As water filled my boots, I sat wedged between the cockpit table and steering pedestal where somehow my safety tether had ensnarled the spoked wheel. I worked in the near-continuous strobe of massive purple-blue electrical burst to untangle my self. A rush of bitterly cold air shocked me out of step by methodical step assessment of taking in another reef vs. maintaining speed and considering the likelihood of facing a massive breaking wave over the stern. My ears crackled then popped with a radicle change in pressure, and those two events in quick succession gave me a reason to pause. I looked up from the winch I was cranking to see clear skies above and a stream of meteorites pouring into the top of a massive supercell storm violently rippling in shades of orange, blue and purple electric light. Beneath the spectacle, a series of waterspouts slow danced to a song that echoed in tones of thunder.
On our way back to Caprica, the heat of the day was growing more intense, and I grumbled that we had been stuck in Chesapeake City for so long. “By this date, we’re usually in Maine,” I said and pointed the tiller towards our little floating island. Then I thought about the people we met, the stories we heard, and the few that we had come to be acquainted with. The town was beautiful, friendly, and welcoming. It was the longest I’d ever stayed in Chesapeake City, and I’d come to find the town to be more than a cruising crossroads; it was a destination.