Barely out of Florianopolis, we were tossed around violently—a cork on a wild sea of foam, with 50 knots of wind. As the sea grew more frenzied, I became alarmed, and I seriously wondered if Cowabunga was going to pull us through intact. This wasn’t part of the dream scenario we had sketched out for our vagabond life; this was hell. It hit me that we were also not far from the infamous Roaring 40s. Despite our determination to avoid such bad weather, there we were, confounded, and in the midst of a maelstrom.
It was petrifying.