by Hank Manley
~4~
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.
“I hope everyone on the island is safe,” Warren sighed as he carried his plate to the kitchen. “This hurricane is terrible.”
Rhonda nodded her agreement. “I’ve seen a few hurricanes in past years, but this is the worst I’ve ever experienced,” she said.
A steady blast of wind pummeled the house at 120 miles-per-hour. Periodic gusts whistled even faster. Enormous drops of rain tore horizontally through the air and cracked against the shutters and walls like bullets fired from a gun. Bolts of lightning split the black sky and explosive blasts of thunder followed almost immediately. Warren could feel the booming claps press against his chest. Conchshell whined and cringed with each crash.
Trees snapped and smacked against the house. Sand and debris sailed unimpeded through the air and battered the shuttered windows.
“Why don’t we go to bed and try to sleep through the storm,” Rhonda suggested. “There’s nothing we can do sitting here in the living room.”
Warren looked at his mother and saw her fatigue. He yawned and realized he was tired. He and Conch had spent the entire day on their feet exploring and fishing. Pushing the dory up the beach across the poles had been strenuous. Sitting in the darkness and listening to the storm swirl around them was stressful.
“That’s a good idea, Mom,” he said with a deep sigh. “Come on, Shelly girl. Let’s go up to bed.”
Rhonda kissed her son warmly on the cheek and patted him on the shoulder. “Everything’s going to be fine,” she said. “You’ll see. Maybe you can read a little of your book about pirates by the light of the storm lantern. That might help put you to sleep.”
“I’ll try it, Mom,” Warren answered. “I’m almost finished. Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Rhonda watched Warren disappear up the stairs. She held a lantern with a slowly shrinking candle. “I’ll be right behind you. I just want to have a final look around.”
Satisfied that the house was secure, Rhonda carried the lantern to her bedroom and sat heavily on the mattress. Her eyes drooped with fatigue but her mind raced with worry. She needed to rest. Tomorrow would be very difficult cleaning up after the storm. People might be hurt and require assistance. Could she fall asleep?
Reluctantly she padded to the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet and withdrew a bottle of pills. Rhonda almost never took sleeping pills. She had a visceral dislike of medication in general. Should she make an exception tonight? She scooped water from the sink into a glass and held the potent sedative in her fingers. No! Something might happen to the house during the storm. Her son might need her. She replaced the pill in the vial, walked back to the bedroom and dropped on the bed. Within seconds her eyes closed and she fell into a troubled sleep.
~5~
Conchshell lay restlessly at the foot of Warren’s bed, unable to sleep. The Labrador rolled to her side and yawned. She buried one ear against the sheet and attempted to cover the other with a paw. The relentless roar of the hurricane wind filled the small bedroom with a steady drone of noise.
Bolts of lightning sent daggers of light slicing across the room. Booming explosions of thunder shook the windows and chattered the shutters. Driving rain pelted the glass panes and strummed across the roof. Palm fronds, driftwood and assorted detritus pelted the outside walls of the house.
&nbs
p; Warren slept fitfully. Exhaustion dragged him into slumber, but the raucous noise of the storm nudged him awake.
Hurricane Danica was Conchshell’s first experience with severe weather. The dog had felt the ground trembling and the pressure dropping hours before the storm arrived, but she had no way to know how long it would last or the extent of the damage it could cause.
She knew that the conditions were potentially very dangerous, and she wished for the morning to arrive. The early onset of darkness had been disconcerting. How long would the night last?
Conchshell lifted her head from the bed and looked in the direction of the beach behind the house. Through the bedroom window she could sense that the wind had changed. The sound of the waves pounding on the sand, discernible to her sensitive ears over the whistling of the air, was different.
The dog eased off the bed, pawed the bedroom door open, and trotted down the stairs. She jumped up on the sill of one of the rear windows and peered through the narrow opening of the shutters.
“Ruff,” Conchshell barked in shock. “Ruff, ruff.”
