We'd watched as the star field to the south was eaten up by the advancing squall. Brian dropped the Genoa, bagged it, and replaced it with the storm jib which we left secured in the pulpit. He took the tiller while I double reefed the main. I reassumed the helm and we surveyed the decks � all clear. Barometer: 1009. Not a depression. The sky turned to iron. Blue and white bolts perforated the air, presaging the ominous rumbling voice of the Chubasco charging us. We turned to face its howling hot breath. Faith's bow stood tall, throwing off the onslaught of rapacious surges, exsanguinating the enemy breakers like a fluidly wielded sword. The Chubasco's leading edge passed us, drawing its Aeolian heavy cavalry with it. We eased the mainsheet all the way out as we came about to give chase. We bore down on our course.
The GPS tells the story starkly: each time you check it, it leaves a little dot on the screen at the coordinates where it acquired a satellite link. This creates a "breadcrumb trail," as we call it. Up until that Chubasco our trail wove back and forth like bad stitching. With the advent of the storm the trail suddenly goes arrow-straight for the target; the dots, formerly spaced close together, get much farther apart. When daylight parted the purple curtains of dawn it shown on Brian and I happily sluicing over the six and seven foot waves as Faith rode a strong westerly wind. I gave up the tiller and went below. Eric replaced me on deck, he and Brian adding more sail as the day wore on. The seas came down by afternoon and all of our sail was back up.
There followed a relatively uneventful evening. We continued to make miles, and with darkness dropped the big jib in favor of the more manageable storm jib. This proved fortuitous. With the night came the faerie-fired ring of surrounding thunderstorms. By midnight, during Eric's shift at the helm, we knew we were being overrun. Our course was taking us in diagonally to meet the black-edged axe blade of the second Chubasco in as many nights. I reefed the main for battle; we donned our yellow rubber armor. (Perhaps you think yellow is a sissy color for armor? Well, when you consider that your protective suit might save your life by showing up clearly in the water should you fall overboard it starts seeming a lot more heroic!) Where was I? Ah: rainsuits. With Eric plying the helm and Brian listening below, I stood (or, rather, sat) at the ready with the jib sheet in hand, prepared at a moment's notice to give the sail to the wind and pounce to the fore to pull it in. Faith and the Chubasco crept toward one another; an ant and an elephant sizing each other up. The first puffs raked our beam � Eric held the course, I gave slack to the sheet, spilling the wind's claws from the belly of the sail. We advanced. The impact of sea spray sounded in dull patters from our coats. The heel of the boat increased as I put new pressure on the sheet and Eric struggled to hold our bearing. The bow gashed through a wave, the hull rolling with the strike � pressure off the sheet pressure on the tiller � bow coming back up to defend against the next attack. So we engaged our nemesis and fought the epic battle until
An armistice!
Recognizing the implacable natures on either side of the line, the pair of foes, Faith and the Chubasco, wove warfare into waltz. Now we raced along the inside edge of the gale going fully three knots over hull speed and rejoicing in each summitted crest. The breezes whistled a merry tune in the rigging as we churned the miles under our keel. And then the engagement was past, our partner in the dance moving off to a new part of the floor. Eric went below, I assumed the steering, and Brian came above to hear the tale.
As morning came on the wind lessened until Brian was putting up the big jenny, then lessened until he was taking it back down and starting the engine. We were now 20 miles off Puerto Angel, expecting an early afternoon arrival. What we weren't expecting was the Navy Cutter that appeared off the starboard beam and came on straight for us.
We'd known since leaving the US that occasional inspections at sea by foreign navies was likely but so far had not encountered any interference. Given that we'd already been thoroughly scrutinized at Puerto Madero we had little worry for the present encounter. Brian came up on deck with the radio when he heard the discussion between Eric and I:
Eric: "We've got a boat out there....maybe a fisherman..."
Sean: "Hmm, yeah, is it grey?" moments pass, "Yep. I think that's a navy boat."
Eric: "He's headed right for us."
Sean: "No surprise there. Let him come."
Brian: as the cutter comes up to the stern, swings around to our port, and circles us once, "Probably reading the name, checking the numbers....big surprise for him when they try to look up the sail numbers [printed in large letters on the sails] and it tells him Lake Michigan!"
General laughter.
Radio: "Velero Fay," Fay is how her name is pronounced in Espanol, "......capitan!"
Eric to Radio: "Estoy velero Faith."
Radio: "Donde (something I couldn't understand, but where are you coming from? was the gist of it)"
Eric to Radio: "Puerto Madero."
Radio: "Where now?"
Eric to Radio: "Puerto Angel."
Radio: "Huatulco?"
Eric to Radio: "Puerto Angel."
Radio: "No Huatulco?"
Eric to Radio: "No Huatulco."
Radio: "Que es nombre del capitan de barco?"
Eric to Radio: "Sean Faul."