steady. How are your arms holding up?”
“I’m doing fine. I’ll probably be sore tomorrow, though. How are your arms? You already carried this canoe down the hill—you’ve got to be getting tired.”
“I’m fine. I haven’t gone as soft as Mitch would like you to believe.”
Abby heard the strain behind his lighthearted words, and she dug a little deeper with her paddle, wincing as the seasoned wood moved against the skin of her palms where blisters had already begun to form. She tried to adjust her grip to ease the pain, but with the next dig, she still felt it. Rather than focus on her pain, she resolved to keep her eyes on their elusively distant goal.
“Harder on the left if you can,” Scott called from behind her. His voice rose in pitch, his tension more obvious now. The waves splashed higher, jolting their boat and limiting their progress, sending the fragile craft rocking unsteadily. Abby wished she could find the rhythm of the waves and move with the water, but she feared the only way to do that would be to go with the direction of the waves and headout to sea. And there was no way she was going to intentionally head out to sea.
“Steady now. If you can, I want you to paddle with smaller, faster motions for a minute here while I try to bail out some of this water.”
Water? Abby looked behind her and saw five or six inches of water pooled just beyond the toes of her boots, hampering their progress and holding them lower, inviting more water to slosh in. She could feel the rush of adrenaline hit her veins as she did her best to follow Scott’s instructions.
Without the second paddler, the boat nearly stilled on the lake. Abby wondered if they were even moving forward at all. “How far do you think we’ve gone?” she called behind her. “Are we halfway yet?”
She could hear Scott dumping water into the lake—either that, or it was the splash of water coming in over the side of the canoe. Since they were headed nearly straight south, the westward-moving waves slapped them square on the side, spilling into the boat as often as not. Abby bent her head around and looked behind her.
Scott’s face grimaced with pain as he plucked up his paddle and dug deep, propelling the little boat forward—by feet now instead of inches. “We’re moving forward,” he grunted, “we’re not turning back now.”
But Devil’s Island still loomed closer than Rocky. Abby set her jaw and paddled harder. Scott was right. They weren’t going to turn back. There was nothing for them back there, and they were just as likely to run into trouble on their way back as forward. They might not be any closer to Rocky than Devil’s, but somewhere along the line, they’d passed the point of no return.
The wind and waves mounted higher against them.When Abby looked to the sky, she realized the gray clouds had grown dark and threatening, and the brisk breeze they’d been experiencing all day had blown up a gale that threatened to propel them into the open sea. As the boat lurched in the raucous waves, Abby’s stomach somersaulted up her throat.
Water splashed into the boat in waves instead of rivulets. The puddle in their vessel grew and the tiny craft settled deeper into the lake, its sides lower, an easier target for the surf that seemed intent on swamping them. Abby paddled in near-frantic terror, but still she felt the boat stall whenever Scott paused to bail out the water.
Slowly they crept forward. As they drew closer to Rocky Island, Abby could see the waves sending up spray as they smacked against the huge boulders that gave Rocky Island its name. The thought hit her like a slap of cold lake water. Somehow, they’d have to navigate through the dangerous rocks in order to get to the island.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Abby recited the words in her head, finding a rhythm with them, digging deep with her paddle and forcing herself to ignore the blisters growing on her palms. She wished she’d
“I’m doing fine. I’ll probably be sore tomorrow, though. How are your arms? You already carried this canoe down the hill—you’ve got to be getting tired.”
“I’m fine. I haven’t gone as soft as Mitch would like you to believe.”
Abby heard the strain behind his lighthearted words, and she dug a little deeper with her paddle, wincing as the seasoned wood moved against the skin of her palms where blisters had already begun to form. She tried to adjust her grip to ease the pain, but with the next dig, she still felt it. Rather than focus on her pain, she resolved to keep her eyes on their elusively distant goal.
“Harder on the left if you can,” Scott called from behind her. His voice rose in pitch, his tension more obvious now. The waves splashed higher, jolting their boat and limiting their progress, sending the fragile craft rocking unsteadily. Abby wished she could find the rhythm of the waves and move with the water, but she feared the only way to do that would be to go with the direction of the waves and headout to sea. And there was no way she was going to intentionally head out to sea.
“Steady now. If you can, I want you to paddle with smaller, faster motions for a minute here while I try to bail out some of this water.”
Water? Abby looked behind her and saw five or six inches of water pooled just beyond the toes of her boots, hampering their progress and holding them lower, inviting more water to slosh in. She could feel the rush of adrenaline hit her veins as she did her best to follow Scott’s instructions.
Without the second paddler, the boat nearly stilled on the lake. Abby wondered if they were even moving forward at all. “How far do you think we’ve gone?” she called behind her. “Are we halfway yet?”
She could hear Scott dumping water into the lake—either that, or it was the splash of water coming in over the side of the canoe. Since they were headed nearly straight south, the westward-moving waves slapped them square on the side, spilling into the boat as often as not. Abby bent her head around and looked behind her.
Scott’s face grimaced with pain as he plucked up his paddle and dug deep, propelling the little boat forward—by feet now instead of inches. “We’re moving forward,” he grunted, “we’re not turning back now.”
But Devil’s Island still loomed closer than Rocky. Abby set her jaw and paddled harder. Scott was right. They weren’t going to turn back. There was nothing for them back there, and they were just as likely to run into trouble on their way back as forward. They might not be any closer to Rocky than Devil’s, but somewhere along the line, they’d passed the point of no return.
The wind and waves mounted higher against them.When Abby looked to the sky, she realized the gray clouds had grown dark and threatening, and the brisk breeze they’d been experiencing all day had blown up a gale that threatened to propel them into the open sea. As the boat lurched in the raucous waves, Abby’s stomach somersaulted up her throat.
Water splashed into the boat in waves instead of rivulets. The puddle in their vessel grew and the tiny craft settled deeper into the lake, its sides lower, an easier target for the surf that seemed intent on swamping them. Abby paddled in near-frantic terror, but still she felt the boat stall whenever Scott paused to bail out the water.
Slowly they crept forward. As they drew closer to Rocky Island, Abby could see the waves sending up spray as they smacked against the huge boulders that gave Rocky Island its name. The thought hit her like a slap of cold lake water. Somehow, they’d have to navigate through the dangerous rocks in order to get to the island.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. Abby recited the words in her head, finding a rhythm with them, digging deep with her paddle and forcing herself to ignore the blisters growing on her palms. She wished she’d
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