Warren’s dory was rocking crazily, tugging on her anchor line and pulling against the rope that was tied to a palm tree. Suddenly, the bow line snapped and the boat moved away from the house.
The approaching hurricane winds had pushed the surrounding water almost to the level of the house. The boat was afloat. The onshore wind of the afternoon and early evening had shifted to the northwest as the eye of the hurricane passed just above the island. The boy’s dory was now in danger of blowing out to sea.
Conchshell bounded from the windowsill and dashed up the stairs. She leaped to the bed and pressed her wet nose against Warren’s cheek.
The boy’s eyes snapped open. “What is it, girl?” he asked as he shook sleep from his brain and sat upright.
Conch jumped to the floor and rushed to the door. She whimpered once and disappeared through the open passage.
Warren flung the covers from his legs, reached for his pants and shirt, and followed his dog down the stairs.
The Labrador stood panting at the rear door.
Warren buttoned his shirt and fastened his pants as he approached the porch. “What’s the matter, Shelly,” he asked. “What’s got you so excited?”
Conch pushed her nose against the glass pane and growled once.
Warren squinted his eyes and looked toward the beach. A sudden bolt of lightning illuminated the rear of the house. The boy saw the problem immediately. His dory was free of the palm tree and lifting the anchor. Floating in the deeper water, the steeper angle of the line was insufficient to keep the anchor dug in the sand. The dory was about to float away in the storm.
Without hesitating, Warren opened the door and stepped across the porch toward the flooded beach area. He opened his mouth to warn Conch to stay inside the house, but the words never left his mouth. The dog, committed to help her master and best friend, sprang through the doorway, bounded across the porch, and jumped to the sand.
The beach below the house, normally fifty yards wide, was reduced to ten by the rising sea. Wind rushed around the house from the far side of the island and blew against the advancing water. The clash of powerful forces mounded the waves on the normally placid flat. The confused tempest hurled the dory in wild gyrations.
Conchshell entered the water and was immediately swept from her feet by the tumultuous action of the waves. The dog was sure-footed on a bonefish flat and a strong swimmer in deeper water, but she had never experienced conditions of such power and magnitude. Unable to touch the bottom, Conch thrashed her legs toward the shore, but the relentless wind shoved her farther away. She opened her mouth to cry out, but the top of a wave broke across her face, and the stinging brine washed down her throat. Momentarily unable to breath, Conchshell gagged and choked and slipped under the water.
Warren watched in horror as his closest friend was swept from the shoreline and disappeared from sight. The hurricane was the first he had ever experienced, but the boy understood he couldn’t rescue his dog by swimming. He might reach Conch, but he could never return with her to dry land.
Without hesitating, Warren charged off the porch and plunged through the breaking surf for his wildly gyrating dory. He grasped the heaving gunwale and pulled his dripping body over the side and into the cockpit. The boy fell forward, seized the anchor line, and pulled the anchor roughly aboard.
As the anchor clattered to the deck, Warren snatched up the oar and thrust the paddle end into the water. He pushed with all his might, spinning the dory and propelling the boat toward the spot he had last seen Conchshell.
“Where are you, girl?” he shouted into the roaring wind. “Where did you go?” His words were blown from his lips and scattered into the rain soaked air before they could reach the surface of the water.
* * *
With the fierce wind blowing the dory away from the shore, Warren reached the place he had last seen Conch with two frenzied thrusts of the oar. The roiled water churned before Warren’s tear-filled eyes, but the dog had disappeared.
The boy’s heart screamed with pain. His chest sank with shame and anger. “Why did I let you out of the house?” he screamed to the screeching wind. “Stay alive,” he pleaded to the unanswering waves. “I’ll find you.”
Warren’s mind raced as he attempted to calculate the drift of the dory in the wind, and the push of the relentless water. How quickly would the dog be sucked from the shore? Was Conchshell able to make any progress swimming? Had the boat been swept past the dog in the few seconds he had drifted and pushed with the oar?
