Free Storm Warriors by Elisa Carbone Page B

reach.
    Now,
I thought. Now I'll show them what I'm made of. Now I'll show them what a good surfman I'll become. I stretched my oar out into the water, caught a loop of the rope, and drew it closer. Then I leaned out and plunged my hand down. My fingers closed around the rough rope.
    Someone shouted, “Nathan, no!” I felt a jolt, a moment of weightlessness as the surfboat catapulted me up. I hit the sea with a slap. Cold, dark water closed over my head.
    I was still holding on to the rope. They can pull me up, I thought. Just don't let go.
    I only caught a glimpse of it—large and black, tossing in the waves. It slammed into my head with blunt force. There was a flash of white-hot pain, then darkness.
    Someone was rubbing my legs and feet. The pungent smell of linseed oil filled my nostrils and made my aching head hurt even worse. I tried to open my eyes but felt as if the lids were made of lead.
    “He's coming to.” That was Daddy's voice.
    “Get some whiskey and hot water ready,” I heard Mr. Etheridge say.
    I felt the itchy wool blanket that was wrapped around me. Someone pulled it aside and began to rub my arms and hands. My muddled brain found the pattern and put the pieces together. Wrapped in a blanket. Arms and legs rubbed with linseed oil. Whiskey and hot water.
    My mouth was dry and my tongue felt swollen. “Hypo …” I tried to talk, but it came out slurred. I swallowed, wet my tongue, and tried again. “Hypothermia,” I said softly.
    “What?” Daddy leaned close to hear. I could feel his breath on my cheek. “Speak up, Nathan.”
    “Hypothermia,” I said more clearly. “That's what you're treating me for.”
    There was a moment when no one spoke, whoever was rubbing my limbs stopped rubbing, and the air in the room seemed to hold still. Then Mr. Bowser's voice shattered the silence.
    “Good God, boy! Are you daft? You came near to dying on us, and your first words when you come back from death's door are straight from the medical manual?”
    I still didn't open my eyes, but I heard their laughter—nervous, relieved laughter.
    I'd had a firsthand demonstration of how those sailors in Massachusetts died: by being smashed in the head by floating debris. My head being so bashed up saved me from getting a whipping, but it didn't save me from being scolded, reprimanded, and reminded ahundred times that what I had done was very stupid, put the lives of the surfmen and sailors in danger, and had better not
ever
be done again. Daddy said, “This is the craziest thing you've ever done, boy. I've got a good mind to keep you away from the rescues altogether.” Mr. Bowser said, “I told you to stay out of the way unless I needed your help. Don't you know how to stay out of the way?” And Mr. Etheridge said, “I thought you had better sense than that, Nathan. I'm disappointed in you.” I think I would have rather gotten a whipping and not had to hear about my mistake over and over again.
    Mr. Etheridge decided to keep me at the station. Even I knew there wasn't much to be done about a fractured skull. All the medical manual had said was “Place the patient on his back and apply cold, wet cloths to the head.” But Mr. Etheridge wanted to keep a watch on me in case I took a turn for the worse, so I lay in bed at the station feeling miserable. My head hurt so bad I could barely move without my eyes watering. The bandage on my forehead, where the plank had hit me, had to be changed every day. I kept a cloth over my eyes because even a little sunlight sent shooting pain into my head. But the worst injury was to my spirit. I felt that just when I'd started to hope again, just when I'd begun to feel that the impossible might yet be possible, it had all come crashing in on me. Now I was so ashamed I wished I could shrivel up and disappear. I vowed that once I was well enough to return home, I would not show my face at the station ever again.
    For three days I lay on my cot in the bunk room, listening to the