Waves washed over them, one after another. But the boat didn’t move forward. It sloshed back after each swell drove past them.
Hank shook more water from his face and turned around.
He caught a glimpse of a rock reef behind them. And the trunks—Smitty’s trunks—one of which had caught like a grappling hook in the rocks. He turned back around and stared at the wall of dark rock in front of them, the headland on the island, then he looked back at the trunk line, not believing what he saw.
The waves must have been high enough to send the boat over instead of into the natural breakwater. And the trunks, still chained to the lifeboat, had snagged on the reef.
“No shit,” he muttered as the next wave filled his mouth and nose.
The boat twisted, almost turning over.
He cut the rope that anchored him to the seat and heard Smitty scream something and felt her grab at his leg.
There wasn’t time to stop. He crawled toward the chain that held the line of trunks.Hold, baby, come on, hold... just a few more minutes.
He stretched forward and gripped the line, then braced his feet against the plank seat. He pulled, hand over hand, using his strength to try to pull the boat toward the rock reef.
His hands gripped the slippery chain, pulling inches at a time. The swells hit again and again. He didn’t know how long the line would hold. If the line would hold. If the trunk would stay snagged. One wave could slam them loose and send them crashing into the headland.
The boat banged against the rocks, and another swell washed over them. He coughed and gasped for air.
His hands slipped. The chain slid like kelp through his palms. He cursed and shouted and yelled. Anything. Everything. He held it as tightly as he could.
Then Smitty was there beside him, her hands gripping the chain behind him. She pulled and screamed, “Don’t stop!”
They pulled together harder in spite of the surging swells. Hand over hand to bring the boat in closer.
A breath later the boat knocked into the rocks again. Another swell hit, but they held tight. Hank pulled his body over the edge of the boat, onto the rocks. He turned and gripped the cleats on the stern. A swell lifted the lifeboat just as he jerked back with a bloodrush of power that came from the sheer need to survive. The last punch of a fight.
The lifeboat surged forward and wedged into a cleft in the rocks.
“Grab the kids and get out!” he shouted, trying to fight the sea for control of the boat.
Smitty shoved a screaming Lydia at him.
Two threats from him and the girl crawled out and into a protected nook in the rocks. “Stay down there and stop blubbering!”
Smitty pushed Theodore, who clung to the braying goat, toward him. Hank swore and reached for the kid, who shoved the goat in his face. He jerked the goat out and dropped it next to Lydia. The kid crawled out onto the rocks and went down into the crevice beside his sister and the goat.
Smitty moved closer and held the baby in her arms. Another wave hit hard. He held onto those cleats with every bit of strength in his body. He couldn’t see anything but heard the screams—Smitty and Annabelle’s garbled cry.
He shook the water from his head. They were still in the boat, lying flat, half under the tarp and half covered in water. The baby was screaming and coughing.
“Smitty! Get up!”
She moved upward, Annabelle hugged to her chest.
Come on, sweetheart.
She crawled—he didn’t know how—over the edge. A second later she was huddled between the rocks with the children.
Another swell hit, and he jerked the empty lifeboat back. It shot over them, twisted on the wave. Upside down, it jammed to a stop on the rocks.
The anchor flew past him. Cold, wet metal hit his head. Pain shot through his forehead and scalp. Something warm flooded his right eye.
He swiped it away only to see the rusted links of the anchor chain hanging down before his eyes. He looked down, still stunned, and picked up the anchor, raising it over his shoulder like a sledgehammer. With every ounce of his strength, he slammed it into a rift in one of the rocks.
The boat sat over them like a cocoon, protection, small as it was, from the angry churning of the storm.
