Storm Morning with My Dad: A Sail on Long Island Sound

Just after my tenth birthday, I woke at dawn to the steady patter of rain on the thin glass windows of our little yellow Cape house. It was Sunday, which meant Dad’s store was closed and he would be home. I scrambled out of bed, tugged on my Wranglers, found my favorite rainbow sweatshirt and slipped into my Topsiders before racing into the kitchen.

Dad looked up from his coffee and smiled, muffin crumbs caught in the short beard he was growing. His eyes, still heavy with sleep, brightened when he saw me. “There’s some wind and waves this morning,” he said, grinning. I pumped my fist and shouted, “Yes!”

He handed me a glass of grapefruit juice and a blueberry muffin. As I ate, he gathered our foul-weather gear: the long yellow raincoats with tall collars and tails that covered our backsides. We had waterproof pants too, but they were rubbery and hot, so we rarely wore them. Getting soaked felt part of the fun.

We slipped out the back door before Mom could wake and give Dad “the look” that usually ended our storm adventures before they began. I climbed into Dad’s work van—the “OT bus,” named for Outdoor Traders, the store he ran with his brothers—and felt a small thrill at having him all to myself. Lately he’d been working six days a week, looking worried and distracted when he came home. He had been a jokester at my birthday a few months earlier; I hoped today I would get that version of him back.

The trip to the club was short. Our own boat was a little fiberglass Sunfish called Green Onions—too small for strong winds—so Dad borrowed a larger daysailer from a friend. With life vests on and heads bowed against the now-sheening rain, we made our way down the dock and boarded the waiting launch. A few minutes later we were clambering aboard the sailboat, working quickly; we wanted to be out and back before the squall turned into a gale.

Dad prepared the main sail while I eased the mooring line off the bow cleat and dropped the small pink buoy into the water. Once in open water he eased the motor up, we raised the mainsail and reefed it so we wouldn’t take on too much wind. The boat grabbed the wind and heeled over, cutting through the churning water. Rain hammered our hoods, spray hissed in our faces, and the wind roared in our ears. I loved it—the faster we went, the better.

At the helm, Dad was a different man. His worries fell away and a wide smile rested on his face as he steered through the rolling swells. We crisscrossed the narrow band of Long Island Sound, waves breaking over the bow and sloshing into the cockpit. Hooking our heels and leaning back to keep the boat upright, we carved hard turns and tacked with quick, precise movements. Dad shouted over the wind: “Ready to come about!” Then he jammed the tiller. I ducked under the boom as it whipped across the cockpit and leapt to the other side, working the mainsheet as he’d shown me.

“Let the mainsheet out, quickly!” he barked. I eased it first, then trimmed it in until the sail sat exactly how he wanted. “That’s a girl, Moogli!” he called, using his pet name for me. Hearing him praise me made my chest glow. We were a well-drilled team—soaked, grinning, and in sync.

Sailing on the edge of a squall made time slow and sharpen. Out there, nothing else mattered—no store worries, no school, no bills—just the wind, the whitecaps and the two of us. I felt braver and bolder than at home, more daring than my usual cautious self. The ocean’s force pushed me to take risks, and I loved the rush of it. Dad seemed to relish it too; at sea he became larger than life, confident and capable in a way I didn’t always see on land.

Salt crusted his hair and beard, water streaking his face. He moved with the assurance of someone who belonged on the water, calm in the chaos of wind and waves. Those rough-weather outings reassured me: whatever storms life might bring, he would be there guiding us back to safety. For a few perfect hours, rocking with the swells and shouting over the gale, we were partners on a small, defiant island of control.

By the time we nosed back into the mooring field the rain had softened. We secured the boat and squeezed into the van, both exhausted and buzzing. The day had given me something I hadn’t felt in a long time—a reconnecting with the man my father truly was.

This article was originally published in the July 2022 issue.