Cilla pulled her oars into the boat and lifted her binoculars to check her surroundings whilst catching her breath.
To her left, the sheer cliffs of Dunnet Head rose high. To her right and a bit behind her lay Thurso, but in the blackout she could barely find the town, even if it was the largest in the area.
Ahead of her in the bay, something was wrong at Dunnet Beach.
She struggled to focus the binoculars as her boat bobbed in the ocean in the chilly breeze. Black shapes marred the pale sands. Obstacles? Guns?
A rumble crossed the waters, and a small black shape lifted from the ground near the south end of the beach.
An airplane! Cilla ducked, although the plane was far away, and she wore all black in a black raft on the black sea.
That was an airfield. And the beach—that was no peaceful holiday beach, but one prepared to defend against invasion. Defend against boats like hers.
“Oh no.” Her gloved fingers clenched around the binoculars.
She couldn’t land there. But where?
Her breath puffed hard. The southern shore of the bay—the town and the airfield—she’d be captured in an instant. The northern shore—nothing but steep cliffs. If she wasn’t dashed on the rocks, she’d be trapped.
“Oh my goodness. My goodness.” Cilla lowered the binoculars and pressed her hand to her mouth. Her fingers dug in. “What now?”
The wind was blowing from the northwest, blowing her deeper into the bay.
No ... Dunnet Head seemed larger and closer. And the wind ... it had shifted. It was coming from the southwest.
If she didn’t start rowing, the wind would push her around Dunnet Head and into Pentland Firth. The dangerous waters.
“Oh no, no, no.” Cilla grabbed the oars and rowed hard.
But where to? No safe landing spots existed in the bay, and she couldn’t reverse course, fight the wind, and try to find a spot west of Thurso.
A sickening sensation convulsed her stomach. She had no choice. She had to follow the wind, circle Dunnet Head, brave Pentland Firth, and search for a beach, any beach.
“No.” Her eyes scrunched shut, and she bent over her oars. “I can’t. I’m already exhausted.”
But she had to.
The map of the area swirled in her mind. And a plan. Not a good plan, but the only one remaining.
Let the wind push her around Dunnet Head. Row lightly. Conserve strength. On the far side, the high cliffs might block the wind from the south. Then she’d row with all her might toward shore.
Cilla straightened up. The rims of her eyes tingled, as did her cheeks.
Tears drying in the wind.
She’d never been one to pray—she’d always let her parents and her cousin Gerrit do that for her. Perhaps now she should. But she could imagine what the Lord would say to her: “You got yourself into this mess, Cilla van der Zee.”
She had indeed. Somehow she had to get herself out.
Cilla turned her boat to the north and rowed.
****
Throughout supper, Lachlan had held his tongue. Mother had chatted about her volunteer work with the Women’s Rural Institute, although in a strained tone.
Then Father had talked about the latest projects with Mackenzie Salvage, a topic Lachlan would ordinarily enjoy. He’d worked for Father for five years after university, whilst Neil did whatever it was that Neil did.
Now Neil was asking questions about the company, and a new concern simmered. Was Neil aiming to steal the position Lachlan planned to take after the war?
