A 40 knot blow roared through our Roatan anchorage the other night at 2AM.
Once you make sure that the anchor and bridle are secure, and that everything that can be is battened down, there is nothing left to do but hope and pray that the anchor holds and that the boat doesn't snap apart.
It's an interesting place to be.
There were about 10 other boats in the anchorage. During the worst of the blow, when all holy hell was hurtling down from the sea and sky, I found myself looking to the other boats, anchor lights bucking wildly.
They are experiencing this too, I realized.
And I found comfort in this. I actually visualized the crews of Freedom's Call, Moonsong, Nauti Nauti and Argo up and about, bleary eyed but alert, preparing the boat and assessing the situation. They were just as scared as we were.
We were not alone. And acknowledging this reality lessened my fear.
And then I widened my scope. I thought of the boats lashed to the marina here in French Harbor. And I thought of the families living in humble dwellings on shore. Here too, families would be up and about, worried that their modest homes might not hold up to the onslaught.
When Chris and I lived in SoCal, earthquakes were a common experience. When a shaker would rattle through at 4AM, I remember thinking that this was the great equalizer. At the exact moment when the temblor hit, Jack Nicholson felt just as vulnerable in his Mulholland Drive mansion as I did in my tiny college apartment.
All 5 million people in the greater LA area experienced the Communion of the Quake.
It sounds corny to state the obvious: We really are all in this together.
And this fact should bring you comfort.
If you truly believe that you are completely alone on this planet, then might I gently suggest that you're really not paying attention.