The passage got worse before it got better. The wind went into fitful gusts then died completely and shifted 180 degrees about 25 miles out. We then entered a wall of water--one of the thickest downpours I have ever witnessed. It was a rain was so heavy I couldn't see 100 feet in any direction. Wholly unamused, I pressed on without another option, feeling more like I was captaining a submarine than a sailboat. The winds came and went and pirouetted, but the rain held steady. The dim gray of the afternoon eventually faded into darkness and I feared the onset of the night's explosive electric display.

"SURELY there will be lightning," I thought preparing myself for the worst, "no doubt about it..."

But by 9 p.m. the rains seemed to be clearing. There was lightning, but it was the 'nice' kind--the kind that stayed high in the clouds and lit up their fluffy tops. And this kind came without thunder. It merely widens my eyes a bit rather than palpitating my heart. Until the moon rose behind the clouds, the night was as thick as the rain had been. I crawled up from the cabin floor every 15 minutes to check the horizon. We crossed a cargo ship at midnight and another just after 3 a.m. By the time the eastern horizon glowed crimson, Swell and I both seemed to have found a better groove. Maybe I was just deliriously sleep-deprived, but I felt much livelier. I even had the fishing lines out before the sun came up. A morning breeze blew from the north and I turned off the engine. Swell lurched quietly into the new day.

Liz Clark sails solo around the world on her 40-foot sailboat, Swell, in search of people, places and waves. She sends us travel updates, stories and photos several times a week.

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