It was rather like a forced-on numbness of spirit. The long, long stress of a gale does it; the suspense of the interminably culminating catastrophe; and there is a bodily fatigue in the mere holding on to existence within the excessive tumult, a searching and insidious fatigue that penetrates deep into a man's heart, which is incorrigible, and of all the gifts of the earth - even before life itself - aspires to peace. J. Conrad TYPHOON

We survived together the great hurricane Dennis of 1986 - four days off the coast of Nicaragua.

We should have heeded the warning - the mass parade of dolphin headed south. Thousands of them leaping and spinning giving a wide berth to what was coming. The next evening that first big swell. Many of us huddled together watching a matinee couldn't help but jump from our seats - the cadence of our rhythm broken. We surfed that one massive rouge wave gentle in its passing but the effect on our nerves was dazzling. Something was amiss.
We were two days out of Alcapulco and headed for New York to be part of the Liberty Celebration. That harbor to be full up with mega yachts and high dollar attendees for what was to be the biggest fireworks displays outside of China. The owner a restauranteur bought Wildcatter (once owned by Al Capone and used in the Great Lakes as a rum runner during the Prohibition) which lay derelict in San Diego harbor, hired Nick to oversee its retrofit, most of which was done in Ensenada Mexico. Things there happen manana style and our departure was late into the hurricane season.
Riding out a storm at sea is a surreal experience. We were on a constant rollercoaster thirty-five foot from crest to bottom where what they call 'Hotels' broke over the bow. The hours pass slowly and the wind howed. Nick stood sentry in the wheel house. His hand on the telegraphs as he felt the minute he walked away we took a bad roll. It was his will that kept us pointed to the best advantage to survive each wave.
It was impossible to sleep, nowhere to lie safe. Some of us lay spread out on the floor together, arms and legs splayed to keep from rolling. No one ate as cupboards were drums of dishes broken and churning. Refrigerator a dangerous missile thrower of jagged mayonnaise. Cheerios and flat tins of Coca Cola would spew back up and fly across the deck to mingle with the flotsom and jetsum in the surf.
The nights dimmed the view but the sounds of its fury never left you. Ones soul is jarred loose and drifts out beyond the railings and I could see our battered hull from ever vantage point. From far below I could visualize clearly the dark mass with a white of thrashed propeller tail. From the side a profile of regal beauty descending over a crest like a train into a canyon. From the air I saw the whole plane of frothing green. A sea struggling to find its center. Chaos of regulated pits and crowns. Our tiny vessel plugging along and forced into it by our Captain. The night he cleared the bilges I bathed his blackened body, wiped his eyes of grease, sent him back to his duty. Crew surfed plywood across table saws to fasten up windows. Human barriers broke down and kindness and concern filled us up.
At long last Corinto and a feast that I knew had been played out in history as long as men have been traveling at sea. A survivors bounty and cheerful celebration. Slowly the spaces between us filling once again. Phobias towards lesser things washed away. One walks away a changed person. A kinship towards your mates, a stronger back.
We never made it to New York. All Nicks crew threw their belongings onto the dock when he was relieved of his duty. That brought him to tears.
In those hours a decision to be made. From whence to travel. A return to San Diego and a career as a painter. A sensible choice.

Maid of Nazareth - An invitation to tour the coast of Scotland.
It will never happen but I know in his heart the offer of a precious gift.