Kidnapped
It was late at night when Captain Hoseason pushed his head through the door.
“Come on deck,” he called. “I need someone with sharp eyes.”
I followed him up at once, though my legs were stiff from the cold and the rolling of the ship. The brig was climbing and falling on the waves like a frightened horse. Above us, the moon shone weakly through racing clouds, and the wind struck my face so hard that it stole the breath from my mouth.
At first, I could see nothing but black water and white foam. Then the ship lifted on a wave, and I saw the dark shape of land ahead. It seemed much too close.
“Rocks,” muttered one of the sailors.
The word passed across the deck like a shiver.
Captain Hoseason gripped the rail. “If we can round the point, we may yet be safe,” he said. His voice was steady, but his face was pale in the moonlight.
The men pulled at ropes and shouted to one another. The sails cracked above us like whips. Every few moments, the brig leaned so far over that I thought she would not rise again. I clutched the side of the ship and stared at the shore, trying to make out any gap in the darkness.
“There!” I cried suddenly. “The water breaks to the left!”
The captain turned the wheel. For one hopeful moment, the brig answered. She swung away from the worst of the rocks, and a cheer began to rise from the men.
But the sea had not finished with us. A great wave came roaring out of the dark, higher than any before it. It struck the brig with a crash that shook every plank beneath my feet. The ship twisted, groaned, and was thrown sideways.
I heard the terrible grinding sound of wood against stone.
Then came a shout: “She’s struck!”
The deck tilted beneath me. I fell hard, my hands sliding across wet boards. Somewhere in the noise, the captain was still calling orders, but the sea was louder than any human voice.
Diary entry from the Seas
12 July
The storm reached us shortly before dawn. I had slept only a little, for the sea had been uneasy all night, lifting the boat and dropping her again as if she were no heavier than driftwood.
By five o’clock the wind had grown fierce. I tied my coat tighter, went on deck and found the whole ocean changed. Yesterday it had been blue and open, with sunlight flashing on the waves. Now it was grey and wild, with long lines of foam racing past us.
The boat was small, but she was strong. I reminded myself of this several times. Still, when the first heavy wave broke over the bow, I felt the fear rise in me like cold water. For a moment, I wanted only to go below and shut the door against the storm. But there was no one else to hold the course.
I checked the ropes, tightened the sail and kept the boat’s head turned into the waves. This was the safest way, though it made our progress painfully slow. Each wave seemed determined to push us back. Each gust of wind tried to tear the sail loose.
At noon, the clouds lowered until the sky and sea seemed to join together. I could not see far ahead. Once, I thought I heard rocks, but it was only the crash of waves folding over themselves. That sound troubled me more than I wished to admit.
By evening, the worst had passed. The boat was wet from bow to stern, and so was I. My hands ached from holding the tiller, but the little vessel had not failed me. I wrote these lines while the lamp swung above my table and the sea still knocked against the hull.
I am tired, but grateful. Today the ocean reminded me that adventure is not always a glorious thing. Sometimes it is simply staying at your post when every part of you wants to turn away.