Squall

The sky was clear for miles. The sun rose over calm seas, and not a cloud marred the deep blue endlessness above. Off the bow, soft morning light pinked the beach and warmed the green of the palms and the lush tropical mountains that rose out of the ocean.

“I think we can make it today. No signs of foul weather; nothing in the forecast.”

He sipped his tea. “Let’s do it,” he said. He held the tiny tea cup in his large hand and sat with his bare feet propped on the bench in the cockpit. He watched the morning colors. A fish blooped the surface of the water next to the hull. Sea birds surveyed the shallows near the shore. They kept a keen eye, ready to drop and nab a fish at any moment. Fisherman had already loaded nets and traps into their colorful boats and rowed out to their fishing grounds.

After tea and oatmeal, they cleaned the galley and started securing all their loose items. They’d eliminated physical books, opting for digital readers instead, so they had fewer items to stow after a month in port.

An hour after sunrise, they were underway on a beam reach to the next island. Soon there was no land anywhere in sight, only sky and ocean. The boat sliced through the water, steady on her course, the sea slapping at her hull. Flying fish soared before them, erupting from the water on either side of the bow like the Red Sea Noah parted.

As predicted, the weather was perfect. No squalls, no troubles. In their years leading up to living aboard, they’d read stories of sailing. The stories focused on everything that goes wrong: the catastrophe, the terror, the drama. The couple found, though, if they watched the weather and were patient, they could avoid a lot of turmoil by not forcing things when the time wasn’t right. They could sail on sapphire waters under clear skies, with the smell of salt and sun and fresh air, and arrive just before sunset at their destination, to put up their feet again and relax into the tropical night.