![]() It had only been a week since Lucy and I started living aboard this old steel ship; within that week, we experienced winds with gusts reaching up to 60 knots, waterfalls of rain, and a rocking anchorage. The storm that gave Texas snow passed over us, sinking three boats and forcing several others to new anchorages. Of course, that week wasn’t all gray skies and chilling winds. The first couple of days were the calm before the storm, with smooth, glossy water stretching out to baby blue skies speckled with cotton ball clouds. The anchorage was one of the calmest I’ve ever experienced, with minimal rocking and soft ocean breezes brushing lightly through the rigging. A half dozen other sailboats gathered around us, dotting the tranquil seaside. The funny thing is, the hardest days to sleep were those first two—not because I was still adjusting to life on the hook, but because Bocas town comes alive at night. The nightclubs vibrated their basslines and beats across the bay, making my small cabin feel like it was in the middle of the bar. Mixing between techno, reggae, and Spanish flamenco, I had no choice but to cover my ears with headphones and play something soft to lull myself to sleep. Those peaceful days were short-lived. Rain clouds turned the blue skies gray, and the turquoise water became a murky brown as the current kicked up mud in its wake. At first, we didn’t think the storm would amount to much. Brushing off the warnings from our weather app, we headed to shore for some much-needed showers. Within a couple of hours, the rain started pouring—sheets of water coating the streets of Bocas. We waited for a break in the rain before returning to the dinghy. The rain had started again when we reached the bookstore, where our dinghy was slowly becoming a bathtub attached to a dock. Settling into the small restaurant, we crossed our fingers that the rain wasn’t finding its way into the open hatch in the aft cabin and waited for another break. When the rain paused, we bailed out the water-filled dinghy and climbed in, each hoping for dry beds when we got back onboard. The winds were picking up, and the square-rigged ship was starting to heel slightly. We hadn’t prepped the boat for rain, leaving us with waterlogged cockpit cushions. We tipped them up and gathered everything in sight that had only been slightly touched by rain. Our sunshades became rainwater collectors, and we retreated inside. Sarah and Ursula took turns draining full buckets into the water tanks throughout the night. At one point, I heard one of the sisters above me, wearing nothing but underwear and a rain jacket, siphoning water into the tanks. The sound of water running through the pipes echoed through the galley. The wind became more apparent as the rain subsided, howling through the rigging and tipping the boat on her side. By early morning, the rain had stalled, letting the sisters sleep while the wind continued to howl. The sound of rigging crying in the wind woke me up. One of the shade cover lines had snapped, and the fabric flapped violently, straining the boom. I quickly jumped out of bed, nervous about what I might find on deck. In the dark cockpit, I saw the old white sail snapping in the dim moonlight. The wind whipped around me, tossing my freshly washed locks across my face as I grabbed the sunshade’s corner and pulled it toward the cleat hitch. The pressure of the wind against the fabric strained my fingers as I tried to secure the loose edge. After several attempts to reattach the line, I devised a new plan, wrapping the cloth around the boom instead. Using the broken line and a loose sail tie, I secured the fabric and retreated to my cabin, whispering a quick prayer. ![]() I lay awake listening to the wind whistle through the halyards as the sun peeked through cracks in the clouds. The wind died down, but the rain began again. Emerging on deck while the crew slept, I grabbed my camera. Standing in the cockpit, I noticed the soggy blankets we had accidentally left out. Rain soaked my hair and dripped off my nose as I walked to the bow. The rain hitting the water created a thick haze, nearly obscuring the island in the distance. Turning to return to the cockpit, my camera focused on a black boat behind us. The local police were trying to re-anchor a mastless project boat. As they approached, I realized they were heading straight for us. Pantless, I hurried back to the cockpit and down the companionway, hoping they wouldn’t notice. Just as I turned to go below, I noticed another boat anchored behind us was missing, and several others seemed much closer. Standing in the entrance, I heard the officials whistle for us as they cruised by to check if we’d made it through the night safely. Suddenly, Ursula jumped out of bed, phone in hand. “Becca’s gone! Sebastian’s boat! It’s gone!” she exclaimed, her eyes glued to the screen. She rushed up the companionway stairs, baffled by this recent news. “That boat has no engine, and Becca’s just watching it for Sebastian. She’s not a sailor—she wouldn’t know what to do,” Ursula explained, worry written across her face. The rain intensified. Lucy and I took over the job of emptying water buckets and bailing out the half-sinking dinghy while the sister’s slept and relaxed. We quickly got used to our hair never fully drying and our underwear always slightly damp. A couple of days later, the storm finally passed. In the interim, we cleaned and organized the boat, making room for four women and the new crew’s belongings while helping the sisters offload unnecessary items. Once the storm had cleared, we returned to the bookstore to dispose of trash and swap stories with the locals. We learned the boat behind us had dragged anchor to within two meters of shore. Becca, the caretaker, had jumped off, swum to shore at four in the morning, called a cab, and had the boat towed to the south anchorage. Another nearby sailor admitted they’d seen the boat drag but assumed no one was aboard. They, too, had dragged anchor and faced countless issues that first night, leaving them exhausted. Hearing the stories of boats lost or damaged made us feel incredibly fortunate. Our anchor held firm, with all the chain out for safety. The storm, nearly hurricane-strength, left its mark on town: trees down, streets flooded, and power out for hours. Locals scrambled for sandbags and tree trimmers to handle the damage and prevent further flooding. Many told us it was one of the worst storms the island had seen in years.
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January 2025
Cassidy Wayant
North Carolina Heritage. Colorado Born. Aloha Spirit. |