Free Merian C. Cooper's King Kong by Joe DeVito

blanket, miles in extent. No garment could keep out the penetrating dampness of the fog. Denham’s light tropical clothing became heavy with it, soggy in every fold. Water dripped everywhere, from spars, stays, and walls, and gathering on the bare deck, it trickled in slow, uncertain rivulets.
    Denham growled in exasperation. They were sailing blind. At a dozen feet, men and masts and ventilators became vaguely wavering wraiths. At greater distances they vanished behind the soft yellow-white silence. Denham climbed up to the bridge, where Englehorn, Driscoll, and Ann waited. From there he could see nothing of the sailor who heaved the lead in the bow, or of the other sailor who tried to pierce the thick veil from the high vantage point of the crow’s nest.
    He could hear both men, however. By some atmospheric trick their voices seemed to ring more loudly through the fog than they had ever come through in clear sunlight. “This triple-damned fog!” Denham grumbled in a choked voice. He could barely speak from excitement and frustration. He felt as tense as a man on a tightrope, and he turned away from his effort to stare through the enveloping cloud. “Are you sure of your position, Skipper?”
    â€œAs much as I can be,” Englehorn murmured placidly as he lit his pipe. “Last night before this stuff closed in, I got a fine lunar sighting.”
    â€œJack!” Ann whispered, and Denham saw she had a firm hold on Driscoll’s hand. “If we don’t get somewhere soon, I’ll explode. I never was so excited in my life!”
    â€œDon’t bounce around so much,” Driscoll warned her. “Next thing you know you’ll be rolling off the ship. And don’t keep doing things to get me excited. I’m fit to be tied right now. I’d like to throw my cap up into the air and yell blue blazes. But when I think of what we may be taking you into, I’ve got to keep my head.”
    Denham shook his head at the first mate’s words, thinking, Beauty and the Beast. Aloud, he said, “Well, if your position is right, Skipper, we ought to be almost on top of the island.”
    â€œIf we don’t see it when this fog lifts,” Englehorn returned, “we won’t ever see it at all. I’ve sailed for the position you gave me. Either we’re within sight of it, or else your Norwegian was having some fun with you and there’s nothing but blue water in the place it should be.”
    The high, intent voice of the leadsman in the bow came sharply up to the bridge: “No bottom at thirty fathoms!”
    â€œOf course,” Denham said almost hopefully, “the Norwegian worked out the position from what the natives told him. The black man in the canoe, though, was a sailor, and he gave his best guess. Still, we could be off by a few miles, I suppose.”
    â€œIf we sight an island, how will we know if it’s the right one?” Ann asked.
    â€œWe’ll know!” Denham rasped impatiently. “The mountain!” He leaned forward, trying to pierce the fog. “The mountain that looks like a skull.”
    â€œI’d forgotten,” Ann apologized. “Of course. Skull Island, you said the Norwegian called the place.”
    â€œBottom!” The high voice shot back from the bow, and at that triumphant cry they all stiffened. “Bottom, twenty fathoms! Sand and broken white shell!”
    â€œI knew it!” Denham roared.
    Englehorn puffed calmly on his pipe. “She’s shallowing fast. Dead slow, Mr. Driscoll. Tell ’em!”
    Driscoll tore into the wheelhouse and spoke down the engine-room tube. Bells jangled below in reply, and the Wanderer dropped off to a speed that was scarcely more than drifting.
    â€œLook!” Ann cried. “Isn’t the fog thinner?”
    â€œSixteen!” came the voice from the bow. “Sixteen fathoms!”
    â€œWhat does she draw, Skipper?” Denham