Page 73 of Obsession Under the Southern Stars

He’s more experienced on the ocean than I am, and even if I disagree, I’m not going to argue with him. “All right. So how do we stop ourselves drifting onto the Black Rocks? Do we drop the anchor?”

“Yeah. There are risks, though.”

“Like what?”

“If the anchor doesn’t grip well, we might still drift and then run aground. Once we’re anchored, the wind might yank the boat around, and there wouldn’t be much we could do about that. The force of the storm might break the anchor or the chain or the windlass, and then we’ll be adrift without any way of controlling it.”

I can see my rising panic reflected in his eyes, but we’re both keeping it under control, for now. “We don’t really have a choice, do we?” I reply. “We’ve got to drop the anchor, or we’ll definitely end up on the rocks. So how do we do that?”

He gestures at a nearby control panel. “The boat’s electrical system is powered by the engine’s battery. There’s no power going to the windlass.”

“The windlass?”

“The mechanism that raises and lowers the anchor. We’ll have to do it manually.” He heads to the bow of the boat, and I follow him. I can see the windlass now—a robust, metal mechanism mounted on the deck about the size of a small suitcase, with a large, toothed wheel at its center, the anchor chain coiled beside it. Beneath it is a locker that Joel undoes and opens, revealing the anchor. He drags it out, stumbling as the boat pitches and rolls. I bend and help him lift it up onto the side, then hold it while he makes sure the chain fits onto the bow roller at the front. He nods, and together we push the anchor over the edge, watching it tumble down into the depths.

“We’ve got to fix the crank onto the gypsy,” he bellows as thunder rolls again, and he points at the toothed wheel.

I help him retrieve the crank, and together, trying to stay upright, we connect it to the mechanism. It’s incredibly hard to keep our footing in the driving rain and wind, and at one point the boat suddenly rears up, knocking me off balance and throwing me against the locker at the front. I bang my knee and squeal, and Joel clutches my arm to stop me falling overboard. I don’t say anything, but I know I must have turned white as the seafoam.

Once the crank is connected, Joel starts turning it to lower the anchor. “Watch the chain,” he shouts, yanking the handle up, then pushing it around. “Make sure it doesn’t get tangled—but don’t get thrown overboard.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I mutter, crouching a little so I won’t fall off as I lean over to check the chain. The anchor has already vanished into the green-gray depths, and I imagine it sinking down into that quiet darkness, past the fish moving silently, toward the rocks and the sandy seabed. Maybe it’ll meet the chest somewhere on the bottom.

Eventually, Joel stops turning the handle, removes it, throws it back in the locker, and shuts and bolts the door. He wipes his face, then looks around. “We’ve stopped moving.”

It’s true—we’re no longer speeding toward the Black Rocks. The anchor must have caught on something. I feel a swell of relief. If we can stop moving, then maybe we can ride out the storm.

“Let’s get back to the cockpit,” he shouts.

He holds out a hand, and I slip mine into it. We make our way back as carefully as we can, and we only just make it there when a large wave slams against the port side. The boat lifts high on the wave as it’s carried away from the island, and then the anchor obviously reaches the end of its chain, and the boat is yanked to a stop. We both fall over, Joel landing heavily on top of me on the deck. Before we can move, a second wave washes over the boat, crashing over us, and for a moment I can’t breathe or move.

Joel coughs and shakes his head, then pushes up and lifts me to a sitting position. “Are you okay?” he shouts.

I nod, unable to speak because the breath has been knocked out of me. “Jesus.”

“This is crazy.” He struggles to his feet, then knocks against the side as the boat pitches violently. The boat spins as the wind and the water play with it as if it’s a toy, and with alarm I can see we’re once again on the move, heading toward the rocks. The anchor’s come loose from whatever it had hooked on. The storm is too powerful. We’re going to crash and join the Relentless on the reefs, just another shipwreck that lost its battle with the sea god.

“We’re going to have to swim,” I yell.

He shakes his head. “It’s too dangerous.”

“We can’t stay here. We’ll end up on the rocks.”

He looks to our left, across to the island. It’s not far. It would easily be swimmable on a pleasant day, but of course now there are alarming waves to negotiate.

“I’m a strong swimmer,” I tell him. “I won trophies as a teenager. I’m not scared.” It’s a lie, of course; I’m terrified, but if it’s a choice between staying here and being swept overboard onto the rocks or risking a short swim to the island, I choose the swim.

The boat pitches again, lurching nearer to the rocks, and it obviously makes up Joel’s mind.

He goes over to one of the lockers, unbolts it, and lifts out a waterproof bag. He opens it, and I peer in and realize it’s the emergency bag. There’s a first-aid kit, a thermal blanket, a whistle, a flashlight, matches, water purification tablets, a multi-tool, and a couple of other items I don’t get a chance to see because Joel starts putting other things in—towels that were in the other waterproof bag, bottles of water, a rope, another flashlight and spare batteries, and half a dozen other items, including our phones.

“Do you have any dry clothes?” he asks.

I open my backpack; I only have his hoodie which was rolled into a ball in the middle of the bag and has therefore stayed mostly dry, but the rest of my clothes are soaked through. I stuff the hoodie in, and he adds a dry tee and a pair of swim shorts.

“Help me pack some food up,” he says. Luckily, he’d stowed the chilly bin in one of the lockers, otherwise we’d have lost that overboard with the table. Moving fast, we pack as much of the food into the containers as we can, then stuff them into the waterproof bag.

We straighten and see with some alarm that the Black Rocks are drawing frighteningly close. “Get your flippers on,” he yells.

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