The Oceans Mood Swings: Ode to a Squall

You see it coming on the radar screen—an angry red blob with all the charm of a tax audit and the speed of a drunk shopping cart with one wheel possessed by Satan. The barometer free-falls like Bitcoin on a bad day.

To avoid her or take it on the stern quarter—those are the only reasonable options. I’ve heard a few masochists argue it’s best to take it head-on since it “passes faster.” Yeah, sure—if you enjoy donating hardware to Neptune. I’ve got nowhere to be and all the time in the world to get there. Sailing close-hauled into 40 knots sounds, well, idiotic—bad on the rig, bad on the boat, and worst of all, bad on me.

So there it is, lurking on the horizon like "The Nothing" closing in on Atreyu. Five miles wide, marching toward me at 18 knots, dragging its own private weather system behind it. I could probably dodge it if I fired up the engine and played matador. But nope, not this time. She is moving too quick; I’m eating this one like a man who ordered the “Chef’s Choice” of chaos.

Will it be a gentle slap or a crowbar to the face? That’s the gamble. The radar shows the size but not the power—only the cloud tops and colors hint at what’s brewing inside. Conventional sailor lore says a squall’s wind speed usually runs 20 to 25 percent hotter than whatever the breeze was doing before, but I’ve seen 20 knots turn to 25 and 25 turn to 55 faster than you can say “reef early.”

So, it’s time to shrink and simplify: reef her down, secure the decks, cleat the preventer, fall off to around 160 AWA, and maybe even toss a warp out depending on the prevailing conditions.

She always starts polite. A nice, cool breeze across your forearms that whispers, Hey sailor, getting a little warm? That’s Mother Nature's tease before body-slamming you into the bulkhead like she’s auditioning for the WWE. You glance windward one more time—bam—the horizon shifted from a tranquil baby blue to dead black—a line of pure menace drawn across the sea.

And then—WHAM.

It arrives like a drunk uncle at Thanksgiving with a flask and unresolved trauma. It’s instant chaos—anticipated and prepared for, yes, but chaos nonetheless. Here we go: 20 knots, 25, 35, 40... The hull groans like an old warship reliving battle as the rigging shrieks in fury—the storm speaks through violence. The rain sprays like bullets, horizontal across the stern. And as you stand there manning the helm, being accosted by Mother Nature's tantrum, you realize this sensation is unmatched by anything else in life.

The feeling is VISCERAL.

Through all this, you’re laughing—not out of hubris, but because it’s absurd. Soaked to the marrow, ears ringing, and every normal human you know would call this a nightmare. But you signed the waiver. You paid for this carnival ride. You definitely don’t enjoy it—quite the opposite—but you’ve been here before and will be again. You respect it because this is the toll you pay to reach faraway, beautiful places.

And just like that—POOF, IT’S GONE!

The world exhales. The ocean flattens. The air smells like the planet just took a shower and hit reset. Mother Nature’s sweetness peeks out sheepishly, pretending she didn’t just try to murder you ten minutes ago. You’re left standing there—drenched, buzzing, salt-stung, and grinning like an idiot who just slow-danced with chaos once again and lived to tell about it.

Days Sober: 2,136

Side note: I’m not kidding about this—I put Loreena McKennitt on when the squall rolls in (not using headphones for obvious reasons). The juxtaposition of her haunting Celtic melodies against the chaos outside is wild—one part calm, one part surreal, and somehow the perfect soundtrack to madness. LOVE IT!