The blades of the summertime wind sliced the air into icy chunks that hit my face in unexpected pieces and wiggled their way down my bathing suit. Massive rain drops splatter the Plexiglas window of the boat, blurring the view of the mammoth waves ahead. We were sure that the hurricane had arrived at the worst time possible, our fishing trip.
A fishing hook whizzed passed my brother’s ear barely nicking the skin. He produced a choked up squeak and sat down on the once white boat seat, not daring to loosen his grip on the side of the boat in fear of falling overboard.
It was a good sized motor boat. At the bow, there was a well hidden storage space for the anchor which was just big enough to sit on. Behind it was the fish blood stained floor from previous fishing trips. The back of the seat that my brother was sitting was also where the steering wheal was located. It sat proudly atop a hollow pedestal with an opening that only I was small enough to fit into. Now the boat, anchor and all, was at mercy of the waves.
“Why did the hurricane have to happen now” My brother complained, his voice bouncing from the teetering of the boat. Disapproving of my brother’s actions, I rolled my eyes through the scratched up film of my orange goggles. I, unlike my brother, was completely prepared for the frightful storm. My six inch armor of rain protection only failed my once when the massive wind ripped the hat off my head and dangled it teasingly above the water. In an effort to retrieve them, I left my cloths soaked down to my bathing suit from yet another unexpected wave.
The hurricane was a surprise to all of us. With the soothing heat of the summer sun tickling our faces and the ocean as calm as a young lamb, it would have normally been a sure sign of good fishing weather, but today, mother nature threw us a fast one.
CLUNK! The GPS fell and hit the ground from the shock of a wave.
“I give up!” my brother whimpered, “I want to go home!” My mom, seeming slightly relieved, signaled to my dad to turn the boat around. When we arrived back at the harbor, my dad held out his hand to let me out.
“No,” I replied, “boating weather is boating weather.” With that, he started up the loud engine and we headed back out to the choppy ocean, where the noise could be drowned by the crashing of the water.
For such a large ocean, it was rather empty. The loneliness never lasted long though, for if you thought about it too much, you were destined to get a mouthful of salty sea.
The farther we got out, the foggier and more electric smelling the air became. The fifteen ft. waves dwarfed the boat, showering it with fishy smelling water.
On one particular bump, a fishing pole was ripped from my hands and thrown into the open ocean. “Dad!” I yelled lazily, “Dad a fishing pole went overboard.” I was simply expecting him to stop the engine and get out the net, but NO! Before I knew what was going on, my dad was yelling at me to steer the boat around an upcoming rock. “No Dad, don’t. It’s too dangerous!” I didn’t have time to refuse, for when I turned around, my dad was hanging over the side of the boat, grasping for the pole.
This is all my fault, I thought, Why couldn’t I have just ignored it? What was he thinking anyway, I’m only eight years old, I don’t know how to drive a boat?!?! Wait a second… I have to drive a boat! I had never driven a boat before but I had watched it plenty of times.
I turned the wheel with all of my might and just barely avoided the harmful sea boulder. My tight grip made my hands sting like little needles poking into my palm. When my dad emerged from the green abyss, he leaned down and kissed my forehead being the only skin visible on my body. “You were great,” he remarked as he took the wheel off of my hands.
My dad patted me on the back several times after that. Shrugging like it was nothing; I knew inside, that I, a clumsy eight year old, had saved the boat.
After a long day of no fish and salty skin, we got back home to be immediately showered with questions. Being too tired to answer any of them, we slipped into pajamas and went to bed. “You’re a hero!” he whispered, stroking my forehead as I slipped into a deep slumber.
2012
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