I was at the wheel of a 46-foot wing keeled sail boat on route to Florida from the British Virgin Islands. My watchmate just had a very exciting stint at the wheel -- lots of wind and wave action in pitch black night. It had felt like a ride on Space Mountain at Disneyland, kicking, bucking, and all sorts fun.

Then it was my turn, no 30 plus knot winds me, it almost felt calm if you can call skirting a low pressure near the gulf stream calm. But it did not feel like Space Mountain. Then it happened. It started as a very low deep throated roar that spun up to a high shriek similar to opening the valve on a scuba tank absent the regulator. My only visual reference was the lighted compass, with a tad glow from the front nav lights.

The compass started to spin. My instinct was to answer the compass with the wheel. There is a perfectly good explanation for why I did it, it was just kickass fun. My feet left the deck and I was able to keep one hand on the wheel as I came down to port. My thought was had I not held onto the wheel I may have gone overboard. My watchmate seemed asleep. There would have been no help there. I lost whatever was there.

Two lessons learned -- holding onto the wheel did not allow enough power to answer the compass and deft handling of the wheel was required keep my feet on deck.

Boom, it hit again. I shot my hand to the wheel spoke and cranked hard, much better results here, but a spoke strike missed its mark, a quick spin of the boat and we were out of it. To say I was absolutely and thoroughly pissed at missing an opportunity would have been and large understatement.

Further mental preparation followed. I had to take my eye off the compass for an instant to get sure strikes on the spokes. Tally ho, that low throated roar spun up again into that glorious song of the Valkyries -- and so was the sensation of charging through space.

The compass spun, I glanced at the spoke and the strike was sure. Looking up, I saw a steady compass. Bang it started spinning in the opposite direction. I felt like I was going rip the wheel off the deck. But within that maximum display of power, I was very light on my feet. Floating off the deck felt a constant possibility. I had to balance power with a delicate balancing act.

The boat was healed over hard, would estimate more than 45 degrees, it just felt that way. I was getting a feel for it and glanced to the side. The water looked agitated like being in a giant washing machine, the water was glowing. Then a moment of absolute calm. It felt as if the boat was balancing on a knife edge ready to fall off the cliff in either direction.

And the boat was ripped out of the calm -- it was a day I fought the sea and won. It all ended in an instant with a whoop like sound, then perfect calm. A few seconds passed, not sure how many, could have been five of fifteen. Then the sky opened up and dropped water. It was nothing like rain or a shower. Picture a massive dump truck overhead full of water. The dump truck released all the water at once or so it seemed. Then calm.