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THE STORM PROPHET
We’re heading north to return sheep to owner,
and I’ve got a firm hold on Augusta to steady
her against the pummel of the waves, when something
in one of those little inlets in the cliffs catches
my eye.
‘Stuart, slow up.’
He steers us round to take a look. At first, it’s
pretty hard to see into the inlet, what with all the
waves building up around the neck. But Stuart spots
it soon enough – a scrap of bright red, which
we both know has to be a Sparrow sail. It’s not
upright, which isn’t good because the masts on
those dinghies are fixed in place. As far as we can
tell, it’s draped over some rocks on the far wall
of the inlet.
‘What do you reckon?’ says Stuart. He knows
what the answer has to be. We’ve been working
that coastline long enough to recognise every cluster
of rocks, remember every detail. This inlet doesn’t
have an official name, but we call it Snapper 3 because
it’s the third in a row of seriously unpleasant
holes in the coastal wall. Snapper 3 has a tiny, inaccessible
beach at low tide. Otherwise, it’s nothing but
a choppy, rock-strewn pool enclosed by the kind of cliffs
only Buzz and Billy would try to climb. When the wind’s
up and the water’s rising, the neck of the inlet
turns vicious. The whole ocean’s trying to fit
through that little gap and it coughs and chokes and
throws a tantrum in the process. It’s not a nice
place to go.
And we’ve got to assume the Sparrow was skippered
by a kid.
Stuart’s looking a bit white, I have to say.
I catch his eye. ‘Shall I take the helm?’
Stuart nods gratefully. He comes forward and grabs hold
of Augusta. Calling in position and intention, I move
aft and slip into place behind the wheel. The touch
of the throttle under my left palm and the solid pressure
of the wheelhouse against my knee are reassuring. All
the same, Snapper 3 isn’t looking good: it’s
going to be a hellish ride in over those waves.
At this stage, I can’t let myself think what it’s
going to be like getting out again.
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