Our Future is Uncertain

Mother Nature: 1
SV Escapist: 0

On Sunday, July 16 we spent the morning looking at the weather, as we usually do. The weekend of July 22 & 23 was still looking like the best crossing window to get over to the Bahamas. We moved up our vet appointment to get the dogs’ health certificates on Friday the 21st. There were a couple more items arriving in the mail the week ahead, spare parts for the dinghy motor, an extra water separator, oil filters, etc. All the things that would be good to have on hand while in the remote islands of the Bahamas. Then we moved on to unpacking and organizing the huge haul of provisions I picked up on Saturday. Everything was on track.

We knew there was a chance of rain during the afternoon because there is a chance of rain every afternoon during the summer in Florida. At about 4:30 p.m. the wind started to pick up and it started to drizzle. Not even 10 minutes later, there was lightning everywhere with white out rain and wind. It grew on top of and all around us. We could no longer see either side of the intracoastal. We could barely see 10 feet off our stern.

I was standing inside in the salon and Tom was just outside the companionway. It happened in slow motion. A light brighter than I’ve ever seen and a sound that I could feel more than hear. There were no words that needed to be spoken. We both just knew the boat had been struck by lightning. It was 4:52 p.m.

We both dropped flat to the floor, our amygdalas doing their jobs. Tom crawled inside. We smelled something burning and quickly flipped off any switch on the electrical panel that was still on but we could tell electronics at the nav station were already dead. Tom got the fire extinguisher off the wall while I grabbed the dogs and sat in the doorway, afraid to be inside and afraid to be outside. We talked about getting in the dinghy and leaving but there was no way our 9 HP dingy motor would make any ground in these winds. Every five seconds or so, there was another crack, flash of light and thunder that shook the boat.

The relentless lightning continued for nearly an hour. It felt like a lifetime. We are born and raised Floridians who have seen all kinds of summer t-storms, but we had never experienced anything like this before.

Between the lightning strikes that made us both drop to our hands and knees, we started to tear apart the boat to look for damage. With lightning, it’s not about where the lightning enters but where it exits. The exit point typically has the most damage. On boats, it’s most often through the hull. So far, no signs of water intrusion…

We checked everything we could to ensure weren’t on fire or sinking. From the deck we could see where the lightning hit our mast, absolutely frying our VHF antenna, weathervane and anchor light. We were quickly losing daylight, had no power on the boat and neither engine would start. We opened the engine compartments and found the source of the burning smell on the port side. There was clearly a fire.

None of this is good but we are safe and that’s all that really matters. While our bodies were not struck, it’s impossible to describe the intense feeling the strike caused. It shook me to my core. A lightning strike has about 300 million Volts, 30,000 Amps and can heat the air it passes through to 50,000 degrees Fahrenheit, which is hotter than the surface of the sun. I still feel absolute gratitude to whatever powers that be that we were unharmed. I’ve never had more respect for Mother Nature.

In the days since July 16, we’ve had more questions than answers. Who nearby has a lift big enough to haul us out of the water? How do we get the boat to a marina? How long would a rebuild potentially take? How much money we will have to pay out of pocket? Could we mentally survive another lightning storm on a boat? Could we really stomach admitting defeat on this adventure?

Now that we’ve reflected back on that afternoon, we concluded that we have never felt so afraid for our lives before. There have been a lot of tears and sleepless nights. We feel shattered that it may take months, if not longer to repair the boat. Or, that we may not be able to move forward with the boat at all.

We’re not trying to have a pity party for ourselves here. This is just where we are and how we are feeling. It’s hard and completely overwhelming. Our home could be completely destroyed.

When we decided to sell everything, buy a boat and set off on an adventure. We felt like nothing could get in our way. We knew it wasn't going to be easy, even expected things to go wrong and test our resolve. But we were determined and did it everything the right way. We spent months researching and planning, making responsible decisions to ensure our physical and financial safety. We took our time getting the boat everything ready so we wouldn’t be caught blindsided. We put in the work because at the end of the day, the harder you work the luckier you get… usually.

In Florida, there’s about a 0.4% chance of your sailboat being struck by lightning. You’re much more likely to get into a car accident on the way to work. It feels unfair.

There are still a lot of unknowns and we’re looking for any possible way to turn these lemons into lemonade. We’re trying our best to stay positive, take things day-by-day and give ourselves grace to recover from that unbelievable afternoon.

In the days to come we need to work with our insurance company on next steps, get the boat towed to a marina, have the boat hauled out and start the arduous assessment process.

Even though this journey just took a turn into something different, we will report back on our progress.

P.S. You may be curious how we know the strike happened at 4:52 p.m. No, we were not looking at a clock the moment it happened, but we can see the last time our internet electronics were connected to the outside world.