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After it was over and terror left behind, I demand an explanation. “We checked the forecast before we left. How could that happen?” He looked at me, paused. I knew what he would say. * * * I came late to the water. Raised in central Illinois, I knew only placid rivers, sluggish and uninviting, and small shallow lakes. The Chesapeake Bay was different, and I gave myself to the joy of wind, sky, sea, its vast expanse of changing color. Mesmerizing beauty and his boating skill overcame distrust. We cast off from Deltaville that morning into a bright sky, blue water scattered with sun crystals. Crystal. The name of our boat. A twenty-three foot Sea Ray, small for the Bay but seaworthy. Her flat planing hull skims over the water to maximize speed and minimize fuel costs. The run home usually takes about four hours. We don’t hurry, slow Crystal to wake speed and enjoy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Later we tie up at Chick’s and linger over Yuengling drafts and crab cake sandwiches. Then the final leg, heading for the foot of the Bay. I push apprehension away. Hampton Sound is always rough. We change course here, turn east towards the Atlantic. Two rivers flow into the Sound; the narrow, working Elizabeth River from Norfolk and the wider, powerful James from Richmond. As they converge and meet the ocean, the waters join in a churny dance. Crystal digs into the roil, her hull slapping in a regular bounce. SLAP . . . . . SLAP . . . . . SLAP. A bit farther on, we meet the rising Atlantic tide. It pushes against the river currents and SLAP becomes SLAM . . . SLAM . . . SLAM. A quickened cadence. We’ve ploughed through many tides. We expect tides. Then the unexpected. Strong winds from all directions create a punishing chop. These are not the swelling, rounded waves of oceans. The waves of the Bay are angular, almost square. SLAM becomes BAM. . BAM. . BAM. I silently curse, hoping the wind steadies. A gust flips my cap into the wake and the water accepts my sacrifice. Dread ripens. In seconds, the wake loses its symmetry, its perfect V disappears and white froth turns gray. Turning toward the bow, I face a wall of leaden mist with no top, no bottom. The horizon is gone. Fear blooms. I hear myself moan. Suddenly – from nowhere – hard rain, stronger wind, a train-like roar. Crystal lurches and he motions me into the cockpit’s shelter. I take my place next to him and he squeezes my knee. Barely hear, “Hold tight.” His hunched shoulders say this could be serious; his wide smile says he will enjoy it. Riding high, Crystal rises only to fall, her bow burrows under water, her propeller futilely fans air. Cold saltwater soaks us at every dip. I struggle to stay seated, feet anchored, toes curled against the deck, calves braced. Thrown against the wooden chart table, I stand, grip the rails, flex my knees in time to an erratic beat. That works until Crystal starts to fly from one crest to another. Her hull drops. When she rises, the deck slams against my feet. A painful jolt travels up my spine. His concerned glance frightens me more than the storm and I sit again, leaning into him, hard. I hear, “It won’t take much longer.” I long for Lynnhaven Bridge and the calm waters of the inlet it guards. Stare into the grey wall. Is the light changing? A shadow slowly rises, then comes up fast. He throttles back to maneuver Crystal between girders. The Inlet is absurdly still. Doesn’t it realize what’s going on a half mile back? My breathing returns to normal. His shoulders relax. We are okay, bruised but whole. It is over – forty minutes of fear. * * * “We checked the forecast before we left. How could that happen?” Something in me needs an explanation, a cause, a reason. It doesn’t seem much to ask – if I, if we, know the cause, we can avoid future squalls. He holds my outraged gaze, softly answers, “There isn’t a reason. It was random. An act of nature.” His gentle smile says, “Let it go.” He accepts an ungoverned universe, lives easily within it. I nod at his familiar words, know he’s right. Like a mutated, cancerous cell, a storm sometimes just happens. |
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Gerry Moohr is a writer who lives in Houston. As a law professor, Moohr regularly wrote academic essays for law reviews. Now retired, she’s returned to a childhood passion and writes creative essays for literary journals. Moohr credits writing workshops sponsored by Inprint, Grackle, and Writespace for easing her transition. |
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