None of us saw it coming. A gale with hurricane-force wind gusts, sideways rain so hard it cuts skin like razors, enveloping in icy fire.
She’s a good a ship, but all vessels have limits. Her seams groan, her reefed square’s’ils, saturated in salt water, bend to the sea, as if longing to return.
The mizzen snaps with a sound like a mortar shot. Lines tangle. A young man screams as rebellious canvas yanks him to his death.
She’s taking on water over the gunnels and from a sprung seam below. Ship’s carpenter works frantically. All hands shiver and bleed in slippery darkness.
A deckhand collapses and is washed overboard.
The old man clutches the foremast and curses.
A yardarm shatters. A shard impales the second mate.
Four helmsmen wrestle the wheel.
Will she flounder?
Unrelenting nor’easter derecho:
Loss after loss after loss
Will it never stop? Where, oh where, are the Tradewinds and Zephyrs? The God who calms the seas, and turns back Rahab?