Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

“Help!” Lacey screamed as loud as she could when she was pulled out of the water. “Tucker!”

Then she was sucked below again and dragged along. Sometimes tumbling as she rolled over and over. Other times, simply pulled out of control, the life jacket squeezing her ribs and belly. Another ten to twelve seconds passed. She readied herself. Out she flew.

“Tucker, help meee!”

Tucker thought he’d imagined hearing his mother’s voice. As he fought the wheel and the never-ending waves trying to crush their hull, he pressed his face against the starboard windows and the windshield. He’d noticed that the Bimini top was no longer pounding the boat. He breathed a sigh of relief when he noticed that the barometric pressure had stabilized at 980 millibars. The storm was no longer strengthening, at least for now.

Then he became concerned. He knew his mom was most likely being deliberate and careful, but she should’ve been back inside the relative safety of the wheelhouse by now. He was becoming frantic as he searched for her through the windows.

At one point, he made the mistake of releasing the wheel just to take a quick look on the aft deck. In a matter of seconds, the boat was shoved to the right, and if not for his quick reflexes and upper-body strength, the Cymopoleia would’ve been slammed in the side.

The second time Tucker heard her cry for help, he had to do something. He couldn’t leave the helm. Releasing control for a moment could get them rolled. Early on, before the seas turned angrier, he’d tried deploying autopilot to guide them through the waves. That didn’t work.

He needed to find a way to lock the ship’s wheel in place. The only way was to tie it down using his safety line. Tucker ignored the admonitions of his mother to remain tethered to the boat while they rode out the storm. After reducing the boat’s speed but not too much so it couldn’t climb the oncoming wave, Tucker unclipped the safety line from his life jacket. He quickly proceeded to wrap it through the ship’s wheel and around the stainless grab bars until it was tight. Then he used the carabiner to secure the line again. He gripped the spokes and gave it a good back and forth tug. To confirm it would work, he let go for a few seconds as the boat powered through another wave.

He heard his mom scream again. This time, he was certain of it. Tucker put all the risks out of his mind and raced out of the wheelhouse. His first inclination was to look up where he’d noticed the Bimini top was gone. The Cymopoleia rose high into the air and came slamming down, as it had hundreds of times before during the night. Tucker was airborne as weightlessness overcame him. His legs kicked and his arms were outstretched, looking for anything to grab onto to keep from going overboard.

That was when he found his mother’s lifeline. Taut. Stretching. Holding onto the boat’s ladder for dear life. And now, it had become Tucker’s lifeline too.

He fell hard to the deck, but he managed to hold the nylon line with his right hand. A searing pain shot through his shoulder as the boat’s motion fought against his grip. But he knew his mom was still attached. He just knew .

Unable to gain his footing, Tucker grasped the line and slowly allowed it to slip through his hands, rubbing his palms raw. Not that it mattered. It was almost as if he could feel his mom’s beating heart on the other end. No different than when she’d fed him in the womb.

The outstretched line bent over the half-wall at the stern. The heat of Big Cam, the powerful diesel motor, rose through the engine compartment hatch as it struggled to propel the boat against the waves.

Suddenly, as the boat’s bow rose to ride another crested wave, Tucker slid hard to the rear, crashing into the stern wall with his back. He managed to crawl to his knees just as the bow reached its apex and came crashing downward again into the trough.

This was unsustainable, and Tucker doubted his makeshift autopilot would hold.

During the lull between the crest-to-trough series of waves, Lacey screamed again. “Help!”

Only this time, she got a response. Tucker saw her emerge from the darkened water, illuminated only by the boat’s running lights. He shouted to her, “Hold on, Mom! I’ll pull you in.”

“Tuck—!” The second syllable was garbled as she was dragged below the surface again.

In those next few seconds, Tucker thought through the dynamics of what he faced. He’d have to time it just right. And he’d have to hold on.

Without delay, he climbed onto the transom with both hands on the rope. He pressed his back against the stern, fighting off the searing heat generated by the diesel engine.

Cymopoleia rose toward the sky again. He fought gravity to keep from being thrown past his mother and a likely death. At the top of the wave, he tensed his muscles. He firmly planted his feet and gripped her lifeline, waiting for the right moment.

The bow dropped. The stern began to lift. His mother emerged from below the surface. Tucker yanked the rope, pulling hand over hand as he quickly reeled her onto the transom just as the boat reached the bottom of the swale and started its upward climb.

He wrapped his left arm around his mom and draped his right over the stern’s half wall. She tried to help but lost her footing, which almost dragged them both back into the water. Tucker told her what to do.

“Wait ’til the top!”

The boat made its way up and over. As it hit the crest, the momentum shifted, and gravity became their ally. Tucker hoisted his mother and flung her onto the aft deck. A second later, he leapt upward and flew over himself, belly flopping on the water-covered decking and sliding hard into the wheelhouse.

Lacey was clinging to the ladder, somewhat stunned by the sudden turn of events. Tucker wanted to hug his mom. Comfort her and make sure she was okay. But he’d noticed the battering of the Cymopoleia ’s bow had forced it off course so that it was no longer hitting the waves head-on.

He grabbed his mother by the life jacket and jerked her through the door of the wheelhouse. He allowed her to lie on the floor as he pulled her safety line inside. Then he slammed the door shut with a snarl directed toward the beast that had tried to swallow them.

Tucker stumbled toward the helm, crashing hard into the captain’s chair as the boat lurched toward starboard. Now he had to quickly undo the tightly wound security line meant to hold the boat on course, not beyond her captain’s control.

At the top of the next wave, the Cymopoleia pivoted slightly. It was as if she’d become stuck in the center of its gravity on a ball. The next trip down the wave was more of a sideslip than another descent on the water roller-coaster ride from hell.

Tucker reacted quickly. He loosened the safety line enough to turn the wheel back to the left so that the bow was hitting the next wave head-on. He also gave it more throttle at the same time. He’d saved them from being turned, and he was once again attacking the waves head-on.

Days later, Lacey and Tucker would recall this as the moment they knew they’d survive.

Saturday, November 9

Blackwater Sound

Near Key Largo

It wasn’t the kind of dawn of a new day that Peter was used to. Florida, the Sunshine State, rarely failed to live up to its name. Even when a storm passed, the bright blue skies coupled with a glorious sunrise could lift the spirits of even those in the direst of situations. However, in the throes of nuclear winter, pitch darkness simply gave way to a smoky, hazy shade of gray.