A Storm is Coming

...are we ready?

The wind started picking up around 1:00 a.m. A few years ago, Richard and I were in the aft cabin of our 53’ Selene boat, tethered by a thick line to an anchor, plowed into the muddy bottom of the Chesapeake Bay in Annapolis Harbor. He was asleep; I was not.

I went up the short flight of carpeted steps to the helm station, looked around the harbor, boats swaying in the wind, and decided to turn the engines on so that if the winds broke our line, I could hold the bow into the wind and keep the ship from crashing to shore or into other boats.

I watched and waited.

I had learned the hard way that a Chesapeake squall was no Iowa spring thunderstorm. It’s an exclamation point in weather, and the fury is to be respected and feared and certainly something to anticipate and plan for a worst-case scenario.

A Selene is built for ocean passages and is approximately 88,000 lbs. That’s about as much as a Boeing 737 jet sitting on a runway. Or an 18-wheeler semi truck fully loaded.

This Iowa woman had learned much about boats, wind, and storms in a few short years.

When I moved to Annapolis in 2000 (long story) to be with Richard, I surprised him by reclaiming his first boat, a 26’ MacGregor trailerable sailboat he had kept on Lake Red Rock in Iowa. I brought it to Annapolis with my friend Beth Newbold, towed by her SUV, to surprise him. This might have been received much like a cat proudly depositing a mouse at its owner’s feet—well-intentioned but not expected or welcome.

Red Rock is about 15,000 acres, whereas the Chesapeake Bay is more like 4,470 miles.

Richard kept a 41.1 Bristol sailboat in Annapolis then but said he was delighted to be reconnected to the MacGregor, which we renamed True Blue. He used it to teach me to sail.

After a couple of lessons, I was flush with unfounded confidence, so I invited a friend who lived in DC to sail with me one sunny day when Richard was back in Chicago. As we sailed under the Bay Bridge, I called him on the cell phone to let him know that I was at the helm of True Blue on a starboard tack. There was silence, and then his voice was ‘Captain-Gilberty,’ and he asked if I had checked the weather. The answer was ‘no,’ but it was a pretty day.

His voice was low and firm, and he said to turn around and go back to Annapolis.

By the time I did, the winds were picking up, I couldn’t get the sails right, and the motor wouldn’t start as we careened under the unforgiving bridge structure. The skies were darkening, and few boats were in sight. My friend, who informed me that she did not know how to swim, was wearing her life jacket and looking wide-eyed as the skies turned black.

I told her not to worry. We were safe. The boat was sturdy. Relax.

Still, a powerboat was in the distance, and she yelled, ‘Help! Help!’

In hindsight, this might sound funny, but it wasn’t. My naivete could have killed us.

The couple on the powerboat towed us through the fierce winds of a Chesapeake storm and safely returned us to the slip.

This is one of two other stories where we could have died at sea, not all with us at fault, but real enough to provide a context for the importance of being a prudent mariner.

Experience teaches a mariner to recognize early warnings—how the wind shifts and the sky turns before the first drop of rain. The stock market is no different. The signs of this impending storm have been clear to anyone paying attention.

A squall on Lake Red Rock can feel like the end of the world—until you experience a Chesapeake Bay storm. Likewise, a market dip might seem like an interruption—until the real crash comes.

A prudent mariner learns when to drop anchor and when to stay in port. Experience teaches you that storms don’t just appear out of nowhere—the warning signs are always there if you know how to read them. But sometimes, you take the risk anyway.

I’m considering this as I prepare to invest money into a direct mail campaign for the Okoboji Writers’ and Songwriters’ Retreat. The event is in September, but the money will be spent now. And I wonder if enrollments will come in during this uncertain economy.

In stormy markets, some businesses cut back and play it safe. But I’m about to do the opposite—spend money today, gambling on writers investing in themselves months from now. Is it wisdom, or am I that sailor again, too confident, heading under the bridge with no backup plan?

We will all weather the same storm, just in different boats.

Iowa isn’t the Chesapeake. Running a small business isn’t Wall Street. But the weather is the weather. You don’t have to be an economist to feel the wind shifting. The stock market just plunged, the way the air turns cold before a tornado—the kind of shift that tells you a storm is already here.

An unelected billionaire who prides himself on having no empathy is slashing federal jobs without mandate or forethought. The governmental guardrails for disease control, consumer safety, air traffic control, and food safety are off the track. Democracy hangs in the balance globally. Our enemies cheer, or allies quake. Thousands are unemployed at the drop of a metaphorical chainsaw. Government grants are squashed.

Tariffs? No serious economist thinks they work. But here we are—sinking ourselves to prove a point, like cutting the fuel line and wondering why the engine sputters.

Anyone paying attention has seen the signs of this impending storm. And yet, here I am, setting my course, committing my resources, hoping the anchor holds.

I’m turning on the engines. Watching. Waiting. The storm is coming—I don’t know if we’re ready.

A Chesapeake squall is forming.

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