Sunday, June 10th
11:00 AM Finally, the rain has stopped and we can depart soggy St. Augustine. The wind had calmed down a bit too and our departure was uneventful. We had our traditional beer for breakfast as we headed out of the channel. The seas were a little rough and I hoped they would calm after we got out of the jetty, but they didn't.
1:00 PM In fact, the wind and the seas were rougher after we let the jetty--20 + knots and 5 -6 ft. seas. Even though we had no doubts that Amplexus could handle it, we knew it wasn't going to be a comfortable voyage. It wasn't...
3:00 PM The wind was gusting up to 32 knots and though we had the reefed mainsail and the staysail set, we had to sail really close-hauled and so the wind wasn't helping us much. We were also continuously tacking to keep the wave angle from being sickeningly abeam.
It was rough I had to hang on to the back stays to keep from sliding around while on watch and Ric got seasick after going down below to check the computer for weather and navigation updates.
5:00 PM We are at Flagler Beach and the weather radar shows huge developing storms in the area. We see the surreal turquoise ocean and dark sky. Lightening in all of its forms illuminates the skies. A huge white cloud illuminates everything with its strange electric glow as it hangs over the condos of Flagler Beach. Cloud to cloud, ground to cloud, and cloud to ground lightening strikes all around us... an ocean of electric fluid. Nowhere to run and nowhere to hide... We are laid bare to the full effects of nature's fluid currents, both liquid and electric. A weather seminar could have been conducted from our boat. I was raised in Southwest Florida, the lightening capital of the world. Fact is, my dad (now deceased), was an electrician working on a panel when he was struck by lightning. He spent months in the hospital and had scars for life. Those memories are with me now as they have always been.
7:00 PM "If you know any prayers, now is the time to say them," Ric said. I knew exactly what he meant. I tried not to hold on to the backstays while on watch because I knew they were attached to the mast and I would be electrocuted if the mast were struck. I had to hold on somewhere, so I gripped the pulpit for dear life. Lightening in all of its myriad forms struck all around us. Ric headed the boat out to sea as he saw on the radar that the storms appeared to dissipate as they crossed over from land to water. I thought that if I died, my only regret would be that I didn't get to hold my grandson... just once. If this sounds melodramatic, I apologize, but I did feel that death could be around the corner.
Ric - I was busy trying to figure a way out of this mess, but I also wondered how it might end. Would it be a quick bright flash, the strike too close and quick to hear and then nothing? Would the fuel tank ignite, blowing Amplexus to bits and pieces? Or would it just stun us and knock out the engine and electronics... Well, at least, if we survived the aftermath, we would likely end up with a new engine and nav system - woo-hoo!
Ah, hell, get her offshore with as much distance from the lee shore as possible. With a strong SE wind this would give us some time to figure something out before being cast ashore and broken up in the surf. And the electric display seemed to be staying on shore - except for a few close strikes out here at 5 nm.
It is a strange feeling being the only tall metal pole in the midst of an electrical storm. Like, well, here we are, isn't this what you're itching for? Well, ok, then, come on, let's get this over with you SOB. DO IT... DO IT NOW! Do it or go away. It went away. Oh my.
I head off toward the south, toward the relatively clear sky, the flashes moving south faster than Amplexus... flash to boom growing longer.
We thank Poseidon for his kindness, compassion and beneficence.
Time to resume my vomiting.
800 PM We watched the sunset and began to feel as if we might actually survive this thing. The lightening and storms began to dissipate. The seas were still high, but the storm clouds and the lightning strikes were lessening, none closer than about a mile --hallelujah!
Monday, June 11th, 12:00 AM Ric had hand steered through the worst of the storms, not wanting to put a strain on the autopilot, but now that things were calming down a bit I stayed on watch with the autopilot most of the time until daybreak to give him some much needed rest.
6:00 AM Morning had broken and with it a new optimism ensued. All was right with the world. The winds were still contrary, but at least the seas were down a bit and not the deck washing horrors of the night before.
8:00 AM I saw the Cape Canaveral lighthouse blinking and was comforted knowing that even though it might be a while, everything would be OK.