If I could describe my favorite type of passage, it is one with consistent trade winds not directly behind us, but about 30 degrees over our shoulder, calm seas, under a full moon or a clear sky full of stars. And if there were a passage the complete opposite of that....

Our anchor was up by 9:30 a.m. and Sonrisa was just poking her nose around the exit of the Addu atoll when giant Indian Ocean swell and chop, current, and wind all conspired to complete disorder. Sonrisa, normally so willing to take waves on the chin, is tossed to and fro, her mast waggling in the air side-to-side, up, down, right, left. Even sitting became uncomfortable, impossible as it was to predict which direction we’d be tossed next.

“I need these waves to calm down,” I say to Andrew, closing my eyes as my head spin about my shoulders like a possessed demon.

“Me, too!” He agrees, and presses Sonrisa’s throttle for additional power to our engine.

This didn't seem a great start to our passage, but this is how most atoll exits go. In fact, Sonrisa shipped only one “greenie” onto her deck, so we considered that a win. Once we reached open water things were marginally better, at least with all the waves going generally in one direction. We hoisted sails and soon, Sonrisa’s bow wake was gurgling with bubbles.

“There!” I say as I tuck myself into my pre-nightwatch nap. “Don't worry, Leslie. This will be a nice passage like the one from Uligan, but with a few more waves.”

And indeed, the forecast looked auspicious. Three different weather predictions all agreed, we should have light headwinds the first day, then they were scheduled to clock around to the East, giving us a nice beam reach (wind on Sonrisa's side, her favorite!) the whole way to Chagos so long as we kept moving. If we slowed down too much, the doldrums would catch us and we would be stuck with no wind. So, as Sonrisa glided along at 5.5 knots through my nap, we were all feeling good that the forecasts were holding true and we’d have a good passage.

But, as I woke from my nap, I peeked out at the horizon to see the sky bruising to deepening blues and purples. “Hmmm...that looks like rain.”

“It’s been like that for hours.”

“Yes, it’s building itself up for my watch.” Harumph.

“No, it will just be grey and overcast.” Andrew says, encouragingly enough, but as he reimerges from the companion way, he’s handing me up a pile of foul weather gear for future use. “Just in case."

“Ummmhmmmm.....” I say, poking my feet through the legs of my overalls. “We should reef the main sail.” I say, knowing that it is best practice to shrink the size of the mainsail at night when it's harder to see what is coming, and there is only one person on watch to fuss with it.

“No, the winds are so light. The forecast says we have to keep moving or we will be becamlmed.” Andrew says, and I agree, though with some trepidation. I know there are squalls out there, lying in their bunkers now, waiting to pop out on the attack.

I look out over the west sky, my eyes trying to locate something of a sunset, to avoid admitting the pitch black swallowing us whole from the East. But, westward, I see only shadows of greys like a sketch made in charcoal. With no moonrise and a layer of clouds thick as Michigan snow, soon the darkness is so complete I can’t see Sonrisa’s bow. I can't see the horizon, I can't even tell a difference between overcast sky and the fast moving clouds that bring squalls. I'm blind except for our GPS equipment and the radar.

Fifteen minutes after Andrew went to bed, the first squall moves in. Wind howls through the rigging, increasing pressure on the much too large sail I have deployed at the moment. Sonrisa tips her shoulders and we lean into the storm with more speed. 6.0 knots, 7.0 knots, 7.5....In the few seconds it takes me to clatter to my feet dragging my harness and teather into position, Sonrisa has burst out of the gates, transforming from cruiser to her “racer” position. “Whoa, Hausss!” I call to her as I release the genoa, get it to flapping, and try to haul it in on the roller fulring by myself. This, of course, rouses Andrew out of bed and he is up in the cockpit helping me in a matter of moments. Behind the wind comes a dousing of rain, and I begin this night watch with my hair a drippy mop. As Andrew descends back to bed, the wind leaves us completely, and we wallow in the dead shadow of the first squall.

“Joy.” I think. I wait for a little while, to see if the wind comes back, and predictibly it does, lightly. So, I reel out the big headsail again and set us up for another clash forty-five minutes later. A slight chill kisses my left shoulder from behind, raising the hair on the back of my neck, again. I pull in the sail just in time to be hit by another squall. And another.... and another... It continues like this - with the sail out, then in, out, then in for the remainder of my watch. On shift change, I was grateful to hand the helm to Andrew and let him take over...

