I believe they are blowing on the Genoa sail.
(our boat is slicing through the swells on its side as I write)
There is no escape from living this moment. I can't say "thank you I'd like to get off now".
I feel we may each be talking with God today.
It is October 27, 1997 and we are in a high pressure storm on the English Channel.The sky is bright blue and very high. The wind is so strong we had to take our sails down to motor back, a two hour journey from now. It is freezing cold and the icy water wets us as we hit each swell head on.
The swells are like waves of hundreds of ponies stampeding the plains.
The sun on the white water like a gift from God.
The layers of turtleneck, sweatshirt, sweater and vest under our yellow macs barely keep down the shivering, but the real sufferers are the captains who take 15 minute shifts at the wheel. I watch the icy water slapping Rulik's face, his hands braced so tightly on the wheel to fight the fierce wind that he can't even wipe the water off his glasses. I eye the thermos of coffee and bottle of whiskey only 3 yards away down the hatch but it is too rough to let go and tackle the stairs to bring it up. So it remains there, an untouched comfort.
