Night Of The Storm

It was the second night of the famous "Fastnet Race". The howling wind bit at my ears like a hungry dog eating its bone. The wheel kicked violently in my hand as I clung with all my strength. The whipping rain lashed on the deck as the boat rolled, like a clock pendulum. The sails clapped excitedly and pulled our boat, slicing through the waves like a diesel pulling its train. The ropes clanged against the steel mast, which could be heard amidst the crashing waves, which licked the side of the yacht, crept alongside and threw up over the deck. The whistling wind blew the spume over the deck, like throwing a blanket over a bed. The mountainous black waves towered above our heads, and rushed under the yacht, forcing us upwards and down into the next valley. At the crest of the last mountainous wave, I caught a glimpse of the Fastnet Lighthouse winking about two nautical miles to starboard.

Yacht The last time I had made this journey, the tip of Southern Ireland had been visible through the grey mist of the sea's face; and the lights of Clear Island, Baltimore and Schull had twinkled on the surface of the calm water. But now, the noise of men shouting, shaking sails, howling wind, lashing rain, and spume breaking over the side of the deck like water escaping from a burst dam, had made this journey like a nightmare. As we weathered the rocks of the Fastnet, and rounded it safely, it was as if it were something which marked the end of the storm, for almost immediately the wind began to die, and the rain began to ease, we had made it safely.

Tom Russell

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