Free The Coming of the Whirlpool by Andrew McGahan Page B

and water spurted from the floor as the planks of the hull briefly buckled and bent. The boat heaved almost to a standstill upon the unseen reef, then the wind and the current tore it free and they rushed on again, back towards East Head and more rocks yet. Dow’s fear roared up in him, devouring. He spun to Nathaniel.
    â€˜You have to save us!’
    But the fisherman was beyond any appeal, beyond knowing even that Dow was with him in the boat. The old man was raging blindly at the sea. ‘Open, damn you. Open again and show me the way down!’
    Dow had no idea what it meant, and no time for wondering. He clambered under the wildly swinging boom and clasped Nathaniel by the shoulders. He yelled into the old man’s face, not knowing what his own words were, aware only of terror and anger. The fisherman gave no sign that he heard anyway, but then his red gaze focussed upon Dow, and lit with crazed inspiration.
    â€˜This one,’ Nathaniel cried, clutching Dow in return. ‘Take this one! Take this useless boy and give back those you stole from me!’
    And suddenly Dow was wrestling for his life. A hand was around his neck, and another was dug into his back, bending him over the side of the hull so that he was face down to the water, spray slapping against his cheek. A stunned instant passed before he understood – Nathaniel was trying to throw him overboard! The boat dipped and for a horrifying moment Dow’s head was submerged and he gazed with stinging eyes directly down into blackness.
    Mortal terror galvanised him. He reared up and sent the old man staggering back beneath the mast. At the same moment a gust hit the flapping sail, filled it, and the boom swung viciously across the boat. The spar caught Nathaniel full upon the brow with an awful clap, and he was thrown off his feet to land sprawling in the bow, where he lay empty-eyed and insensible.
    For a moment Dow could only stare in shock at the fallen figure. Then stone grated again under the hull and he came back to himself. Nathaniel no longer mattered. The true dangers were the sea and the shrieking wind. He lurched to his feet and set a hand on the tiller. Where was he? Which way did safety lie? And how was he to get there? The world seemed to consist only of hurrying foam and lurking reefs and blotting rain. He pushed at the tiller, but the rudder merely swung slack in the water, ineffectual. He was doing something wrong. It was hopeless. He was alone, lost in a boat he did not know how to sail.
    Dow’s fear energised him no longer, it had become instead a cold and shrinking thing, an urge to curl up and close his eyes and pretend that none of this was happening. Almost he gave in to it. But then he saw the shadow of East Head rising over the bow, and realised that the boat had come almost full circle about the great gyre of the Rip. If he could only escape that gyre – this very moment – then he would be close to Stromner and the safety of its beach.
    If he could just turn the boat!
    Heart thumping, Dow studied the tiller in his hand and the rudder in the water. He studied the sail and the boom and the rigging.
    And he saw . If he took hold of that rope, then he could steady the sail. If he swung the boom that way, then the wind would fill the canvas, shoving the boat forward and giving the rudder purchase. And if he pushed the tiller right , then the boat would steer left, out of the Rip.
    Dreamlike, balanced unthinkingly, one hand on the rope and the other on the tiller, Dow gathered the boat beneath him, a living thing with a will of its own, but which could be tamed and bent to command. The wind caught the sail with a thud and they were away, slicing across the black water, almost effortlessly in the end. Exultation filled Dow. The water and wind might fight against him with more strength than he could ever muster, but with cleverness the water could be cheated, and with skill the wind could be made to work against