Surfing downwind, wave by wave, main boomed out to one side and jib poled out on the other, the miles tick by. A squadron of cottony clouds follow and overtake the boat, puffs of perfect whiteness to rival the sparkling crests of each wave that curls over and sprinkles spray over the cockpit just as it passes under the keel with a bubbly hiss. Flying fish leap from the bumpy swells, soaring across the seas in flight from larger predators below. The dolphins enter, leaping and cavorting about, delighted with yet another beautiful day, keeping pace with the boat until, like fickle children, they tire and dart off to find another plaything. These are the ideal conditions of a trade wind run. There's nothing like a day such as this, the kind of day the aspiring cruiser dreams about and an experienced sailor remembers with the smug fondness that comes from knowing one has experienced a communion with nature that many others will never know.
But, wait. There's more. What is that smudge on the horizon, a smudge that is growing ever larger beneath a big anvil-shaped cloud? Oh yeah. Another side to nature is the first sign of a squall. That figures. How many times do sudden squalls come a knocking out of the clear blue, when things couldn't look better? Fortunately, one redeeming feature of the squall is that they don't spawn suddenly, appearing out of nowhere. If a proper lookout is maintained and the watch isn't asleep at the wheel, squalls always give fair warning. Day or night, skies get darker, and a heaviness in the air announces an imminent change with a different smell, the distinctive smell of wind mixed with rain.
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Before a squall hits, there is time to close hatches, gather up the laundry drying on the lifelines, prepare to shorten sails or drop them entirely, gather up soap and other bathing equipment, and, if this is a boat that hasn't surrendered completely to modernity with a desalinator, time enough to rig up the water collection system, too. Thank God for some predictability because while we know that squalls usually bring thunder, lightening and wind, on the flip side, the pregnant clouds also hold enough moisture to both fill tanks and to take proper showers, hair and all.
As the leading edge approaches, the sky darkens ominously. The wind dies then comes back irregularly, slowly shifting in fits and spurts of gusts and calm; the boat loses speed and direction. When a line of distant angry whitecaps becomes visible, deployed from the grimmest looking corner of the sky, it is time to drop sail. Preventers are loosened, the boom and spinnaker pole are sheeted in, and Teflon slides rattle in the track as the sails erratically pleat themselves downward in a rush of fabric. Lines are pulled inboard and swiftly coiled as the unbalanced boat stops making headway and begins to seesaw in the seas—a motion that is immediately followed by sounds from below emitting through the companionway. Cans roll drunkenly in their lockers, bottles clink together, doors unlatch and slam to and fro, thuds accompany missiles ejected from shelving, and the hope is that none of this means damage to a favorite food or drink and a major cleanup. The rocking, however, doesn't matter too much because it won't last long. The atmosphere is charged with anticipation, waiting for the ball to drop.
Sure enough, moments later, any trace of the sun that may have been still visible ahead of the front get whisked away. The line of whitecaps catch up and, boy, does the initial gust pack a wallop. The first blast of wind is almost visible in force, grabbing the meager windage of the boat's hull and rigging and slamming it down in a headlock, broadside to the waves. There could be 40, 50, even 60 knots of wind. The actual figure is incidental. It's enough to know that it is strong and that dropping the sails was the prudent thing to do. Directly on the heels of the wind, a solid wall of rain bears down, flattening the seas. Where the wind hasn't succeeded to punch the boat into the water, the rain does. The deluge is preceded by seconds worth of heavy droplets, a paltry courtesy, before the full force hits mercilessly. It thunders down and streams of heaven-borne water create gully washers along the deck, a stage-four rapid of hydraulics and eddies forming instantaneously as the unrestrained river gushes and collects sternward because only so much can leave through the scuppers at a time. The water level rises and begins to overflow, a Niagara pouring over the toe rail. The water collection system works beautifully and the tanks are filling up faster than they would at any dock, as fast as the wide-mouth funnels permit.
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The wind keeps the boat heeled over and relatively steady, and wedged into a safe spot with hand and footholds on deck. It's time to bring out the soap and shampoo. A freshwater shower feels great; such a welcome treat and there's no need to conserve water here. It's coming full bore and the only time limit is circumscribed by the capacity of the squall itself, which always depends. Since there's no way to forecast the duration of the shower, it's best to get soaping and shampooing out of the way in order to guarantee a thorough rinsing. There aren't many things worse than being all soaped up and having the water supply cut off, when the promise of a freshwater cleanliness becomes a teaser, when the disappointed body needs to be rinsed with buckets of the usual salty stuff, yet again.
On a trade wind crossing, squalls break up the monotony of perfection. Just as life settles into a comfortable routine, they come along to stir things up, to raise the level of excitement. They make the heart beat a little faster, the blood surge a little stronger, because something different is about to happen, and once the cloud looms directly behind the boat, there is no escaping the thrill. But, when it ends, when the rain eases, slowly dying to a fine drizzle, when the wind disappears and the boat begins to lurch in the swell with the agitated and erratic waves slapping up against the bottom of the hull, the excitement grows old.
The squall isn't so much fun anymore; it becomes a bit of a downer and a test of patience. The last puddles on deck swish out of the scuppers; the mainsheet clatters as the boom swings showers of droplets from side to side, and the banging and clunking from below resumes to join the discordant symphony of annoying sounds. There is no point in resetting the sails until the trades fill back in from behind. Instead, it is better to do something, to keep busy by gathering up the water collecting system, closing the inlets, and trying to savor the moment, maybe even over a cup of tea.
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Everything drips, but the boat is a salt-free enclave of freshness and subtlety of contrast in color—the droplets of water, the clean white decks, the dark wet wood, the sails and the mast all sit nicely against a backdrop of the sea and the lifting cloud cover. Suddenly, the warming sun is back and the first gentle nudges of the regular winds flutter the drenched ensign on the backstay. It's time to go again, to return to life as it was prior to the squall. The sails go up, the steering system is set, the miles resume ticking, and all is a little cleaner, if not better, for the experience, and certainly more prepared for the next one.
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