The Storm

Sunday was Regatta Day.

Mrs. Gable was right. The weather turned.

The morning started with a sickly yellow sky. By noon, the wind had whipped into a frenzy. The race organizers debated canceling, but the swells were only four feet. Manageable for the big yachts.

Isla was in her shop, listening to the marine radio. She couldn't watch. She knew the *Gilded Osprey* was out there.

*“Mayday! Mayday!”* The radio crackled.

Isla bolted upright.

*“This is the Sea Star. Tourist catamaran. We have lost power near the Widow’s Walk. We are drifting onto the rocks. Taking on water!”*

The Widow’s Walk. The jagged teeth of the coastline.

Isla grabbed the radio mic. "Coast Guard, this is Vance Marine. Do you copy?"

*“Coast Guard is twenty minutes out, Vance. We are swamped.”*

Twenty minutes was too long. The Sea Star would be kindling by then.

Isla looked out the window. Her family’s old tugboat, the *Barnacle*, was tied up. It was ugly, slow, and indestructible.

She didn't think. She grabbed her keys and ran.

The harbor was a washing machine of chop. Isla fired up the *Barnacle’s* diesel engine and cast off. She slammed the throttle forward, smashing through the waves.

She saw the *Sea Star*. It was listing badly, fifty yards from the razor-sharp rocks.

But she also saw the race fleet. The sailboats were heeled over, fighting the wind.

Isla maneuvered the tugboat between the *Sea Star* and the rocks. She threw a tow line.

"Tie it off!" she screamed over the wind.

The tourists scrambled. They secured the line.

Isla gunned the engine to pull them away.

*COUGH. SPUTTER.*

The *Barnacle’s* engine died.

Bad fuel. Sediment shaken loose by the storm.

"No, no, no!" Isla cranked the starter. Nothing.

Now, both boats were drifting toward the rocks. The *Sea Star* screamed. Isla stared at the jagged stone wall looming closer. This was it. The sea was taking them.

Suddenly, a white shape cut through the grey rain.

The *Gilded Osprey*.

It was under full sail, heeled over so far the rail was in the water. It wasn't heading for the finish line. It was heading for her.

"Leo!" Isla screamed.

Leo was at the helm, fighting the wheel. He looked wild. He looked terrifying.

He sailed the yacht directly into the danger zone. He didn't drop sails. He spun the wheel, bringing the *Osprey* alongside the *Barnacle* with impossible precision.

"Jump!" Leo shouted.

He wasn't talking to her. He was talking to himself.

He abandoned the helm of his father’s million-dollar yacht. He leaped across the gap of churning water, landing on the tugboat’s deck.

"The fuel filter!" Isla yelled. "It's clogged!"

"I got it!" Leo slid across the wet deck. He dove into the tug’s engine hatch.

Isla grabbed the tug’s wheel. "Two minutes, Leo! We have two minutes before we hit!"

She watched the *Gilded Osprey* drift away, sails flapping violently. It smashed into a pylon, the mast snapping with a sickening crunch. Leo’s legacy, destroyed.

"Try it!" Leo roared from the engine room.

Isla turned the key.

*VROOOM.*

The diesel roared to life. Black smoke poured from the stack.

Isla slammed the throttle. The tugboat bit into the water. The tow line went taut. Slowly, agonizingly, they pulled the *Sea Star* away from the rocks, fighting the ocean’s grip.

Leo climbed out of the hatch, soaked, grease on his face, bleeding from a cut on his forehead.

He looked at Isla. He smiled.

"Nice boat," he yelled over the wind.

Isla laughed. She was crying, but she laughed.

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