That Night the Moon Disappeared: Sailing Through a Lightning Storm

It was 2 a.m., somewhere off the coast of the U.S., and we were more than 50 miles from land, surrounded by a vast and quiet ocean, sailing under a full moon and skies so clear it almost felt unreal.

Everything about that moment was calm, peaceful, nearly meditative. But under the surface, we were alert. Hyper-aware. It was July, which meant lightning storm season, and every 15 minutes we were checking the radar and cloud apps, eyes sharp for any sudden change.

Because while some storms approach from land, slowly and visibly, others just appear out of nowhere in the ocean, like ghosts materializing out of the dark.

On land, thunderstorms are mostly inconvenient. Maybe they cancel your plans or delay your drive. But out here, surrounded by nothing but water, it’s a completely different equation.

We were the only boat for miles. There wasn’t another mast or hull or human presence in sight. And speaking of masts, ours was tall, metallic, and unmistakably the highest point for miles. If a lightning storm rolled in, and we'd been sailing in a thunderstorm, we would be the easiest target.

Now, to clarify: we weren’t afraid of a lightning strike in the physical sense. Our boat is grounded, designed to send a strike into the sea and keep us safe. The real fear was what would happen next. If lightning hit us, chances were high we’d lose every electric system on board. And if that happened? We’d be stuck in the middle of a storm, without power, without navigation, without a working engine, and with three sleeping kids.

Back to that night. It was my shift. I looked up from the screen and realized the moon had disappeared. Gone. Just like that. No stars either. Only blackness.

A sky swallowed by cloud. A really, really big cloud.

And it hadn’t been there fifteen minutes ago. Everything had been clear.

Then suddenly, flashes. Lightning cracking from the top of the cloud down into the ocean, or lighting up the entire sky from behind, like an X-ray of the world above us.

The cloud was less than a mile away and closing in fast. Too fast. We were moving slowly east with one engine, not because we were lazy, but because we didn’t fully trust the second engine, which had been giving us issues. One engine was safer. Until now.

I woke Sergey and we quickly agreed to try cutting north, hoping we might only brush the edge of the storm rather than taking it head-on. He took the helm while I rushed below deck, disconnecting everything electric except for the one engine we’d kept running. Just in case.

On my way back up, I checked the kids’ life jackets. Ours were already on since the start of the night shift. But the kids’ had to be within arm’s reach.

Back at the helm, it was obvious - we were still too slow. The lightning was growing more intense. The cloud wasn’t just moving. It was growing.

My knees started shaking. I could feel my heart pounding in my throat.

We had to do something. Fast.

So we took the risk. We reconnected the second engine, crossed our fingers, and hit the ignition. It started. Relief. We pushed both engines forward, watching the radar like it was a lifeline, barely breathing for thirty straight minutes.

And slowly, finally, the storm showed signs of shifting. The radar showed just one cell. No longer expanding. The others had vanished.

Then, as if it had all been a bad dream, a crack of moonlight broke through the clouds.

We saw the edge of the storm drifting away, sliding off to the side, leaving us behind.

We made it.

And then, of course, the moody engine died again. We’d fix it at the next stop.

We didn’t sleep that night. Or the one after.

More storms came. More lightning. More adrenaline.

By the time we reached our next anchorage, we were wrecked. Exhausted. But so, so grateful to be close to shore when the next storm rolled in.

Boat life is as close to nature as it gets.

You do everything you can to prepare. You plot, you plan, you imagine the worst-case scenarios. But nature still surprises you.

Most of the time, this life is thrilling. Freeing. Magical. But sometimes, like on that night, it takes everything you’ve got. And then some.

I’m not here to scare you. You asked what the hard parts are like.

This was one of them.