Authors: Hank Manley
Rhonda nodded. “That’s a wonderful idea, honey,” she said. “You and Conch head down to the settlement and let everybody know. I’ll start preparing inside until you return. At some point, before it gets too dark, we have to deal with your boat.”
“I’ll be back in less than an hour,” Warren said. “I only need to tell some of the people. The ones I tell can call others to save time. But I want to help old Mrs. Rolle with her shutters. I’m not sure she can get them closed all by herself.”
Rhonda smiled and felt her heart swell with pride. She and Morgan had raised a wonderfully thoughtful young man. “Go on, then,” she said with a playful pat on Warren’s head. “I’ve got things to do while you’re running around the island.”
* * *
Rhonda closed the drain on the kitchen sink and began to run the water. She planned to do the same with the bathroom sinks and bathtub. Fresh water on the island was a precious commodity, not to be taken for granted. If the electricity failed, which was a distinct possibility, there would be no water forthcoming from the island’s reverse osmosis plant.
Rhonda checked the drawers in the kitchen and found a supply of candles. She chuckled to herself. The cottage owners’ hurricane lanterns hanging in the porch apparently were more than just decorations.
The pantry contained several cans of tuna fish, peanut butter and a full loaf of bread. If the electricity went out, cold meals would have to suffice but they wouldn’t starve. Fortunately, six cans of dog food remained from the last shopping trip. Conchshell wouldn’t be neglected.
The refrigerator hummed happily with sandwich meats, mayonnaise, juice, fruits and lettuce chilling on the shelves. Rhonda made a mental note to fill a cooler with ice and transfer the food if the power went out.
Satisfied that she had thought of all the things she could do inside, Rhonda walked out on the porch. The daylight was fading fast as the cloud cover thickened to bury the sun that was still high in the summer sky. The slap of waves on the beach below increased in intensity. White caps speckled the flat, and the normally smooth horizon appeared lumpy as the approaching storm began to mound the deeper water with significant swells. The wind rattled the broad fronds of the coconut palm trees and whistled sharply as gusts pulsed toward the island.
“Mom, where are you?” Warren called as he battled to keep the front door from slamming shut in the intensifying breeze.
“I’m on the porch, honey,” Rhonda yelled over the increasing noise. “Come back here. We need to secure our windows and deal with your boat.”
Warren and Conchshell skidded to a halt. “I helped old Mrs. Rolle close all her shutters,” he said with maturity beyond his age. “She was real thankful.”
“I’ll bet she was,” Rhonda agreed. “Now let’s get going on our shutters. The wind is building quickly.”
Rhonda and Warren exited the porch and walked to the closest wooden shutter. Conchshell, unusually fidgety, whined a protest to further excursions outside the house, but dutifully followed her master as he began to secure the first window from the wind and flying debris.
“Don’t worry, Shelly girl,” Warren comforted. “We’ll be safe inside as soon as Mom and I get these shutters closed.”
The blonde Labrador barked her pleasure that they would soon be back in the house and out of the rapidly deteriorating weather conditions. To punctuate Conchshell’s point, rain began to spit from the lowering sky, and the light dimmed significantly although the sun was four hours from setting.
“How many of the other islanders were you able to warn about the storm?” Rhonda asked as they hustled around the outside of the house, swinging the shutters on the first floor closed and locking them in place.
“I stopped at everyone’s house between here and the gabby bench,” Warren replied, referring to the popular sitting area near the center of the settlement where residents sat to pass the time of day. “The Saunders and Pindars and Sawyers had noticed the weather was dropping, but they didn’t know we were in for a real hurricane. They appreciated that I told them.”
When the last shutter on the second floor was closed and secure, Warren and Rhonda hurried down the stairs and walked quickly off the porch toward the beach. Conchshell hunched down on her front legs with her nose close to the ground and moaned loudly.
“We’ve got to get the boat secure, girl,” Warren explained. “You don’t want your boat to float away, do you?”
The rain thickened and fat drops splattered on the sand turning the white beach dark. Increasingly larger waves mounded, their crests peaking in the deepening water before crashing and rolling ashore.
