The night before crossing Mobile Bay I took a double dose of precaution:  a seasickness patch behind my ear and a pill. The Gulf of Mexico voyage was still a fresh memory and I had no desire to repeat it.

At dawn Tom raised the anchor as soon as there was enough light to see but we still had two hours of running in the ditch until we reached unpredictable Mobile Bay. He took note of marinas along the way in case we had to turn back. We looked forward to another open-water crossing about the way you'd anticipate going in for surgery. 

By eight a.m. we were in the bay and it wasn't bad. Another hour passed and then another and it was still OK. I even laid down and closed my eyes - I was really sleepy from being overmedicated - and we were three hours into it. We spotted the Mobile Light on the horizon and by the time we reached it we only had six miles to go. We thought we were home free. The morning had been overcast and windy and the bay was choppy, but it was nothing to to be concerned about. The thing I was most worried about was the vision in Tom's right eye, which was deteriorating. He still didn't realize the urgency.

Big cold drops of rain started to spatter the vinyl windows but that was no big deal. Then, with only a mile to go, our little microcosm on this earth was turned upside down. We never even saw it coming. In an instant, without warning, the wind walloped us from the port side with such ferocity that we nearly broached. I was afraid the boat top wouldn't hold together and would blow off. Tom's first thought was that we'd hit a water spout. The wind's uproar was deafening and visibility was zero. We weren't wearing life vests but it was too late to do anything about it. Tom had his hands on the wheel and I held on to the rails to keep upright, feet planted wide apart. The snaps holding the rolled-up windshield in place blew open and the flapping piece of vinyl flew wildly, first to the inside (in our faces) and then outside, beating hard against the canvas bimini. I tried to grab it but couldn't and Tom said, "Forget it, let it break off. We'll fix it later." When it blew back inside I grabbed it to keep it from beating him in the face and held it up as long as I could, then he held on to it. Lightning strikes added to our fun. The driving rain came in sideways and everything got soaked. I couldn't see through my glasses and couldn't see much without them either. Tom was in the same fix. He turned the boat into the wind with an open throttle and managed to hold it there. It's hard to know how long the blow lasted, maybe fifteen minutes, and then it gradually subsided. When we could see again, we were still in the same place as we were when it hit. Tom regained control and wanted to take a look at the chart. The top page had been ripped out of the book and the entire chart book was thoroughly soaked. I took the loose page and tried to flatten it against a wet towel but it fell apart like wet toilet paper. 

Little by little, conditions improved as we made way toward the marina but now the engine wasn't sounding right. It would rev and then falter, and after a couple of times it died. Tom restarted it, it lasted about 30 seconds, and then quit again. That drama was repeated two more times and then, nothing. The engine refused to start any more. We were drifting. With less than a half-mile to go we bounced on the waves, helpless. Out went the anchor. The next bit of luck was of the good variety. Approaching us from behind us was the John M, a work boat stationed at the marina to run men and supplies back and forth to a dredge barge that was working out in the bay. Tom was on the bow and I was at the wheel. He called up, "Get them on the radio." I tried channel 16. No response, so I switched to 13. "That boat approaching Dog River Marina - this is the trawler in front of you. Our engine is dead. Can you help us?" Success! They could and they did, throwing a tow line our way and hauling our pathetic butts in to the dock. By that time the wind had died, the rain stopped and the sun had come out.   

When we were tethered to land, I turned off the instruments and tested my legs to see if they were steady enough to go down the ladder. Tom was already down, as he'd come in on the bow, directing me which way to turn the wheel during the towing process. I tentatively peeked in at Pura Vida's innards. I thought it was bad the last time, that it couldn't get any worse. I was wrong. The heavy sofa that sits on the port side was now on the starboard side and the items stored underneath it were everywhere. In fact, everything that wasn't glued down was on the starboard side, helter skelter, in a heap - a wet heap. The windows had been closed but the sliding door was open and rain came through as if a hose had been turned on it. Once again, the good old coffee pot that had been securely fastened (or so it seemed) to the stovetop by it's metal holders, had been snatched up and out, adding coffee grounds to the mess. Even the plug for the dinghy had been sucked out and blown away! We heard later that wind gusts had been clocked at over 60 knots (approximately 70 mph). Hurricanes begin at 74. 

While I waded through the hodgepodge Tom went to the office and came back with the name and phone number of an ophthalmologist. He called they said they'd take him in right away. The owner of the marina had provided the doctor's name and he even offered us the use of his car, which we gladly accepted since we had no time to make other arrangements. We didn't even have time to change clothes or clean up. Now I was driving someone else's car in a strange city, trying to get to a doctor while a black shade was shutting down Tom's vision. It had been a full day.