There could be no possibility of my missing one of two excruciating deaths. If the tug’s propellers didn’t turn me into mincemeat, my drowned corpse would eventually float to the surface after the floating crane had passed over me. Even if the tug stopped, the momentum of the barge would merely spare me the chop from the stilled propellers.
From the comparative safety of the liner’s wheelhouse, I tried with difficulty to hold the vessel on its course as the distressed vessel reared into the 100 mph-plus shrieking winds. Total focus was needed as like a cork in a storm the cargo vessel head-butted each massive oncoming wave.
Like rabbits held in the glare of headlights, we freebooters tried to shield our eyes from the glare of the approaching vessel’s searchlight fully trained on us.
Michael Walsh Stories and Books 
Recent Comments