By Capt. Damon Sacco
Editor’s Note: This article contains profanity that some readers may find offensive.
Like my old-time friend and former mate used to say, “the sea is a fickle mistress.” He muttered that phrase like he earned it, as if he had learned the hard way. The only real certainty of the sea is change, and sometimes that change comes quick, like a punch-to-the-back-of-the-head quick.
I’ve fastened my seatbelt a “couple” of times. My most extraordinary meteorological experience occurred offshore during a canyon charter in the summer of 2002. We were trolling roughly 10 miles inside the shelf between the Hydrographer and Veatch canyons. The sun-baked air had pinned me to the helm on my tower, the best spot on the boat to feel a 3-knot summer breeze. We had set lines in at noon and trolled southeast.
In the mid-day hours, I noticed a peculiar cloud forming over the southern horizon. It appeared out of nowhere, a lone wisp of cotton, too low for a cumulus cloud and too strange for me not to wonder. It grew by the second. Each time I looked, a new clump of white unfolded.
The cloud stretched in both directions, a perfect line, as if it had been placed on a shelf. It was the only cloud in the sky. The air above it glistened clear and blue. My crew was busy sorting fish in the
