled directly at the advancing wall of rain. "Good-oh!" I say to nobody in particular.

Long ago I learned about thunderstorms at sea. I learned to keep away from them, altering course to pass behind them whenever possible. You can never tell if a particular squall will bring 10knot or 50knot winds and a wrong guess can dismast a sailboat. But boredom and heat have distorted my thinking. Out here in the October Doldrums, with the searing tropic sun, constant grumble of the hot diesel and endless two hour watches, I find myself entranced by a magnetic attraction to the giant thundersqualls skulking here and there on the horizon. After all, that dark grayblack, sinister area under the clouds represents chilly, refreshing rain. Although you'd never know it from two or three miles away, there is plenty of wind under there, too. We need some wind.

I grip the wheel, teeth clenched, shivering like Moira in the cold rain. Drenched to the skin, frozen to the wheel. Crazy to be here with all sails up. But I revel in Moira's beauty and power and the wet chilling terror of the storm.

Doug cavorts in the rain, a wild dance in the water rivering down the mainsail. His arms wave over his head in loose abandon. Freddy stands next to me, her hair plastered down in the rain. She's laughs, "When we get out of this one, lets go find another." I find myself giggling, as my arms strain against the helm. The compass glows wetly East by Southeast, and Moira's gunwale sucks at the luminous foam.

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