It was just after dawn on September 17, 1989, and I wasn’t panicking. I was, honestly, rather proud of how calm I was.
I know, I know. Vanity comes before the fall.
We were anchored off Culebra, Puerto Rico, in the Spanish Virgin Islands. The breeze was a steady 110, gusting to 140 knots. Hurricane Hugo, now stationary, had built to a Category 4. A large tree from the eastern ridgeline was caught in our rig, having just cracked the starboard spreader.
Not good.
My 7-year-old daughter, Roma Orion, sat in the dinette in her life jacket, gripping a strobe light in one hand and a 100-foot coil of line in the other. Around her body, we had duct-taped a waterproof bag containing her passport—if need be, for the convenience…