Rhonda stood for several moments looking at Warren’s fourteen-foot wooden sailing dory bobbing at anchor twenty yards from the shore. The navy blue hull, usually glistening in broad sunshine, appeared dull in the muted light. The centerboard, rudder and tiller were stowed forward, allowing the boat to be pulled into very shallow water. The mast was in place and the boom was strapped down with the sail properly lashed along its length. The long oar used for propelling the boat across shallow sand bars was tucked along the keel. Warren had left the boat exactly as Morgan had instructed after his last sailing adventure.
“We need to pull the boat on the beach, honey,” Rhonda concluded. “I’m not sure she’ll last the night at anchor. The wind is really going to blow.”
Warren wrinkled his forehead in confusion. “How are you and I going to pull the boat on the beach?” he asked. “We’re not strong enough.”
“You know those three small poles by the side of the house?” Rhonda prompted. “Go get them and I’ll show you.”
Warren ran eagerly up the hill toward the house and grasped one of the five-foot long poles. Conchshell scampered alongside and clamped her jaw on the end of a second pole. The boy dragged his pole down the sandy rise and placed it at the water’s edge. The dog’s efforts to pull the other pole were unsuccessful.
“I appreciate the help, Conch,” Warren said. “But maybe you better let me get it for you.” With Conchshell barking encouragement, Warren towed the two remaining poles to the beach and arranged them in front of the first.
The black cloud that initially smudged a far corner of the horizon now covered half the sky. Warren looked upward and felt as if a thick, roiling blanket were being pulled over his head. Much of the sky was now the color of coal, and the rain had increased to a steady downpour. His shirt and short pants were soaked and stuck uncomfortably to his skin.
“Let’s wade out to the boat,” Rhonda called over the howl of the wind. “I’ll lift the anchor and together we’ll pull the boat toward the poles.”
“Stay, girl,” Warren said firmly. “We’re not going for a sail.”
Conchshell shook her head to clear the rain from her eyes and yelped acknowledgement. Her normally luxurious blonde coat hung limply on her shivering body.
“The water’s getting deeper quickly,” Rhonda called as she pulled the anchor from the bottom and set it on the small teak deck of the dory. “The wind is pushing water across the flats right up on the island.”
“How high can it get, Mom?” Warren yelled as he stood waist deep beside the dory and pushed it toward land.
Rhonda looked toward the shore and tried to judge the height of the ridge where their cottage sat. “I don’t know, honey,” she called back. “Let’s hope it doesn’t make it to the house.”
In the few minutes required for Rhonda and Warren to pull the boat to the shore, the water level had raised enough to float the first of the poles.
“Grab that pole and place it ahead of the others,” Rhonda instructed. “Then let’s give the boat as big a push as we can right over the poles.”
Together, with the help of the wind and waves tumbling on the beach, Rhonda and Warren managed to shove the dory up and over the first pole before it came to rest sitting on the next two.
Rhonda quickly grabbed the first pole, now free behind the hull, dashed around the boat and placed in line. “Push again, honey,” she shouted. “Let’s see if we can roll the boat over all three poles. We’ve got to get the boat as high as possible on the beach.”
Straining with all their strength, Rhonda and Warren heaved the boat across the poles as the wind roared toward the island and the rain pelted down on their saturated clothes. Three times the free pole was repositioned ahead of the dory, and three times mother and son shoved the boat higher on the beach.
Finally, exhausted, panting breathlessly, and chilled by the driving rain and rapidly descending air temperature, Rhonda and Warren collapsed on all fours in the sand.
“That will have to do,” Rhonda gasped as her head hung low and her hair draped against her face. “We’ll set the anchor and tie the boat to a tree, but we can’t get it any higher up this slope.”
“I think we did pretty well,” Warren said as he wiped rain from his eyes and surveyed their work. “If the water gets this high . . .” He paused and shook his head as if the thought were too difficult to imagine.
Conchshell whimpered her displeasure at the cold rain, screaming wind and rising water. She released a mournful howl and looked longingly at the house sitting dry and safe on the rise.
Warm light filtered through the windows, around the closed, imperfectly fitted, wooden shutters, and leaked down toward the beach. Warren took a step in the direction of the porch, anxious to shed his thoroughly saturated clothes, jump in a hot shower and dress in cozy, dry pants and a sweater.
