I cursed my foul weather gear as the icy seawater slowly soaked my clothes. At least I had woolen clothes that would still retain some heat even though wet. Struggling to maintain my footing on the heaving and rolling deck made my legs ache to the point it was hard to tell if they were on fire or just completely numb.

The roar of the wind was accented by the howling banshee sound of the wind in the rigging. The fiercely driven spray bit the exposed skin on my face. The bow plunged into the dark angry sea throwing up a wall of water to be blown back across the entire deck.

Yesterday when the scud clouds raced across the sky, I took time to secure all my gear, reef the sails, set my storm jib, and prepare the sea anchor. Transatlantic voyages in December are not for the novice, and although I had spent more of my life at sea than ashore, I had a nagging feeling I couldn’t shake. Oddly, this feeling freed from their moorings memories I had long ago sailed away from. I sorely needed to be focused not distracted by events from the late 70s.

A huge wave slammed abeam and the boat shuddered and rolled violently. The ocean had become a roiling tempest, and I was caught in the middle. The decision to run off downwind in the increasing wind was no longer an option. The sea anchor was my only option to avoid certain disaster. Lying ahull with a full keel would have assured a quicker meeting with King Neptune.

Everything around me was monochromatic shades of angry slate grey.  At times it seemed the sea had rebelled and no longer kept its appointed place as ordered by the Creator. I no longer had the strength to curse the sea with one breath and pray for safety with the next breath. Earlier I had tried to compete with the wind by singing “Eternal Father, Strong to Save”. The howling wind and angry sea drowned my best efforts.

I was soaked and miserable. Maybe I should have donned my survival suit, but I was resolved not leave my boat come hell or high water. Abandoning was not an option I would ever do again. That was the moment when a second storm unleashed a fury I would have never imagined could exist. This storm was far worse than the one I was sailing in. This storm crashed against my heart with such force that it nearly drove me to my knees.

Looking down I double checked that I was secured to the boat, and I grabbed the helm with both hands and held on for life. Closing my eyes, I no longer saw an angry ocean, and I slowly sank into a deeper nightmare that had plagued me for decades. The grey shades of the storm were replaced by an emerald green landscape with a blue cloudless sky. I had grasped the helm with all my might.  Now I was holding her in my arms. Her long brown hair fell below her waist. She looked at me with brown eyes that reflected the warmth of her heart. Her arms gently hugged me and held on. My beautiful Irish girl, I loved everything about her. There was nothing I would not do for her…or so I thought.

I will never forget the last day I saw her or the seven words that slipped past my lips that day, words that have become an eternal curse and have haunted me to this very day.  So this vision of seeing her and holding her tore savagely at my heart.  Refusing to open my eyes, I found myself looking into her eyes again. The words she spoke took me far away to a place I had for many years prayed I could find. When our lips touched, it was like the whole world stood still for a time. I found myself holding her tightly in this storm that was tearing my heart apart.

What happened next may well be a mystery for all time. I have no recollection of how much time passed as I lay crumpled on the cold, wet wooden deck. The eerie silence replaced the roar and howl of the hellish winds. The boat lay still as if in some quay or harbor. I blinked hard to clear my eyes.  A soft blue sky stretched from horizon to horizon. I shuddered as I realized that I had just beheld this sky. Reaching up I took hold of the railing and struggled to my feet. Looking around I numbly noted that although the storm jib was tattered, the sea anchor had held. The boat had survived and in turn had saved me once more.

I slowly and painfully took off my foul weather gear. I was soaked but warm. The Irish Fisherman’s sweater was made of soft wool and had kept me warm enough. I would change later. I needed water and to determine where I was. Going down the ladder below decks I quenched my thirst for fresh water and grabbed my charts and sextant.

Back on the main deck, I began the process of “finding myself” as I called it. Dead reckoning had nearly been the death of me before. My skills greatly improved over the years. I began plotting my position on the chart when I heard a whisper. Quickly looking up I saw the distant horizon which quickly disappeared in a flood of tears. I swear I heard her whisper one single word. No one ever knew nor would ever know why that one word would mean the world to me.

Bracing for this storm in my heart would tax me more than any storm at sea. I’ve survived in the past, and I will survive again. The pain from that self-inflicted wound has never fully healed. So very long ago on a distant shore, she had kissed me goodbye, and I foolishly spoke those seven fatal words, turned to the sea and lost her forever. My course and compass have put me on an eternal course to sail and never arrive. My port of call is a fading memory of a past I calculated and lost.

When this storm finally blows over in my soul, it is always the same quiet lonely solitude. My last thoughts are that wherever Colleen is, I hope that the Irish Blessing is hers each and every day. As for me, the sea has a claim on my heart, and the sea is a very fickle and harsh mistress. I often hope that one day I will meet a woman who will with one single kiss break this curse and free me from this life of forever sailing the seas and never making port.