the time it takes to sneeze, he recognized
her as Anna Wade, actress, Oscar winner, two Golden Globes, $20
million a picture, and still a nice person. At least by
reputation.
“Stay there.” He calculated
the boat’s entry into the wave. It wasn’t the size
of the wave that mattered but its steepness, and the down suction
from the whirlpool. He could see that there’d be no climbing
it. They would be buried.
Here the canyon created the venturi
and the wind howled. The digital readout of the wind indicator
was showing fifty-plus knots and still climbing. If Sam hadn’t
seen it and heard the stories he wouldn’t have believed
it. Lines were tangled in the cockpit. Some were wrapped around
his leg.
“Haul this in,” he said,
handing her the safety line. In a whirlpool it could catch in
the propeller. She pulled like a seasoned deckhand. “It
will be okay,” he said. Then a whirlpool spun them and he
fought to keep the bow pointed at the wave. Unless he kept it
straight the rocks would punch holes like an angry fist through
tissue paper.
