In the cabin I broke out my computer and continued the narrative of the journey from somewhere around Nicaragua, I think. Listening jealously to the mates cavorting with the sea ("Hohoho! Do you see that one?! Quick get the GPS � I want to clock the speed when we catch it!"), I worked on recounting details of the voyage past. From above I could hear Eric announcing the lowest barometer reading we'd had to date: 1007. We all took that seriously. Perhaps this wasn't just a lucky southeast wind.
Up on deck Brian was heartily enjoying his stint surfing Faith in seas that had grown to twenty feet, winds that had increased to 40 knots. Miles were being sliced off faster than limbs in a Star Wars movie. Then a sonorous rumble from behind that made my ears perk: something big moving in mercurially � a wall, no, a bastion of water thirty feet high! The stern rose; through the hatch I watched Brian's face go tight with concentration; Eric's leg, the only part I could see, stiffened against the side of the cockpit; I braced the computer in my lap with one hand and grabbed a bulkhead with the other. The bow was dragged backwards up the slope of the wave-face and our momentum pressed us all hard against whatever holds we had. My stomach got that weightless butterfly effect like when the rollercoaster begins its steep descent. The stern pitched forward slightly, bow laboring to come up....and....making it....as we reached the summit of the wave. The froth boiled up over both gunrails � the bow rose level with the stern and we were all forced to lean still further as the G-forces bore us back. Faith shot along the top of that wave for an eon, a little blue cork on the precipice of a waterfall. Our breathing was all exhale through lips pressed firmly together. And then the stern gradually dropped, the bow going high, Faith slipping backwards as the wave, having had its way with her, gently lay her in the comfortable trough of its passing. "SEVENTEEN POINT SIX!!!!" Eric broke into the mystic reverie of motion, "Guys, we just got seventeen point six!!" He was referring to the GPS, which he had had on the whole time. It now displayed an unbelievable, unprecedented speed for Faith. Previously, we'd topped out under sail at 12 mph. On the Mississippi, under power and riding the wake of a giant barge along with a five knot current, we'd managed a 14.2. This wiped the slate clean. 17.6 mph � with ONLY a double reefed main! Incredible!!
But records aside, we were quickly realizing that our beneficent thirty footer wasn't alone....and they wouldn't all be friendly, either. It wasn't ten minutes until another sound garnered the whole of my attention, sequestered below though I was. But this tumultuous booming had the ominous portent of coming only from the port. A bad sign. The majority of the waves were marching in an orderly fashion from our rear. This rogue � and rogue of magnitude � was barging across the lines, gouging its way toward us implacably. I turned to look through the porthole. My eyes widened. I slammed the laptop shut and leaned protectively over it as the mammoth breaker buried the starboard beam. Instantly the cabin rearranged itself: books, movies, clothes, charts, binoculars, dishes, everything not glued or fastened down to the starboard side went hurtling to port � over my flattened form, I'm glad to say. If anything hit me I didn't register it. My complete attention was focused on the pair in the cockpit. Were they still in the cockpit?
Yes, they were. Eric, back against cabin wall and combing, had clung to the port winch and received a sound tromping. He was saturated head to toe and spitting saltwater in amazed aggravation. A good sign. Brian faired worse. He'd been positioned on the port, tight against the coming but with precious little purchase for his hands besides the tiller. When the water cleared he found himself on the port side, wallowing on the cockpit floor in two feet of water with a bruised side. He scrambled back to the helm, regained control by pointing the bow back downwind, then coughed painfully and grasped his sore kidney. Faith faired well, as she always does in seas of this type. Technically, the event was a knock-down: her mast went over on its side so far that the starboard spreader (the crossbar a little more than halfway up the pole) was dipped in the brine while the starboard combing (to which Eric still clung to the forward portion) allowed copious amounts of water to spill over. With two thousand pounds of lead in her full keel, the little Pearson Commander is designed to pop right back out of the water when this happens and that is just what she did. Within the space of three seconds from total prostration Faith had righted herself and was back on course. Man, I love this boat!
Having ascertained that the crew was alive and well and still onboard, I left the computer for another day and swung over to the cabin entrance. Navigator and Ship's Cook were a bit dazed but coherent. "Maybe you should put the boards in," Brian suggested, referring to the three sliding boards that close the cabin entrance. I was already removing them from their sheathing. But I wasn't about to abandon my crew � or let them witness this event without me any longer. I put the boards in place to prevent water from entering the cabin, then slid back the main hatch and stood so that I could take in the environment immediately surrounding the boat as well as in the distance. What I saw on the remote horizon blew me away, so to speak.