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I love spending nights on the lake. Once the oven-like sun disappears, things get suddenly quiet, except for the occasional hoot of an owl, crickets, frogs and the soft lapping of the lake on the boat. When the moon rises above the pines the sky lights up, like a fireworks bloom, its reflection is brushed, in scatters on the lake, giving insubstantial moonlight a sharp substance not unlike a fractured, undulating, glittery lace. This evening, there’s a rumble, stage left, off to the west, and a thunderstorm’s growl, like a wolf on the prowl. The wind was picking up, so we began battening down, stowing things in the galley and taking in the flag. The wind, had become almost solid with its insistent and restless energy. The question, with these daily, southern, summer thunderstorms is whether you’re going to catch the edge of it or get the full onslaught. The doppler radar, of my iPad weather app indicated the monster was headed right for us. Just as our phones, watches and iPads began chirping with National Weather Service, “Severe Weather Alerts,” Charles asked, “You two still want to stay?” His voice fighting against the stiff wind as he watched the tall pine-tree tops bob, like boxers, afraid of the far off lightning flashes in the sky. “Of course!” I chimed in, wearing a grin, I LOVE boat storms! “Lisa, there’s a storm on the way but we’ll stay on the boat, ok?” I asked, trying to english the question with both a sense of adventure and nonchalance. Lisa, of course, followed my lead, saying, “Sure.” “It’ll be ill,” I assured her. Charles nodded and leapt to the dock, replacing the gunwale rope lines with longer dock rods to distance and secure the boat (lowering front and back anchors too). “We’re staying,” Charles walkie-talkie’d Carol (his wife) below in the staterooms where she was probably making the beds. “10-4” she replied. I love her, she’s so game for anything. While Charles worked, Lisa and I sealed the upper deck from cockpit (helm) to transom, putting up sturdy plexiglass windows and closing the transom doors. Charles came aboard just as we turned up the air conditioning and thick raindrops started falling. Having finished our work, we looked up and the moon was gone, hidden by dark clouds that writhed like some angry, mythical, steel wool animal. The rain went from a delicate pitter-patter to a generous applause and finally, a steady torrent. We felt it initially pass over us from port (left) to starboard (right). The wind whistled, like a giant’s breath, rocking the boat, alternately, in two directions. It was wonderful. The far off thunder had become intimate, bomb-like and personal, with its Crack-k-KA-BOOM! Every time such a concussion rocked the air, the boat and our teeth, I cackled, with joy, like Poe’s Madeline Usher, the madwoman in the attic. “HOW DO YOU LIKE IT!?” I yelled to Lisa, but she made an ‘I can’t hear you,’ sign. Carol, who’d been working the galley, produced yummy tuna-fish sandwiches, potato chips and milk. We played a dominoes game called ‘Mexican Train’ until the rain stopped, then we watched ‘Jaws’ on the fold-down TV. Lisa had never seen it! The boat had rocked, lightning had flashed, the cutting wind howled and the thunder boomed, but it was the clawing rain, like a tiger trying to break into the boat, that made it an unforgettable night on the lake. . . My parent’s boat is Tiara-43LE

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