“You’re not this far from the beach, are you?” Warren shouted. “Conch! Conch! Hold on!”
The boy jabbed the oar into the bottom behind the boat. The wind shoved the hull against the stationary pole. Warren held fast and almost back flipped out of the boat. He strained against the roaring wind. He pushed down and away on the oar. His salty tears mixed with the salty water splashing over the sides of the boat. His young muscles burned as he heaved the dory back toward the shore. Determination added to his power. Adrenalin boosted his strength. The boat held fast against the wind.
Warren reset the oar and pushed again. The dory plowed slightly forward, inches closer to the beach.
A faint bark caught Warren’s ear amid the crashing of the waves and the screaming of the wind.
“Conch!” the boy yelled. “This way, girl.”
The blonde Labrador’s matted head rose up on a wave five feet in front of the dory.
Warren buried the oar into the sand a final time and thrust to hold the boat in position as Conch was blowing toward him.
The panicked dog paddled down a cresting wave and slid alongside the little boat.
The boy lifted the oar from the water and tossed it into the boat. He fell to his knees, reached over the side of the boat and seized Conchshell’s front paws. The dory tipped lower as Warren and Conch straddled the gunwale. With the last vestige of his strength, Warren pulled the dripping, frightened dog aboard.
For several seconds, the boy and his dog lay side-by-side in the bilge of the boat, panting and shivering. “I’m so glad I found you,” Warren sobbed into Conchshell’s saturated fur. “I was so scared you were lost.”
Conch whimpered and licked Warren’s face enthusiastically.
The small dory rocked and bounced over the waves, pushed relentlessly away from the island by the vicious pulse of the hurricane.
Warren lifted his head and peered over the gunwale. He immediately understood his boat was blowing toward the open ocean with tremendous speed. He stood, grabbed the oar and jabbed it over the side, attempting to bury the blade in the sand. He never reached the bottom. The dory had already lurched across the flat into deeper water. There was nothing the boy could do to impede their progress.
As the water grew de
eper, the waves built in height and power. The hurricane piled the ocean into huge swells, and then blew the tops off the waves into dangerous, breaking surf. The dory lifted on the backs of the waves, almost spilling Warren and Conch from the boat, and then slid uncontrollably down the tumbling fronts, awash in angry white water.
Fear gripped the boy. What could he do to save himself and his dog? Warren fought to control his balance as he stood precariously in the little boat. He managed to return the oar to the bottom of the dory, knowing it was useless to fight the wind and waves. He grabbed the side of the boat and lowered his body to kneel against the bottom. Water washed over the gunwale as the dory tipped at a terrifying angle. He realized he needed to hunker down in the center of the boat to keep it from capsizing.
Warren took a single tentative step toward the centerboard. A rolling wall of breaking water smashed into the side of the dory. The boy lost his balance and was hurled through the air against the wooden boom. His head slammed unimpeded into the hard wood. His unconscious body crumpled into the bilge of the boat.
Conchshell crawled beside her fallen friend and nestled against his inert body. She licked his face tentatively, realizing something was terribly wrong. The strange taste of blood registered on her rough tongue. Her whimpered barks of fear and concern were unheard against the crashing waves.
~6~
The sun leaped from the cloudless horizon and climbed across a robin’s egg colored sky. The shallow water lapping against the transom of the dory was as gentle as a day-old kitten. The roseate sand beach upon which the little boat rested glistened in the still air for three hundred yards in either direction.
Conchshell shook her head and tenderly gained her feet. She looked over the gunwales and blinked crusted salt from her eyes. The hurricane was gone. The roaring wind of the previous night was still. But the dog understood immediately that she and Warren were lost.
Warren moaned softly and rolled to his side. Without opening his eyes he reached up and gingerly touched the lump on his forehead. Dried blood flaked on his fingers. Pain flashed behind his lids, and he gritted his teeth to fight the throbbing in his temples.
