Free The Triangle and The Mountain: A Bermuda Triangle Adventure by Jake von Alpen

cockpit.
    “You may want to feel the wind on your face so you can
anticipate better,” was a contrary opinion, but he insisted on the doghouse, as
well as that it should fit gracefully into the overall design. He had nothing
against the rough stuff, as long it was according to his own choosing.  
    Grant took no chances with the storm.  It was the first time
that the boat met with a squall under his command and he decided to err on the
conservative side. They were under heavily furled headsail and mizzen only. The
onslaught of wind and rain came with a force so powerful, however, that he immediately
felt he should have taken in more sail. In the stronger gusts the boat heeled
heavily to port despite its size and he turned to take the weather bow-on. They
were deluged by a true tropical downpour. Huge drops of rain beat an angry
staccato against the Acrylic. Visibility reduced in seconds to no further than twenty
metres beyond the bow. The rain flattened the crests of the wavelets but he
could feel the seas bulging up underneath. Over the drumming against coach and
doghouse roof they could hear the rigging start up with a song of its own.  
    “Aha,” he shouted, surprised. “Force nine, without a doubt.”
He checked the anemometer to see if he was right. It was not quite what he had
thought, but close. The instrument indicated forty knots in the gusts, which
was force eight. Still, there was surprising venom in the storm.
    “There’s definitely more spunk to the Atlantic here in the
north,” he said to Madeleine, who worried him a bit. Don’t puke on me now,
lady, he said under his breath. He prepared himself mentally for a leap back
into the open cockpit to get the bucket. At the same time he consciously tried
to relax his rather white-knuckled grasp on the wheel.
    Half an hour later there was no sign of a let-up. The
orderly deep ocean swells were no longer recognisable. Instead, they were
ploughing through a maelstrom of confused waves. Steep seas piled higher and
higher. Grant decided not to be intimidated. He started aiming for the seas.
    “This is how you do it,” he called out to Madeleine, who
opted not to go below but appeared to watch the storm in wide-eyed wonder, although
she winced when a thunder clap exploded like a gunshot over the yacht. “When
you see a big sea head your way, take it on the bow. You don’t want it to roll
over the deck and destroy things.”
    Up they went and then down they raced on the back of each
big wave. Madeleine must have sensed Grant’s concern about sea-sickness because
once when he looked over she ticked the band on her wrist. It was rather
miraculous compared to yesterday. He wondered about it and then remembered.
Those piratical forefathers! She probably had it in the blood.
    It became an exhilarating chase over the heaving seas.
“Hee-yah!” he yelled as he pointed the boat up a steep one. “Whoopee!” he
called on the way down until they smashed into the bottom of a deep trough. He
was enjoying himself. This was his kind of stuff. Man against nature. He felt
good and his boat felt good as they took on waves that now sported thick froth
on the tops. A quick look confirmed that Madeleine was watching his antics with
a little smile. She seemed impressed.
    And then, after another hour, it was all over, bar for the
seas. They sat on a lumpy ocean which had lost all shape or rhythm. The yacht
bounced on hillocks that seemed to come from all directions. A weak afternoon
sun broke through the clouds. He studied the radar overlay on the Garmin for a
follow-up squall but the way forward seemed to be clear. They could shake out
the reefs. Madeleine led the way.
    “Watch…”
    “For the boom,” she continued.
    There was no need. In stark contrast to the violence they
had just experienced, only the weakest of breezes was blowing.  The conditions
required the set of light sails that he kept under the front hatch. Grant decided,
however, that it was too much trouble for