EDITOR’S LETTER
When a hellacious storm suddenly erupts around their boat, this crew finds reassurance from a comforting voice on the VHF radio.
The day started out calm. Our four-man crew was heading north at a comfortable 24 knots. We had coffee and breakfast and were just enjoying the salt life. We were five hours into a seven-hour run. The ride had been uneventful, with three of us taking in the view from the bridge deck while one of us slept belowdecks. Although the sky was overcast, the sea was glass-calm. ¶ Seemingly out of nowhere, the wind picked up—and so did the seas. At first, there was a spine-jolting chop. We slowed to 18 knots. The wind and seas grew. The chop became tightly spaced waves. Fifteen knots. Three feet. Five feet. Ten knots. I was amazed at how quickly the storm was developing around us. We thought maybe it was a microburst. Whatever it was, it was directly around our boat. Six feet. Eight knots. The sky turned black. ¶ Our captain kept the bow pointed into the sea, with the waves now above our 43-footer’s hardtop. From the bridge deck, we were looking up to see the swells, and we could no longer see above them. We were in the green room. ¶ Six knots. Our boat was no longer making way; it was just going up and down and getting beaten by crashing
There was water coming onto the bridge deck. Everyone was silent. Watching. We were all looking for a way out of the weather. There wasn’t one.
waves. There was water coming onto the bridge deck. Everyone was silent. Watching. We were all looking for a way out of the weather. There wasn’t one. The wind howled louder than a Foo Fighters show. ¶ One particularly nasty wave whacked our vessel out of nowhere. This wave was different. It was bigger, meaner and had more teeth than the previous sets. Our vessel slid sideways. We held on and hoped there wasn’t another one behind it. Luckily, there wasn’t. ¶ Our ride popped back up. We all looked to the VHF radio and decided to start a communication schedule with the US Coast Guard, just in case. In the midst of this maelstrom, listening to the voice crackle back at us on the radio was the most reassuring thing someone could hear. For the next two hours, as our boat was battered, beaten and tossed, the Coast Guard hailed us every 15 minutes to see where we were and how we were doing. The voice was always as calm as a windless ocean. ¶ Eventually, the vicious storm abated. We kept the communication schedule going until we were safely in our home inlet. ¶ We all know the VHF radio is a valued tool. It’s a way to talk with fellow boaters, call for a bridge opening or share fishing reports with friends. Sometimes, it’s much more.