From fun to fear and back again; reflections on lightning and friendship

In the grey environs, various ‘once vibrant’ bits of clothing hang from the boat rails around me, heavy, dripping, defeated; water logged in the aftermath.

In the docile day with it’s soft, benign cloud cover, I struggled to conjure up the electric light show of the night before.

In a seemingly endless battle of sky gods hell bent on revenge or destruction, hours passed with thunderous outbursts and a continuous show of light. We the meek and powerless lay below, eyes squeezed shut or sprung open like huge frightened circles, we stared up through the skylight hatch above our bed at the relentless rage of the sky.

And the rain came. Locking us inside, airless, sweating, still. And water like soldiers, pelting, running, stabbing at the boats and the surface of the sea. With more and more intensity it attacked the hatch above me, crying, drumming, beating in increasing intensity like a dark ritual while the thunder shook the hull and the crescendo an earth shattering ‘bang!’ as the sky lit up. 

I bolted out of bed and up the stairs. JW was already there, standing guard for us.

Our history with lightning storms has not gone well. We are on high alert despite knowing there is nothing at all we could do to thwart a strike should we be ‘on the radar’. And last year in this town we were the sole victims of one strike that targeted our anchorage.

This time we are spared. The strike has hit the famous monument on the hill beside us. I begin to think this might be one of the reasons cruisers flock to this anchorage! Our masts are NOT the tallest things around. I sigh with relief and descend again to the stuffy cabin where the air is hot and stale and where our tiny cabin fans are proving their inefficiency, lightly shoving around the limited air.

Hours before, we lay sprawled across the front deck of Alleycat. Digesting a world-class lamb curry and a store bought key lime pie in honour of Al and Marita’s 44^th anniversary. We contemplated the expanse of the universe by the light of the endless stars. We marveled with our new friends about all the friends we make while cruising. The friendships that endure through time and space. The ones where you meet in Grenada and run into each other in North Carolina or the Exumas and catch up with excitement and enthusiasm. Friendships where giving and sharing and appreciating laughter and star gazing are at the forefront. But where there is a deeper appreciation and understanding. The knowing we’ve all chosen something from life that brings extreme risk and extreme reward. We are outside the safety net of society so we provide that for each other.

And then Kim smelled the rain coming in the air and beyond the sea of stars we saw the duller, darkness of storm clouds rolling in. And we dispersed to our boats with the knowledge that we would be there, listening on the radio, ready to assist, should the storm bring big winds, or the unthinkable – a lightning strike.

But alas, the storms roared and the rains poured but it was all bark with no bite. We’ve all made it through the night, though a bit groggy from lack of sleep, to hike and swim and party another day. 

And our decks are now rinsed of the salt from our three boat flotilla sail down to Georgetown, and we’ve gathered some rain water for washing!

Strike 2 - A 1 in 490,000,000,000 chance... what luck?!

I’m standing in the middle of the boat. The skies are weeping all around. I see only water. I’m alone. 

Minutes ago, mayhem. After two weeks of sunshine and rum and laughter, our guests were off to shore to catch a plane. In a squall. A storm that filled the dinghy to bathtub capacity over and over, that had to be bailed out over and over, before we could load their luggage, clad in black garbage bags. A storm that had them heading to shore in swimsuits and rain coats.

The wind whipped up, howled at us and threatened to drag the boat. We put on the instruments and watched the wind speed, huddled in the saloon, waiting for a lull in the incessant rain.

And then it hit. There was an earth shattering crack beside the boat as a rogue lightning bolt was unleashed from above on the bay. We literally jumped, screamed and exchanged some wide eyed stares. And the thunder rolled along, and all that was left was the rain.

And we still had to get the guests to shore. So we hugged abruptly and they climbed out into the wet, whipping waters with JW.

And all the anger of the skies was gone. In it’s place, devastation, along with that sickly smell of burnt electronics. Shiloh was hit by lightning again. Like the rain soaking through my t-shirt, it began to sink in.

9 months ago, almost to the day, we climbed aboard after an even more vicious storm, to find that smell and all our systems dead. Chart plotter, wind instruments, depth sounder, autopilot, battery charger/inverter, TV, VHF radio, FM radio, fridge, freezer, lights, fans… everything that makes the boat liveable and sail-able!

And when JW returned this time, we winced as we checked each system. Wind instruments, depth sounder, autopilot, battery charger/inverter, VHF radio, FM radio, fridge, freezer, solar panel regulator, lights… all dead. 

So much of the same! But last year’s strike found us in the land of plenty. 100 miles of riding blind, without autopilot to a well equipped boat yard. In a country where there are marine surveyors and replacement equipment and expertise to install it all.

So different this time. We are well over 500 miles from the boatyards of Florida, and 170 miles from the only surveyors in the Bahamas – in Nassau.

And so we face the rotting meat in the freezer and the prospect of weeks with canned food, no entertainment and blind sailing – not knowing the wind speed or angle, or what depth we find ourselves in. And the worst part is the missing autopilot. The concentration and tediousness of holding the wheel for 6 to 8 hours a day.

And then, enter friends. Real friends. Friends I could not hope to ask for in this lifetime. Who refuse to let you suffer.

We moved aboard Shiloh 4 years ago. Since then, we’ve met some of the most remarkable people this world has to offer. People who are independent but socially adept. People who can fend for themselves but will do anything for each other in a pinch.

We have been buddy boating with a catamaran called Alley Cat for nearly three years. We met and clicked and compromised effortlessly. We get along so well. We sail together, explore together, socialize, commiserate, laugh, plan, unplan, replan and of course drink rum.

On a day like this I am humbled. Humbled to the core at how deep their friendship goes. Alan in his dinghy, wearing swimming goggles, appearing at the edge of the boat in the heart of the storm to help take our guests ashore.

And then the encouragement later as we sat pouting, devastated at our predicament. A smile and a genuine promise to help. And help doesn’t cover it. It’s a weak word to describe what true friendship is.

Hours, scrounging in their bilges for spares and days crouched in our narrow passages, fixing, trying, making a plan. All for a mere cup of tea and a heartfelt thank you.

To know you are not alone, to feel a united front in a storm, to be far from the support systems of the western world with true friends in tow, is exhilarating.

When I told my dad what happened, he said “If you didn’t have bad luck you’d have no luck at all.”

But  here's the thing about luck...you don't know if it's good or bad until you have some perspective.

I think he’s wrong. I know we are lucky; so lucky to have found true friends, a privilege many never experience.