In the late afternoon the storm intensified greatly, and sheet after sheet of rain poured down from the fogged-in sky, while wind-lashed waves broke tirelessly over the bow, sending spray over the front deck and drenching me, my pack, and my stalwart companion the chicken.
Shortly there was not an inch of me that was dry, though it was hard to tell whether the seawater or rain was doing the most damage. It became difficult to open my eyes because of the spray, and I was forced to time my few glances with the impact of the waves. But somehow, just as I was beginning to think that even the chicken might not live to see dry land again, I spotted the tiny bump of Big Corn Island. Within the hour we were easing into the shelter of its leeward side, where the mighty swells of the open ocean shrunk to mere ripples. Even the rain seemed to respect our triumph, and slackened off as we approached the dock. Rain-soaked and nauseous, I hoisted my ten-pounds-heavier-from-rainwater pack, bid my fowl friend a fond farewell, navigated through the sanitation nightmare that was the rest of the ship, and stepped off onto the damp, slick dock. Only eight hours at sea, but, land-lubber that I am, I was glad to feel solid earth under my feet.
