No, I’m not going to do that, I can do this, I can put on the safety harness, fasten it securely. I’ve done this before, survived hard weather conditions, winds up to twenty-three meters a second, a squall. Blue needs me, I can’t let her drift on her own.

I straighten up, and at that moment a huge wave crashes into the boat, water pours down into the saloon, spraying over the blue containers. I rush to slide the boards into place over the entrance, throw the maps on the table, turn on the map-reading lamp above the instruments, the brightness of the light making me jump. Now I am ruining my night vision, but there’s no way around it. I must find a safe harbor, shelter behind some islands. I can’t continue like this.

What is the latitude of my current position? I check the GPS, already at a latitude level with Stavanger, but the wind is blowing directly from the east, toward me, and I can’t sail against the wind.

But I can tack; I’ll have to tack even if the storm keeps up all night.

Up again, wearing the harness. I let out a few rotations of the roller furling system, immediately grateful that I invested in it. Imagine if I had to move fore to the bow to change the sail now, take the storm jib out of the space under the bed in the forepeak, and raise the sail. I would have had to make it all the way to the bow to rig it. Now, instead, I can just pull on a line and soon I have the sail that I need.

I set my course north. It’s heavy going, according to the speedometer between two and three knots. The oncoming sea slows me down, the waves break hard against the bow, again and again, sometimes stopping me altogether, but I have to maintain my course for a few nautical miles and then go approximately to the south, continuing in that direction before tacking to the north again.

I am glad I slept earlier in the day—no time to rest now. I cling to the helm, my eyes firmly focused on the compass and my hearing attuned to the sound of the wind and the waves. They break, surging, tearing at the hull, shaking the boat, shaking me, shaking the fiberglass, which suddenly feels so fragile.

The minutes pass, maybe hours—I don’t look at the clock, feel only the wind, how it intensifies, beating against the headsail, driving me forward. I have tacked three times, but still can’t stay on course—the long, shallow keel is producing leeway. I am moving too far south, drifting southward along the coast, but not any closer to land.