...At least until I find myself rolling out of the bed, crashing not toward Sonrisa's floor, but up her sidewall into the bookshelves. “God-damn it!” I caw as I scramble out of bed, ducking my head through my life jacket, already teathered at the top of the doorway. In the cockpit, Andrew is struggling with the headsail, an even stronger squall has come out of nowhere, hitting Sonrisa with blunt force and causing her not just to sail along at 8 knots, but pressing her sideways, splashing waves and spray everywhere, and hammering her sails and mast closer to the water line. I release the main sail, widening its stance and allowing it to let wind blow past it rather than being caught up and pulling us sideways. This rights Sonrisa almost immediately, and gives Andrew more comfort as he pulls in more headsail.

“We really should reef the mainsail,” I say again.

There is rule while ocean sailing: “If you think you should reef the main, you are already too late.” We know this, but with Sonrisa bucking over waves that seem to come in all directions, both of us are loath to send Andrew forward to the mast to install the first reef. And again....that forecast says we need to keep speed on. So, with things back in control, I duck my head down the companion way and return to sleep.

Until....I am wakened by “flap, flap.....CRASH!!!"

“What the (*insert various explicatives not fit to print here*)!” This time, as I duck through my lifejacket I arrive in the cockpit to see Sonrisa deep in the valley of giant waves all around us, none of them seeming to go in any direction. The sky is just beginning to lighten from that pitch black to gunmetal grey of an overcast dawn. Looking up at the wind index at the top of our mast to see where the wind is coming from I see it spinning in circles, pointing no where. Wave crest peaking so high I have to look skyward to see the top of a wave. Instead of moving up and over the waves, the waves double up under Sonrisa and we find ourselves at the top of a peak as fast as we found ourselves in the valley. My stomach roils as I watch the main sail flap and flog, the preventer equipment straining to keep it from flying from one side of the boat to the other. “Pull the main to center!” Andrew chirps at me from the helm, the Autopilot blaring an “off course alarm." I reach down and turn the key to turn on the engine and give us forward power so we can steer to the course we intend. I try to yank the main sail ropes, they burn my hands as my palms squeeze around them, but they go nowhere. There's too much force in the sails they control for me to counteract them until we get some forward momentum.

Sonrisa twirls circles, trying to find her way out of this labrynth of weird waves and currents.

This is the Indian Ocean.

My heart continues to pound as I wrap the main sheet around the winch and drag the reticient sail centerboard. It’s the strangest feeling when 32,000 pounds of boat (15 tons) is tossed around in the sea like its nothing more than a feather. You, nothing more than a speck of sand or sawdust. "Sonrisa, hang on sweet girl." I tell her, knowing she is strong, knowing she'll take care of me, but also knowing I have to offer the favor in return.

As the morning light moves from grey to white, I’m comforted, and Sonrisa is back on course. Overhead, I can see we are on the edge of a very strange cloud system, a pancake spread wide and circular, with dark black toward its center. It looks perfectly stantionary, like it grew and formed from that center point, rather than moved across the horizon like a normal squall. I shudder, glad that we seem to be on the outside edge. I send Andrew down for an early naptime and press the throttle down for a bit more speed. I’d like to be well clear of whatever this is, sooner rather than later.

As it seems to always go, the daytime remained uneventful. Overcast and grey, very little wind, and annoying waves, but as the sea tends to do, it was saving up all its adventure for the night watch. “Sleep whenver you can get it,” wise old salts say about watch schedules on passages like these. You don't pass up an opportunity for a nap, as you may not get another one later. So, we alter our sleep schedule during the day to re-capture all that we both missed that night. And lucky, too. As I come on deck at the beginning of my watch I look onto the horizon with dread.

“More rain." I say, feeling certain it's slated to begin at exactly 7:01 p.m. Sonrisa is still being tossed on an unpredictable wave pattern, her engine buzzing beneathe me, my nerves fraying. Fear bubbles and wells inside me, a stone settles in the pit of my stomach remembering the adventures of the night past. We made it through last night all right, sure, but it could have been otherwise. Almost being knocked down, losing control of the swinging main sail, these are things that can happen, do happen at sea and if you remain active with them and your boat is strong and ready you probably will sail on through, but you might not. As I sit and wait for the start of my watch this second night, my mind circulates through all those possibilities that can bring a little sailing ship and her crew to harm at sea and I lose my equanimity.