Wind blown spray flew over the bow of the boat as we pulled to our limits crashing through the waves in our path. We were soaked and despite the hard work, I was shivering. It was hard to tell how Rhames fared as he stared straight ahead and rowed. The waves were capped with white foam, some high enough to block our view of land when the boat fell into the trough. With the help of the outgoing tide, the crests stacked up in the entrance to the bay so close together they slammed the boat continuously. I chanced a glance at the other boats in our convoy when we crested a wave, and they were struggling as we were. At least to this point, we remained together.
With every glimpse of land, our situation looked worse. The island we were making for seemed to diminish in size. Was it possible the current was moving us backwards? I thought about asking Rhames, but his skill lay more with the pistol and cutlass than navigation. No, this was my call. I looked toward the sky for a sign and what I saw changed our course. A dark line of clouds was approaching. Not the huge puffy clouds with their dark anvil bottoms that wreaked havoc during the summer, but a long dark line etched across the horizon. There was no way to know how quickly it would hit us, but when it did, the wind would be fierce and would likely last for several days. All I knew was it was not visible several hours ago, meaning it was moving fast. We were in no way prepared for the rain and chill that accompanied these winter storms.
“Rhames,” I yelled over the wind. He turned toward me. “We need to go back.” I nodded my head toward the line of clouds that seemed even closer now.
“Aye,” he replied and started to back his oar.
That was about as much as I could expect from him, but I needed to make sure the other boats knew our plan. I yelled at the top of my lungs, but the wind threw my words back in my face. Rhames must have noticed and yelled with me. His voice was lost as well. We had to signal the crews or the current would scatter us. I noticed the pistol stuck in his belt and yelled for him to fire. Without a word he withdrew the gun, pointed toward the sky and fired. The blast was deafening, and I turned to see if the other boats had heard. The sound had carried and heads turned. Now that we had their attention, I focused on the maneuver that was so simple in calm water, but dangerous with the present conditions.
I continued to pull forwards as Rhames back paddled, trying to time my strokes with his. The boat started to turn and I braced myself for the crux, when we would be beam on to the waves and in danger of capsizing. I closed my eyes and froze, not wanting to watch as we turned and the wave came over the boat.
“Row, dammit. Whatever happens - row harder,” Rhames yelled.
I woke from my stupor and pulled as hard as I could. Finally the boat broke free from the friction of the water, but paused as if hanging on the wave. We were stalled, about to fall backwards and in danger of capsizing when we glanced at each other and with a furious attempt we both pulled at the same time. I pulled again, feeling only air and exhaled as we found ourselves on the crest of the wave. Having passed through the dangerous quarter the boat moved quickly toward the island we had just left.
We had done enough beach landings to know how to surf and despite being drenched and cold, the feeling of riding the waves was exhilarating. I looked back, a smile on my face that quickly disappeared when I saw the scene behind us. Two of the boats were following, another was struggling through the turn, but the last was gone, an oar floating in the water where the boat should have been. “Look,” I yelled at Rhames and waited for him to turn.
I desperately searched for the men, but the only sign the boat had been there was the single oar. It was too loud with the wind blowing and waves crashing against the boat to hear anyone yell; if the men had survived, they were invisible in the white-capped water. Rhames, more pragmatic or less emotional than I, simply turned away and started to row again. He had been around long enough to know that there was nothing we could do to save the men, the boat or the treasure chests that were now on the bottom of the bay.
I felt a tinge of guilt as I looked away from the water, and focused on the land ahead. The captain had taught me how to use fixed points of land to determine a position on the water. It was easier with a compass, but I knew if I could find the right landmarks, that we could return in better conditions and recover the chests. We had sounded the entrance to the bay on previous trips and with the water only around ten feet where the boat went down, we could dive on the site. I struggled to line up any features that would be memorable.
My eyes went first to the headland on the left and I was able to line up two small islands that I knew. I scanned the coast to the right looking for another landmark. A tall palm leaning toward the water caught my eye and I searched the landscape behind it for anything that I could use to line it up and mark the position. I noticed a small mound behind the tree with a scrub oak and committed them to memory.
I’m not sure if Rhames knew what I was doing as he said nothing, but there was something about the look on his face that gave me the impression that he approved. With our mates lost, at least for now, the four boats stayed close, surfing the waves as we approached shore. The distance it had taken hours to row, we now covered in minutes and the waves settled as we moved behind one of the larger islands near the headland. I pointed toward an island and Rhames corrected his stroke change out course toward the small beach.
It was a relief to be back on land, but we were in dire trouble. We huddled on the beach shivering. There was no fresh water and we would be forced to forgo a fire to remain unseen. I looked around the island for anything that might be able to provide shelter for the coming storm.