The Black Wave
Published: Friday, April 30, 2021
By: Bob Bitchin
I can remember it as if it were yesterday—when it was actually over 25 years ago—Jody and I were sailing Lost Soul west-bound out of French Polynesia. We'd ducked into the lagoon at Maupilia to get out of a storm, and when it subsided, we took off heading for Suvarov Island.
As we passed the uninhabited atoll of Manuae about 37 miles out, a small squall hit. We'd been through a few squalls by then, but this one was pretty strong. We had left Maupilia in the afternoon, planning an arrival in Suvarov for midday. That meant we were passing this dangerous atoll in the middle of the night.
Now, here, I must digress. You see, for those of you who have not sailed French Polynesia, most of their charts of the outlying atolls were done in the 1700s by some guy named Lieutenant Bligh. For you history buffs, yup, this is the same Bligh to go on to fame as the skipper of the Bounty! Anyway, even though 1700s seamen were skillful, their equipment was, to say the least, lacking accuracy. Therefore, it was generally accepted that low lying atolls should NEVER be approached in the dark. Many of them were as much as three miles off their charted locations.
So, back to the fun and games. It's nighttime. We have radar, but it doesn't do any good on an atoll where the highest point of land is less than six feet! Then comes a squall with heavy winds, and, of course, lots of very dark clouds. Are we having fun yet?
I had the radar going to see if we could get a reflection, but we were still staying at least four miles from where the atoll was charted. Since we had a SatNav, our position was reasonably accurate, but the chart's date made us a little leery.
Biblical amounts of rain were being dumped on us, so no one wanted to venture outside the canvas storm room/dodger, and visibility was about as poor as I can recall. The fact that we’d been out cruising a while with our scratched and yellowed eisenglass windows pushed the low visibility further. And then it happened. A brilliant flash, just over our heads. I must say, my heart just about stopped! It was literally right on top of us.
Asking Jody to take the wheel, I ducked out of the comfort of the storm room and grabbed the emergency lightning gear. Our lightning gear consisted of 10 feet of galvanized anchor chain that was kept clamped to our rigging base with an old pair of vice grips. I tossed the chain over into the black water and waited for the next bolt of lightning. But then I realized there was something wrong. There had been no loud clap of thunder!
Just then, as I was starting to climb back into the storm room, another brilliant flash went off. I managed to look up just as it did, and there was no traditional stroke of lightning, just a brilliant flash, and a hissing sound. I was starting to feel the cold grip of fear inside. This was too weird.
As I stood there staring into the dark void above me, I heard a sound. It was the sound a sailor never wants to hear. It was a breaking wave.
Now, there are breaking waves, and then there are Breaking Waves. This one was huge! At least 15 feet and it was about 100 yards in front of us... on the course we were steering!
I gotta tell you, I was scared. I threw the flap open to the storm room and climbed in. I grabbed the wheel and spun it hard to port. I just wanted to stop the boat. I'd seen and heard the wave but had no idea in which direction it was breaking. In the dark, with all the wind and clouds, we couldn't see a thing.
A couple seconds later and the weird flash of light went off again. It illuminated the sea all around us and, in that split second, I took in our surroundings. The atoll was off to our starboard, probably 300-400 yards. The depth sounder wasn't reading, so that meant it was at least 300 feet deep. But in those brief seconds when the sky had lit up, I had seen the whole lagoon. It was beautiful!
As I now had an idea of where the atoll was, the fear started to ebb. Another flash went off, with the accompanying hiss and sizzle in the air, but now it was seeming normal. Later we learned it was ball lightning, which happens occasionally, but I have to tell you, it put the fear of God into us that night.
And that is my point: the fear I felt that night. As our cruise extended into months and then years, I don't recall ever feeling fear like that again. And there is the lesson. The longer I was out, the less that was unknown, and the unknown is what we fear.
Once you get out there, you find fear is soon replaced by the feeling of adventure, which is what sent us out there in the first place!
A version of this article appeared in the Spring Issue (Mar/Apr) 2021 of Great Lakes Scuttlebutt magazine.
tags: Beyond the Lakes, Lifestyle, Sailing
