the sailboat and their bodies like rubber bullets. The waves were now fifteen feet and climbing, and the winds were holding at 30 knots. Daniel gripped the helm tightly as the Renaissance bobbed like a cork in the tempestuous sea.
Over the roar of the storm, he heard Quentin whoop with frenzied joy. The heavens answered with a crackle of lightning and a crash of thunder. The skies darkened and the winds blew ferociously, driving the rain sideways. The waves grew to eighteen feet, then twenty, heaping up like walls of water, their crests strewn with spindrift. When the wind gusts passed forty knots, Daniel decided to run off before the storm. He brought the Renaissance about and headed southeast with the swells.
“Do you want the drogue?” Quentin yelled, his voice muted by the torrential rain.
For a split-second Daniel considered it. The drogue was a cone-like sea anchor that deployed from the stern, protecting a sailboat against its greatest nemesis—a large breaking wave. He glanced at the anemometer and saw that the winds had topped out at forty-two knots. The storm was a fresh gale, a Force 8 on the Beaufort scale. It was nasty weather, to be sure, but not deadly. He shook his head and Quentin nodded in understanding.
The next fifteen minutes confirmed Daniel’s instinct. It was the decrease in sound that first alerted him to the passing of the storm. The relentless roar of the raindrops slackened to a growl, and the winds began to abate, falling to thirty knots, then twenty, then ten. The waves tossed and frothed for a while, but soon they dropped off, too, bringing an end to the roller coaster ride. Suddenly, the clouds opened up and the sun bathed their sodden skin with light.
Daniel wiped his face and slapped Quentin on the shoulder. “That’s lucky number thirteen,” he said with a smile. “Not too much worse than the last.”
Quentin patted the bulkhead beside him. “She hardly seemed to notice.”
Daniel turned the helm and pointed the Renaissance south again. “Let’s get the sails up. I’ll check our position. I don’t think we lost too much ground.”
While Quentin hoisted the mainsail and let out the boom, Daniel went below and assessed the damage. Apart from a few pillows and chart books on the floor, the cabin looked as he had left it. He went through the cabinets and storage lockers and found a cracked water glass and a bookshelf in disarray. After straightening up, he opened the seacocks again and checked the bilge. The water level was higher than normal, but the pump was doing its job. He turned on the audio system and selected a playlist on his iPhone, listening as the ethereal opening bars of Sting’s “Desert Rose” filled the cabin. “Sailing requires a soundtrack,” his father had always said. His words were nowhere truer than on the open ocean. Without music, a sailor could drown in the silence.
Daniel went to the nav station next and fixed their position with GPS. The storm had driven them five miles to the east. It would take them an hour to make up the distance. He felt his stomach rumble and checked his watch. It was 12:32 p.m., almost time for lunch. He updated the logbook and then removed his laptop from the chart table drawer. He checked his email by satellite and saw the bulletin from the UK Maritime Trade Organization. The subject line made his skin crawl: “ WARNING: PIRATE ATTACK SOUTHEAST OF SEYCHELLES .” His sense of foreboding grew as he read the text.
TO THE MASTER OF THE SV RENAISSANCE:
At 06:44 Local time (02:44 GMT) today, Somali pirates attacked the container ship MV Jade Dolphin approximately 280 nm southeast of Victoria, Seychelles. They approached the vessel in two skiffs, carrying heavy weapons. The vessel returned fire and destroyed one skiff. The second skiff was last sighted at 09°04´45˝S, 056°52´34˝E. Its current whereabouts are unknown.
Please be advised that sailing vessels are extremely vulnerable to pirate attack. We strongly
Over the roar of the storm, he heard Quentin whoop with frenzied joy. The heavens answered with a crackle of lightning and a crash of thunder. The skies darkened and the winds blew ferociously, driving the rain sideways. The waves grew to eighteen feet, then twenty, heaping up like walls of water, their crests strewn with spindrift. When the wind gusts passed forty knots, Daniel decided to run off before the storm. He brought the Renaissance about and headed southeast with the swells.
“Do you want the drogue?” Quentin yelled, his voice muted by the torrential rain.
For a split-second Daniel considered it. The drogue was a cone-like sea anchor that deployed from the stern, protecting a sailboat against its greatest nemesis—a large breaking wave. He glanced at the anemometer and saw that the winds had topped out at forty-two knots. The storm was a fresh gale, a Force 8 on the Beaufort scale. It was nasty weather, to be sure, but not deadly. He shook his head and Quentin nodded in understanding.
The next fifteen minutes confirmed Daniel’s instinct. It was the decrease in sound that first alerted him to the passing of the storm. The relentless roar of the raindrops slackened to a growl, and the winds began to abate, falling to thirty knots, then twenty, then ten. The waves tossed and frothed for a while, but soon they dropped off, too, bringing an end to the roller coaster ride. Suddenly, the clouds opened up and the sun bathed their sodden skin with light.
Daniel wiped his face and slapped Quentin on the shoulder. “That’s lucky number thirteen,” he said with a smile. “Not too much worse than the last.”
Quentin patted the bulkhead beside him. “She hardly seemed to notice.”
Daniel turned the helm and pointed the Renaissance south again. “Let’s get the sails up. I’ll check our position. I don’t think we lost too much ground.”
While Quentin hoisted the mainsail and let out the boom, Daniel went below and assessed the damage. Apart from a few pillows and chart books on the floor, the cabin looked as he had left it. He went through the cabinets and storage lockers and found a cracked water glass and a bookshelf in disarray. After straightening up, he opened the seacocks again and checked the bilge. The water level was higher than normal, but the pump was doing its job. He turned on the audio system and selected a playlist on his iPhone, listening as the ethereal opening bars of Sting’s “Desert Rose” filled the cabin. “Sailing requires a soundtrack,” his father had always said. His words were nowhere truer than on the open ocean. Without music, a sailor could drown in the silence.
Daniel went to the nav station next and fixed their position with GPS. The storm had driven them five miles to the east. It would take them an hour to make up the distance. He felt his stomach rumble and checked his watch. It was 12:32 p.m., almost time for lunch. He updated the logbook and then removed his laptop from the chart table drawer. He checked his email by satellite and saw the bulletin from the UK Maritime Trade Organization. The subject line made his skin crawl: “ WARNING: PIRATE ATTACK SOUTHEAST OF SEYCHELLES .” His sense of foreboding grew as he read the text.
TO THE MASTER OF THE SV RENAISSANCE:
At 06:44 Local time (02:44 GMT) today, Somali pirates attacked the container ship MV Jade Dolphin approximately 280 nm southeast of Victoria, Seychelles. They approached the vessel in two skiffs, carrying heavy weapons. The vessel returned fire and destroyed one skiff. The second skiff was last sighted at 09°04´45˝S, 056°52´34˝E. Its current whereabouts are unknown.
Please be advised that sailing vessels are extremely vulnerable to pirate attack. We strongly
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