Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

Lacey refused to let Tucker go out of the wheelhouse to harness the flying canvas. She insisted he was more experienced driving this boat, although it was really a ploy to keep him safe. After a lot of convincing, she moved below to rummage through the stateroom and galley cabinets in search of a serrated knife. All she could do was cut the Bimini top loose without having it beat her down in the process.

“Mom, you’ve got to stay tethered!”

“I know. Just hold it steady and don’t slow down. We’ve got this!”

She leaned over and kissed her son on the cheek. She held onto the cushioned seating and the ceiling as she made her way through the door onto the aft deck. The nonskid gelcoat was no match for the three inches of standing water that seemed to remain on the decks during the deluge. She immediately wondered if she’d be able to pull off the task as the wind caught her clothing and tried to lift her into the air.

Lacey reached out to grasp the ladder leading to the top deck. She gathered up the nylon rope attached to her carabiner. She clipped it to the ladder and began her ascent topside. The boat continued to pitch with the passing waves, making her task near impossible. It was hard to imagine a more difficult job than doing anything outside the protective confines of a boat’s cabin during a violent storm.

On land, hurricane-force gusts can slow anyone to a crawl. On the water, that same wind can knock you flat. The decks are soaked with water. The boat is rolling, pitching and heaving. The sea spray is pelting your body like birdshot from a shotgun. In the back of your mind, the fear of a misstep resulting in your being blown overboard begins to consume you.

Lacey climbed the stairs and emerged topside on her hands and knees. Her nylon rope had gotten tangled up in the antenna that was barely attached to the boat by a rubber-coated cable. She struggled with the cable, finding it difficult to hold onto something and untangle her safety line.

She pushed her way across the deck with the balls of her feet until her back was wedged into the corner of the side railing. Lacey started to cut through the cable with the serrated edge before stopping herself. If she did that, they’d have no hope of using their marine radio. She let out a deep sigh and surveilled her surroundings.

The Bimini top was flying overhead like a large kite trailing a commercial airliner. It whipped upward, and then, as the boat rode down the back side of a wave, the change in windspeed brought it downward, where it swirled from starboard to port across the windshield in a counterclockwise motion.

It was everything attached to the canvas that created the threat. The stainless supports were like sharp, twisted clubs seeking a target. The Garmin radar antenna had broken loose of its supports and was entangled with the canvas, adding a powerful punch each time the remains of the Bimini top struck the boat.

The entire tangled mess was being used by the hurricane as a weapon to pummel the Cymopoleia . Lacey couldn’t reach the cables and ropes that held the top to the boat because her safety line was tangled. She didn’t want to cut off their only chance of issuing a Mayday. She had an idea.

Lacey disconnected the safety line’s carabiner from her life vest. She held on to the ladder as she untangled the antenna’s wire from the safety line. Just like the frustration every Christmas decorator had ever experienced untangling string lights, she wound the rope over and then through the wire. Slowly, she was able to extract the safety line from the antenna’s wiring.

“Finally,” Lacey muttered as she gave the safety line a shake to confirm it was free. After securing it back to her life vest, she pulled all thirty feet of the slack up the ladder to give her plenty to work with. After another deep breath, she wiped off her face and turned around on her hands and knees to face the unpredictable top hurling itself around the boat.

In a tug-of-war against the changing momentum of the boat, Lacey pulled her way forward to the helm located on the top deck. The wires and ropes were wrapped through the front railings. Each time the Bimini top whipped around over her head, she could see the railing give and begin to pull away from the fiberglass. Only a couple of screws prevented the entire railing structure from joining the twisted mess.

Lacey climbed to her feet and used the chair to steady herself. The wind gusts continued to push her toward the starboard side. The Bimini top suddenly flew upward, sucked up like it was being pulled into a vacuum. This gave Lacey the opportunity to cut through the nylon lines that kept it in place.

One by one, she sawed through the ropes, each time causing the canvas to pull farther away from the boat. She allowed herself a smile as she saw the progress she was making.

“Come on. One more.”

She cut through the last of the ropes, fully expecting the canvas to fly off into the deluge.

It didn’t.

The Garmin radar antenna remained tangled with the top. She had to cut the coated wire. Lacey stood and gripped the circular antenna with her left hand and pulled the cable taut. She vigorously sawed through the hard plastic exterior and then began to sever the steel cables that ran through it until she reached the heavy-duty copper wire.

She grunted as she gave it one more full effort. Her strength surprised her as she cut through the final obstacle that threatened to break every window in the wheelhouse.

It only took the blink of an eye. Less than a second. A freakish event caused by the mind failing to coordinate one hand with the other.

But the second the cable was cut, and the tangled Bimini top was released from bondage, Lacey had unconsciously kept her death grip on the Garmin radar antenna a little too long.

She was suddenly airborne and flying over the back of the Cymopoleia.

Friday, November 8

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

The transition from crisis to catastrophe came in an instant. Once Lacey was sucked into the air, her release of the Garmin antenna was of little consequence. The hurricane took control. As her body was heaved upward and then flung over the stern, she let out a primal, guttural scream. Her arms flailed like a windmill as if she were trying to swim in the wind-driven rain.

None of this mattered as she was body-slammed into the water just twenty feet behind the boat’s transom. Stunned, Lacey lost her breath momentarily as she was drawn underwater by the forward momentum of the Cymopoleia , which was riding another wave to the bottom of a trough.

Lacey struggled against the water that wanted to drag her away from the boat. She caught her breath when the boat topped the next wave, hull exposed, only to crash down the other side of the crest. The nylon rope whipsawed as the boat picked up speed on the descent, pulling her five feet out of the water.

The momentary respite allowed her to catch her breath. She wanted to scream in an attempt to get Tucker’s attention. However, the boat entered another swale, and she was sucked below the surface again. The normally warm waters of the Gulf were cold, but not paralyzingly so. The chills that came over her body during the ordeal were more from the wind when she was airborne than when she was being dragged below the surface.

As another wave crested, the Cymopoleia ’s bow rose into the air until it came crashing down, followed by the fish on a line—Lacey. She thought of Owen. His face. His touch. His kiss. She fought to live for him. For their son.

She gripped the nylon rope with both hands until they bled. The stinging salt water sent pain throughout her upper body. It also helped her stay focused. She was beginning to time the waves. In her mind, she could count the seconds between the boat’s rising and falling. She’d caught her breath, and she willed her body to respond. She was going to survive.