Free Legends of the Ghost Pirates by M.D. Lee Page B

to the narrow
section we pick up speed.
    Sara turns back to look at me, “Fisher?” She's also
just realized what's happening. We've already been swept past the
life-saving station. Just past her shoulders I can see what looks
to be some sort of an old wharf on the left.
    “Let's try for the wharf,” I shout. Maybe we can get
out of the current and tie up alongside.” Sara nods and they both
beginning to dig in harder with their paddles. The thing is, we're
now moving faster than they're paddling. The closer we get to the
narrow section the swifter the current is, and now it seems we have
little control.
    The old wharf is approaching fast. I steer the boat
hard to the left toward it– but we keep moving sideways up the
cove. “Paddle harder!” I shout. The current gets even stronger, and
we speed up even more regardless that we're going sideways. I don't
like not being in control of the boat. It's like white water
rafting with an-out-of-control sailboat. In an instant, we've lost
all control of the sailboat. Before I realize it, the wharf shoots
past our bow, from right to left, and the side of the boat hull is
aimed dead-ahead in the narrower part of the channel for large
rocks. We'll be crushed on the side of the rocks.

 
     
    Chapter 11
    Face in the Window
     
    We're moving rapidly sideways
straight for the rocks. If we don't do anything we'll be smashed to
little pieces! It doesn't matter how hard they paddle or where I
steer, we have little control where we're headed. Just off to the
side of the rocks and more toward the middle of the channel I can
see there are several mooring balls for visiting boaters to tie up
to. Tied to one of the moorings there's an old dingy that barely
floats. It's probably been abandoned there for a long time.
    Sara shouts from the bow, “If we could just paddle
over to the mooring and grab on, that'd stop us!”
    I'm watching the large rock rapidly getting closer.
“We're moving too fast! Doesn't matter how hard you paddle, we'll
miss it before we ever get close enough to grab on.”
    “We have to try!” Sara shouts back and begins to
paddle even harder toward the mooring balls. But sailboats just
don't move very well with paddles.
    I realize Jo isn't paddling at all; she's pulled a
coil of rope out of the front locker. As if she's done it a hundred
times, she takes one end of the rope and quickly ties it to the
middle of the paddle. Once the rope is secure to the paddle, she
stands up on the bow, paddle in hand like a harpoon, and holding
the coil in the other. She looks like she's going after Moby
Dick.
    “What are you doing!” I shout.
    Jo doesn't answer. Her eyes are intensely watching
the dingy as we quickly approach it with her arm cocked back ready
to hurl off the paddle. The dingy is soon just off our bow about
fifteen feet. That's as close as it's ever going to get. Jo takes a
deep breath, slowly lets it out, then lets the paddle fly right at
the dingy. CLUNK! It's a direct hit, and the paddle lands
wedging itself between the seats and the floorboard. In a split
second Jo takes the end of the rope, still in her hand, and secures
it to the bow cleat. When we go sliding past the old dingy, the
rope Jo's tied on suddenly goes tight, whipping the bow around
pointing us right at the dingy. The rope holds us tight and the
whole sailboat arcs away from the rocks.
    “Jo, you did it!” Sara shouts and gives her a big
hug. I don't know how she did it, and I'm still looking at the
paddle wedged under the seat. Whatever the reason, it worked, we're
safe now and we've swung away from the rocks.
    Suddenly the rotting old rope that ties the dingy to
the mooring ball snaps from the extra weight of our sailboat. Now
trailing a dingy, we're once again at the mercy of the current.
Luckily when Jo hooked the dingy it'd swung us well clear of the
rocks so now we're out of danger. We're still drifting, though,
just farther up the cove.
    I notice the farther we drift into the cove the