I laid down around 8pm to rest and left Jack to his first night watch. The rain began to spatter on the decks above, but I was too tired to move. Then the sails began to smack, indicating the end of our "perfect" wind. I reluctantly pushed up off the settee and went up to have a look around.

One look at the radar and my eyes bulged in horror. The rainstorm nearly blacked out the eight-mile screen. I turned the engine on and we powered through the torrential rain. My greatest fear materialized around us—a static lightning storm. It wasn't moving anywhere quickly and we were smack in the middle. The bolts streamed down all around us. I did my best to steer the boat toward where there seemed to be fewer strikes, but it was hopeless. The axes of light grew more frequent and thunder followed closer. They were all around us, not even seconds between them. Inside I started to panic. I knew this was bad. Really bad. Minutes lingered by into an hour and I was riddled with fear. I couldn't reef the main because I was too afraid to get near my aluminum mast. My stomach was trying to crawl up my throat and I fought the bleak feeling of helplessness. My body stiffened more with each bolt. My hands shook as I unplugged the radios and other electronics. Finally the moment I had been dreading came.

"Crrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaagggggaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack." And then again. And again. The third was so close we could see the color spectrum where it exploded the water just a boat-length away. The radar went black and the chart plotter flashed a question mark and then went blank. I shrieked with terror and clutched Jack, tears streaming down my face. I had never felt so absolutely at the mercy of nature. It was a power so raw and unbridled&mdashso unpredictable and unavoidable. It was a harsh reminder of how small, insignificant and puny I really am out on this big ocean.

Read more at wetsand.com