8
Regrettably Carlos’ assessment matched hers.
She’d hoped to drag them out into calmer water, then remembered the forecast. Surf building through the morning. There’d been a storm somewhere out at sea and the ocean swell had kept moving even without the storm pushing at it any longer.
The rougher water had been teaching her its own lessons this morning. It was a rare opportunity to learn and she’d concentrated on studying the interplay of the truly big surf. McAllister had told her stories of what waves could do—and her long stretch at the National Motor Lifeboat School had taught her a lot. But today had been running rougher even than usual for Peacock Spit, so now she had the images and the body memory to attach to McAllister’s tales.
Until the sailboat tried to kill her.
Capsized,
