Written for Fictionalizing Autobiography
September 17th, 2009
Salt water filled his mouth as he was pummeled by the waves. Just when he surfaced, choking and sputtering, a new wave would come and dunk him once again. He somersaulted, thrown about by the currents. Up became down, down was sideways. Every time he thought he had righted himself, he would surface unexpectedly, or brush the ocean floor with his elbow. His friends called from their dinghy, trying to get to him while also navigating the waves. They reached out for him and missed. “Idiots!” yelled the navigator, “grab him!”
Three men reached out a second time, missed, then reached again, finally grabbing him by the arm and yanking him up the side of the boat. Just as he plopped on the bottom, the hard planks pressing into his shoulders, the men around him let out a shout and braced themselves. “Here comes a big one!” The navigator yelled, his deep voice drowning out the crashing waves. Just as the words left his mouth, a large wave swept over the boat, soaking the men and nearly dragging a second victim into the water.
Water sloshed in the bottom of the boat, soaking the passengers’ feet even as waves sprayed them from above. The rescued man coughed, trying to sit up and regain his bearings as the boat jerked. He yelled with the other men as the waves jostled them. The boat bucked and shuddered, throwing him against the side of the boat and nearly sending him overboard once more. The navigator watched his crew with a sharp eye, prepared to perform a second rescue should another man fall prey to the waves.
“C’mon men! All together!” He yelled. He balanced himself and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Almost to shore!”
The men heaved together, planting their oars in unison in an attempt to hoist themselves over the last barrier of waves and onto the shore. They paused, braced themselves for another wave, then regained their positions and planted their oars once more. They heaved as the waves crested, the hull of the boat bursting through the top of the wave and riding it down to the wet sand. The men let out shouts of relief and victory, waving their oars in the air as they climbed out, onto the wet ground of the Washington coast.
Two boatloads of men stood on shore already, unaware of the drama that had taken place on the water. They hoisted their boats up against the wall of stones a safe distance from the tides. From where they stood, the storm had passed. They were in the eye of the storm, with brilliant blue skies and bright rays of sunshine pouring down on them.
The men from the third boat joined them, hoisting up their boat and putting it safely against the wall of stones with the others. As they did so the first few drops fell from the sky, signaling the approaching storm sweeping off of the mainland.
“Is there cover nearby?” One man asked, looking up at the dark clouds above them.
“There’s a shelter on the hill,” said the navigator with a wave of his hand. “Take the supplies up.”
As several men hurried to do his bidding, the navigator stood on the shore, the wet sand hard beneath his booted feet. He propped his fists on his hips, surveying the choppy ocean. It had shown itself a worthy opponent, nearly claiming two of his men. A strong northern wind threw itself against him. He felt somewhat victorious, leading his men safely through the waves, but had an even stronger sense of insignificance. Instead of feeling in control of the ocean, oddly enough, he felt humbled and exposed. The small window of sunshine on the narrow strip of shoreline revealed high, snowcapped mountains. The forest hedging the shoreline was dark, rich with the scent of pine, rotting leaves, and storm water. The navigator breathed deeply, the scent of the forest mingling with the scent of the ocean. The familiar clashed with the unfamiliar, but neither scent communicated comfort. One obstacle fed directly into another. Just as one wave announced the arrival of a second, and a third, so the challenges of the ocean fed into the challenges of the mainland.
He turned away from the ocean slowly, reluctantly. He followed his men across the wet sand and up the muddy little trail, hoisting up a crate of supplies as the sparse warning drops thickened and it began to pour.
September 17th, 2009
Salt water filled his mouth as he was pummeled by the waves. Just when he surfaced, choking and sputtering, a new wave would come and dunk him once again. He somersaulted, thrown about by the currents. Up became down, down was sideways. Every time he thought he had righted himself, he would surface unexpectedly, or brush the ocean floor with his elbow. His friends called from their dinghy, trying to get to him while also navigating the waves. They reached out for him and missed. “Idiots!” yelled the navigator, “grab him!”
Three men reached out a second time, missed, then reached again, finally grabbing him by the arm and yanking him up the side of the boat. Just as he plopped on the bottom, the hard planks pressing into his shoulders, the men around him let out a shout and braced themselves. “Here comes a big one!” The navigator yelled, his deep voice drowning out the crashing waves. Just as the words left his mouth, a large wave swept over the boat, soaking the men and nearly dragging a second victim into the water.
Water sloshed in the bottom of the boat, soaking the passengers’ feet even as waves sprayed them from above. The rescued man coughed, trying to sit up and regain his bearings as the boat jerked. He yelled with the other men as the waves jostled them. The boat bucked and shuddered, throwing him against the side of the boat and nearly sending him overboard once more. The navigator watched his crew with a sharp eye, prepared to perform a second rescue should another man fall prey to the waves.
“C’mon men! All together!” He yelled. He balanced himself and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Almost to shore!”
The men heaved together, planting their oars in unison in an attempt to hoist themselves over the last barrier of waves and onto the shore. They paused, braced themselves for another wave, then regained their positions and planted their oars once more. They heaved as the waves crested, the hull of the boat bursting through the top of the wave and riding it down to the wet sand. The men let out shouts of relief and victory, waving their oars in the air as they climbed out, onto the wet ground of the Washington coast.
Two boatloads of men stood on shore already, unaware of the drama that had taken place on the water. They hoisted their boats up against the wall of stones a safe distance from the tides. From where they stood, the storm had passed. They were in the eye of the storm, with brilliant blue skies and bright rays of sunshine pouring down on them.
The men from the third boat joined them, hoisting up their boat and putting it safely against the wall of stones with the others. As they did so the first few drops fell from the sky, signaling the approaching storm sweeping off of the mainland.
“Is there cover nearby?” One man asked, looking up at the dark clouds above them.
“There’s a shelter on the hill,” said the navigator with a wave of his hand. “Take the supplies up.”
As several men hurried to do his bidding, the navigator stood on the shore, the wet sand hard beneath his booted feet. He propped his fists on his hips, surveying the choppy ocean. It had shown itself a worthy opponent, nearly claiming two of his men. A strong northern wind threw itself against him. He felt somewhat victorious, leading his men safely through the waves, but had an even stronger sense of insignificance. Instead of feeling in control of the ocean, oddly enough, he felt humbled and exposed. The small window of sunshine on the narrow strip of shoreline revealed high, snowcapped mountains. The forest hedging the shoreline was dark, rich with the scent of pine, rotting leaves, and storm water. The navigator breathed deeply, the scent of the forest mingling with the scent of the ocean. The familiar clashed with the unfamiliar, but neither scent communicated comfort. One obstacle fed directly into another. Just as one wave announced the arrival of a second, and a third, so the challenges of the ocean fed into the challenges of the mainland.
He turned away from the ocean slowly, reluctantly. He followed his men across the wet sand and up the muddy little trail, hoisting up a crate of supplies as the sparse warning drops thickened and it began to pour.
~Brittanie V.
Wow, this is WONDERFUL Brittanie!! So, can I use your work in class - of course I'll cite the author!
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