Suddenly, the interior lights flickered once and went out. The house stood dark and cold in the driving rain. “Come on, Mom,” he called against the wind. “Let’s go inside and light some candles. I’m freezing.”
Rhonda ushered Warren and Conchshell through the back door and leaned with all her weight to close it against the wind. The three collapsed in a heap on the floor of the porch, soaked, chilled, sand crusted and drained of energy.
The house was cast in darkness although the sun would not set for two more hours.
Rhonda staggered toward the kitchen and lit a candle with a match. The tiny flickering light barely illuminated the living room. She placed the candle in one of the storm lanterns and covered it with the tall glass shroud. Out of the wind, the flame steadied.
“Get out of those clothes, honey,” she said to Warren, the fatigue evident in her voice. “Maybe we’ll find a little hot water, but we better not count on it.”
“Can we call Dad?” Warren asked. “He’s probably worried
about us
.”
“We’ll try in a minute,” Rhonda said. “Right now take this lantern upstairs, shower if there’s water, and change into something warm. I’ll dry Conch off. She’s shaking with cold.”
Conchshell nestled closer to Rhonda at the sound of her name and rubbed against her affectionately.
Rhonda lit another storm lantern, retrieved a large, fluffy towel from a closet, and began to rub the wet dog vigorously.
The wind whistled around the house, and the old wooden shutters rattled on their hinges. The windows jangled as the gusts increased in intensity. “It must be blowing more than one hundred miles-per-hour,” Rhonda muttered to herself as she finished drying Conchshell and ran the damp towel through her own wet hair.
A sudden flash of lightning, followed immediately by an ear-splitting crack of thunder, burst directly above the house. The unexpected flash of illumination and booming noise caused Rhonda to gasp audibly.
“Mom,” Warren shouted as he raced down the stairs holding the lantern in one hand and his pants in the other. “Are you okay?”
“That was close,” Rhonda said as she willed herself to regain her composure. Showing strength to Warren was important to keep him from feeling undue concern.
Conchshell lay on the floor, trembling slightly, and lifted her head to the ceiling. A long howl of apprehension rolled out of her throat, and she began to pant and drool nervously.
“Why don’t you change out of those wet clothes, Mom,” Warren suggested. “I had a little hot water for a minute. I saved you some before the pressure went away.”
Rhonda sniffled once and realized her nose had been running. She felt a chill across her neck and shivered as her wet blouse clung to her back. She couldn’t allow herself to feel sick. Warren and Conchshell depended on her.
“Okay, honey,” Rhonda said. “I’ll be right back. Then maybe we’ll try to fix something for dinner.”
Warren finished dressing and walked to the rear of the house. Conchshell lifted herself slowly from the floor and trailed beside him. The boy pressed his face to one of the panes in a window and lined up the narrow opening in the shutters to focus on the beach. When he and his mother had left the dory, there was a wide expanse of sand behind the boat. A flash of lightning burst across the rear of the house. Thunder immediately shook the room. Driving rain peppered the walls. Warren squinted through the water-splattered glass and drew a surprised breath. Waves were lapping at the transom of the boat. The island was rapidly sinking into the sea.
* * *
A cannon shot sounded beside the house as a tall palm snapped in the wind. A loud thud announced the violent arrival of the broken tree on the roof. A prolonged howl of wind screeched around the house, and rain sputtered under the back door from the driving gale.
Warren looked with nervous anticipation at his mother. Conchshell slithered under the coffee table and folded her front paws over her head.
“Let’s try to call Dad,” Warren said in a cracking voice.
“I’ll try the cell phone,” Rhonda said. “The land line won’t work.”
She snapped open the cover and stared at the screen. A NO SERVICE message greeted her worried eyes.
“He can’t do anything for us, honey,” Rhonda offered with a shrug. “We’ll be fine. The house is strong and the roof seems to be in good shape. Why don’t we try to eat something and then head for bed? By morning the storm should be gone.”
Rhonda transferred the food from the gradually warming refrigerator to the cooler of ice. She made sandwiches and poured iced tea and tried to establish as much normalcy with the meal as possible. Conchshell was served a full bowl of cold food, but the dog seemed disinterested in the sustenance.