Spray splashed over the sides. Harold threw me a jacket. The wind was picking up steadily now as we got further from shore. The waves grew bigger and bigger, some as high as seven and eight feet. Harold turned west, away from the wind. The boat slid smoothly down the face of a wave. This old fishing tug of his was a big, heavy boat, but it felt like a matchstick in this powerful sea. “Most likely they’d come this way, with the wind. That old boy wouldn’t be able to row against a breeze like this. We’re far enough out now. I think that if they’re anywhere, they’ll be between us and the shoreline.” “Anywhere along here is going to be a pretty tough place to go ashore,” I reminded him. “I know from experience.” “Join the club,” Harold said. “I sank out here once back in 1957. Got caught in a storm that came up out of nowhere. I was in too close and a bloody rock punched a hole in my old crate big enough to let in half the Atlantic Ocean.” The wind was behind us now and we were picking up speed.
