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The anamometer was recording 60 in the gusts, and the seas were up. One moved about the deck in a crouch, hanging on with care while moving the clip of the safety harness from one point to another. There was work to be done. A change to the No. 5 jib (the smallest) had been called for. We raised a small staysail to keep the boat in balance between jibs and took the No. 4 down with difficulty. An hour later we would have had to cut it loose.
As it was, the spray coming off the bow struck us like whips, and only our safety lines clipped to the weather side kept us from sliding into the sea. Raising the No. 5 was out of the question. The wind was increasing. We would sail with the small staysail and the main reefed to maximum.
With the storm full on us, we took positions on the high side of the deck and held on. The three best helmsmen took turns facing painfully into blowing scud that stung like sand, looking for the optimum path through seas that lifted us up and up and rolled under us or struck us broadside, full force.
Driving was exhausting. The helms man would yell a warning the moment he knew he had been beaten by one of the monsters. We would double our grip and tuck our heads in as hundreds of gallons of solid water tried to batter us off the deck. Recoiling from one such wave, two crewmen fell against the yacht's owner, Jim Kilroy, crushing him against a winch. He went below in pain for the remainder of the race with two broken ribs.
Unlike the claustrophobic, ominous feel of most storms, this night presented the striking contrast of clear skies alight with a full compliment of stars. Occasional clusters of low, fastmoving fleecy clouds would pass through. The moon was high, threequarters full and brilliant, illuminating the steep seas with cold, eerie light. When clouds masked it, its beams peeked through to turn small patches of ocean to pure pounded silver. Astern, the big dipper was full to brimming.
Kialoa was reaching at 10 knots under minimal sail. Her fine racing bow sliced into the seas, carving off hunks of ocean that were splattered to either side as foam and heaved high into the air and blown into the sails. The water was thick with globs of phosphorescence that would stick on the mainsail and glow for a moment, or speed off to leeward on the wind like sparks from spent fireworks. From her mad dash through the storm, Kialoa left a swath of pure white foam astern fully 200 yards long that shimmered like a snowfield in the moonlight. I yearned to see us from a nearby vantage point. We must have been a sight.
Let us hope we are spared a similar storm
