wind with tense grasp. About them, the water flattened like a plate
beneath the flood. When the rain shifted a second they saw it, a
gray-white floor, stretching as far as the eye could reach. Uncle
William bent to it, scanning the east. "Hold her tight, Andy," he
yelled. His leg was braced against the tiller, and his back strained to
it. His hat was gone. The tufts of hair, lashed flat to the big skull,
were mere lines. "Hold her tight! Make fast!" he yelled again.

Through the dark they drove, stunned and grim. The minutes lengthened
to ages and beat them, eternally, in torment. Water and clouds were all
about them--underneath them, and over. The boat, towering on each wave,
dropped from its crest like a ball. Andy, crouching on the bottom of
the boat, held on like grim death. Then, in a breath the storm was gone.
With a sucking sound it had swept beyond them, its black skirts hurtling
behind it as it ran, kicking a wake of foam.

Andrew from beneath the bench lifted his sopped head, like a turtle,
breathless. Uncle William, bent far to the right, gazed to the east.
Slowly his face lightened. He drew his big hand down its length, mopping
off the wet. "There she is!" he said in a deep voice. "Let her out,
Andy."

With stiff fingers, Andrew reached to the sail, untying a second reef
and loosing it to the wind.

The water still tossed in tumbling waves and the fitful rain blew past.
But the force of the storm was gone. Away to the north it towered,
monstrous and black.

With his eyes strained to the east, Uncle William held the tiller.