Through The Storm by Margot Bish Read Free Book Online Page A

course. Then the rain came down. It was even more
blinding than the salt spray. Breathless and spluttering, Ross at
last managed to get his foot free, but squinting through rain
pounded eyes, he could see no one and nothing but the rising waves.
Soaked now, through to the skin he remembered Jerry’s words. “The
tide’s going out…” Supposing he was already being washed out to
sea. Nothing between him and America. Fighting the smothering
panic, he grabbed the tiller. Gritting his teeth, he tried to get a
grip on the whirling thoughts. The wind had come down the valley.
To sail towards land, he didn’t need to see it, he could sail
straight into the wind and he would be going towards the valley.
The sheet flicked close to his face and away again, as if taunting
him. He grabbed at it, but missed. He could see the knot holding
the end fast at the back of the boat. Could he reach it without
capsizing? Taking a breath he snatched at it and leapt back towards
the side as the boat began to tip. Successful. Hauling it in, hand
over hand, it fought back, tangling around his feet, the tiller and
anything else it could get hold of. Gasping between spurts of rain
and seawater, squinting through stinging eyes, he finally had the
rope tight, but the sail was still flapping and even in his semi
blindness, he could feel the boat sliding backwards, and water
spurted at him as it slid over the back of the boat. Now what was
happening? His fist hit the deck angrily.

    THE STORM HIT
    “Go forwards,”
he yelled. “You’re going out to sea!”, and then he remembered the
no go zone. Jerry’s voice in his head said, “Keep out of the no go
zone. You can’t sail a boat straight into the wind. Boats stop and
go backwards in it.”
    “I’m trying to
do the impossible,” Ross told himself, “I’m in the no go zone”.
Furious with himself, the wind and the lashing rain, he tugged the
tiller backwards and forwards, and in self defence held the boom as
it lunged at his head. As if finally understanding what Ross
wanted, the boat obeyed, swung round and as the sail filled and
curved, the boat began to move forwards. Not sure where he was
headed, but glad to be moving, Ross held the tiller in the middle
of the boat and played the sail for his life, burning his fingers
with the rope as he eased it to stop a capsize, pulling it back as
hard as he could to stop the angry flapping of the sail and keep
the boat moving forwards. In and out until he thought his arm would
come off at the shoulder, until the blisters rose and burst,
leaving his hands red raw. How long could it go on? How long could
he go on? Something blurred into view on his left hand side, and as
he wondered what it was, there was a loud grating thump and he was
thrown forwards against the mast, his legs dangling over the side.
The boat rose and moved forward hesitantly, and fell with a crack.
Ross knew now. He was in amongst the rocks next to the island and
his boat was being smashed to bits beneath him. Through the surf,
he could see nothing and dared not let go.
    “Help”, he
yelled, the terror sounding in his voice. As if in answer, thunder
rumbled and lightning flashed and from the top of the wave, Ross
glimpsed a sandy beach, not sunny and friendly, but cold and grey,
shadowed. Without conscious thought, he grabbed the boat’s painter,
and as the boat descended from the receding wave, he stretched his
toes, feeling for the bottom and found it. The rushing wave crashed
into the rocks and exploded into the air, leaving Ross waist deep
and towing his wounded boat. He staggered ashore. Dazed, trembling,
he fell to his knees and for a few moments thought only of himself,
his aloneness and exhaustion and his thankfulness to be on solid
land. Still on his knees he rested his forehead on the sand, as if
in prayer. Then, half in hope, he thought of the others. The rain
was easing now, and the wind seemed to be pausing, waiting for the
storm to come round again. Thinking of the