We knew the routine. The taste of salt and fear. Then the wind shifts, the waves relax, and suddenly it's blue sky, gentle breeze, a crystal silence. On the horizon, like a bad dream, is the dark boiling line of the squall. That night the wind died, the sea flattened, and we drifted.
Sails slack as rags.
A high thin overcast obscured the stars. I suggested starting the diesel and motoring until the wind came up. We're in no hurry. The night air was soft and velvety, and there was the still lingering excitement of the squall. We dragged a mattress on deck, rolled into one another, and made our own thunder and lightning.