The Squall

The mottled black and gray waves are dressed in beautiful, airy, lacy white foam. I see them begin their journey a half a mile away. There, they are small, building their volume as they cross the bay. By the time they reach us, their ridges are high and their troughs are deep. Gitane rides up the face and down the back as if tracing the outline of a loved one. The wind funnels her into a dance, swinging her first to port, then to starboard and back again. Her anchor chain, 40 feet below her and 150 ft. in front of her, holds her fast to her pivot point. The dance continues as the squall line approaches bringing playful, bouncing, raindrops that quickly turn into a loud, pounding, pelting roar. Like a tap dancer who begins softly tapping the left foot then the right until tapping so quickly that it’s impossible to distinguish one from the other, the clouds burst. The wind joins in a duet and the anemometer records 32 knots per mile. I feel Gitane holding tight to her chain, digging her claw deeper into the sea floor. The sets signal a tortuous power struggle with Mother Nature, until without warning she catches her breath, the rain becoming a fine mist and the wind a whisper. Gitane is left stretched out on her chain, like a dancer’s arm extended for her partner’s reassuring grasp. The refrain repeats itself as the wind and rain build and subside again, and again, and again. The exhausting dance lasts for hours, until Mother Nature has had enough and moves on, leaving Gitane dancing alone to the soothing melody of softly lapping waves, light as a gazelle, her reflection caught by the bold, brilliant, triumphant moonlight in the ink black water.