Cental America
And Back
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Chickens in the MizzenForecasters should all have to sail around in their own forecasts. Dois and I spent the last two weeks checking all the forecasts for a good weather window to continue our journey north up into the Sea of Cortez. So why is Dois sitting in the cockpit dripping wet trying to get Hal, our autopilot to behave? And why is the boat pitching steeply to and fro, leaving me walking on the walls? And why is the cabin illuminated like paparazzi have found Lindsey Lohan in our boat? Because my friends, the weather men have forsaken us and we are smack dab in the middle of a nasty storm. Off with their heads. A bolt strikes the water oh so close to and brings me out of my fantasy be-headings. I discovered recently that I am an astraphobic. So is Ginger. We both suffer from the fear of lightening. Giant zippers of electricity are running along the clouds and brightening the sea around us like high noon. The occasional prayer-evoking bolt feels like it stops my heart. What was I thinking? The radar screen shows us in the middle of a giant red blob of nastiness.
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