The High Seas beaconed and we answered the call. Our next port of call would be El Salvador, port of Barillas. The winds were fair (and of course, on our nose), the waves low as we headed to sea. An entire day was spent tacking back and forth as we made way to deep water and trekked westward. Smooth sailing, so to speak. But not for long.
Late in the afternoon we pulled down the big jenny, opting for the storm jib. Storm cells lay malevolently on all horizons, and we didn't want to take the chance of being blind-sided in the dark. The sun doused itself in the western reaches of the interminable blue � a fact we had to glean from the failing light for now the clouds began to intertwine above us gowning the sky in the graying linen of altostratus. Shadowy tendrils of night grew to leviathan proportions, obscuring our view of the volcano bestraddled shore. Great leaden cumulonimbus billows hung below the overarching cloak like stolen fruit proffered by a villain. And then the transition: grays to black; and with the absence of backlight the true life of the bulbous storm clouds was reveled � hectically streaming lightnings of varied color and intensity playing throughout. This majesty of electric discharge could be appreciated in any direction one chose to look.
Viewing lightning and thunderclouds at sea is very common. With nothing to hinder the oceanic panorama there's rarely a time when clouds aren't visible somewhere. Often they denote storms which, of course, produce lightning. What was fascinating about this particular situation was the abundance of flashing bolts. They were constant, all around us. "Oooo!" we'd exclaim, "did you see that one?" a spidery red flutter lacing the outside edges of a thunderhead. "Whoa! Look at that!" a magnificent green-white branch arching over a cloud-top to fall with impunity to the sea.
Eric and I had assumed our nightly tiller and watch shifts, respectively. This seems to be a recipe for drawing some of the worst weather we experience. Brian will spend four hours with typically steady winds and relatively gentle seas. Clear skys overhead. He'll go below and within an hour all hell will break loose on deck. Eric clinging to the tiller, myself heaving lines and dropping or reefing sails, both of us getting drenched. Then my tiller shift starts, Eric goes below, Brian ascends. The winds will have died down, the sea state returned to manageable, the decks begun to dry. "What's with all the storm rigging?" my brother will wonder out loud.
(Ok, in actual fact he usually wakes when he hears us banging about the deck above his head and feels the steep heel we take as the sails begin to strain. I think he drifts back off to our bitching about water up the sleeves and down the pants.)
This night was different. Instead of being pelted by breakers, doused by a downpour, or blasted by a howling gale it was the advance of a veritable wall of firebolts that threatened. From all sides. At first it was beautiful � surrounded by the wrath of Zeus, Promethean projectiles wickedly hurled at the teary waves whilst Faith plunged onward under a pavilion of stars. We'd count the seconds until the roar of the battle overtook us to estimate its distance from our position. The winking dome above us narrowed like the aperture of a camera....one coming into close-up focus....smile at the flashbulb � now start looking concerned.... Eric and I looked at each other. A nod and I was on the bow dragging down the big jenny, replacing it with the storm jib. Back to the cockpit and the main was reefed with the benefit of the pulsing incandescence.
Disconcertingly, we could no longer distinguish which strike coincided with which thunder. The pauses between sonic spasms ceased to exist. A barrage of colossal bellowing overwhelmed our auditory spectrum. Our vision was ruined by stroboscopic streaks brighter than the sun. Objects began to swim in burned-out negative afterimage; black and white reversed, night and day collided. We began to realize something of immense value: the bolts were no longer all around us. No, they were coalescing, condensing at a point, spending their fury with christless abandon on a miniscule point in space. Directly ahead of us.
It took a minute before we turned, so mesmerized were we with the spectacle. It took a minute for the fact to register that we could just sail around the most violent lightning storm any of us had ever seen. And then we did. Eric tacked north and I adjusted the sails. Faith skated out from under the rim of glowing, crackling cloud. "Eric, you ever seen St. Elmo's Fire?!" I shouted over the cacophony. "No!," he leaned forward to yell back. "Well look at the radio antenna!" I pointed to the mast top where the aerial waved like a magic wand, glowing a weird bluish-greenish-white: the built up static electricity concentrated at the highest point of our vessel. We followed a wide arc, always at the outside edge of the explosive tempest. We were able, after an hour and a half, to count our lucky stars as they began to reappear in snatches between the now dissipating atmospheric condensation. About the time Brian's watch shift arrived the skys had cleared above, the storm still growling and vividly lit but by now miles away. "I heard some thunder," he said.
Daylight, morning, early afternoon. We had arrived at our GPS waypoint outside the reef strewn inlet harboring the port of Barillas. Searching the shore we spied what appeared to be our destination � a gap in the land behind a complex series of breaking rollers. The Rain's Guide warned that the most prudent thing to do was call the harbormaster on the radio and have them send one of the experienced panga drivers out to lead us in. We figured this was good advice, having had little luck with reefs in the past....
We got an English speaker right away. "DO NOT ATTEMPT TO COME IN," she admonished Eric, "WAIT FOR THE PANGA." Over the engine Brian and I could not hear anything else she was telling him. After a couple of minutes Eric relayed what he'd gathered: wait for Luis, he'd be out in about half an hour, and repeat DO NOT TRY TO RUN THE REEF. Well, we counseled each other, we're not in a hurry, it's a nice day, let's wait for Luis and get some pictures. It being a beautiful, sun drenched afternoon, Brian whipped up a gin and tonic for each of us. As we sipped them we eyed the nearby breakers and discovered a safe channel between a pair of them. We picked the widest spot between the rolling whitewater. Driving into it, we turned to get just in front of the break point, remaining safely in deep water. Eric went to the bow with the camera and Brian and I waved as the white froth washed up behind us, then stood tall at the stern, then washed over the transom. We got soaked, filled the cockpit with a foot of water, but managed to save the remnants of our drinks, hoisting them above our heads as the cockpit was swept. It was so much fun that we repeated the process; partly to make sure Eric had the best angles for the pictures. The photos are great, but Luis, when he arrived, was mortified. Didn't we know there were reefs here?? Yes. We couldn't figure out the fuss � we were still well out from the heavy surf where foam lined the entire beach. And according to our GPS and chart and our own eyes we weren't in any danger....huh, mysterious. Luis led us on a winding course through the rocky biohazards that brought us into the mouth of the river, then handed us off to a second panga driver who we followed up stream for several miles to the moorings at Barillas itself. We waved to him happily as he told us the officials would arrive shortly for our check-in. Looked like Barillas would be a breeze!