Fallen Angel: A Jesse McDermitt Novel (Caribbean Adventure Series Book 9) by Wayne Stinnett Page B
Authors: Wayne Stinnett
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Chrissy nodded, hanging tightly to the grab rail as Art sat down just across the narrow gap and Andrew came around behind me to the second seat.
We were still sixty miles from the outer markers of Port Royal Sound, and the sky to the southeast was just starting to purple, signaling the coming of a new day. The storm looked like it was half that distance.
Chyrel sat next to Art and pulled up the weather radar loop out of Savannah, which was just off to port, lost in the gray storm clouds. She turned it to me and said, “It’s moving away from us at about fifteen knots. By the time we catch up to the trailing edge, we should just be entering the main shipping channel.”
“Good,” I shouted above the now growing storm, rain beginning to pelt the overhead and plastic windscreens. The powerful spotlight mounted on the roof seemed to do very little to light the way. “We’ll only be in the worst of it for fifteen or twenty minutes. Switching to subdued lighting.”
Chrissy gasped when the overhead lights went out, replaced with low-level red lighting. I left the autopilot on, which would take us to a waypoint half a mile from the first set of markers.
The wind began to build and the rain fell in torrents. I adjusted the spotlight so that little of the light spilled onto the foredeck. Pointed above the horizon, it wouldn’t help us to see our way, but it would allow anyone else crazy enough to be out in the storm to see us. The reduced glare from the foredeck allowed me to search for the flashing lights of the channel markers. Just a few degrees off the port bow, I saw the first red and green markers, indicating the entrance to the shipping channel.
The Revenge doesn’t need deep water, at least not as deep as the main channel, where it’s more than twenty-five feet deep. She only draws four feet, but the rollers rising up on the ten to twenty feet of water outside the channel would cause the waves to slow and build in height. I remembered fishing near the mouth of the sound, with waves breaking along the shallows on the north side of the channel, but only a slight swell where we were anchored.
Within minutes, we were in the full fury of the storm, and I brought the throttles back to thirty knots as we approached the waypoint. Sighting the second set of markers a mile north of the first, I switched off the autopilot and lined them up, aiming the bow between them. The seas grew, the waves rising above the shallower bottom now. Fortunately, the seas were directly astern, so we crested each one perpendicularly before diving deep into the trough.
Andrew calmly read out the forward depth readings, his voice at a constant soothing tone and pace. I made minor corrections, trying to follow the deepest water in the channel and thus the smaller waves.
We passed the first set of markers just as the third came into sight. Without a seat, Tony stood alongside the forward bench, holding the grab rail with one hand, his legs slightly bent to absorb the sudden changes in the pitching deck. We began to encounter choppy waves seeming to come from all points of the compass, and I did my best to keep the Revenge aimed at the openings between the markers. Tony resembled a bull rider, hanging on with one hand and using the other to maintain his balance.
It was a heart-pounding twenty-minute ride, but we eventually sighted lights to the west, early risers on Hilton Head preparing for another day. Slowly, the wave action decreased as we entered the mouth of Port Royal Sound. A few miles later, I followed the channel markers, steering the Revenge into Beaufort River, the southern tip of Parris Island appearing as a dark outline to port in the gathering gray light of dawn.
I slowed to twenty-five knots as we passed the old Spanish-American War fort on the starboard side, the beach and sandbar just past it appearing as a low fog on the water.
“Oh my God!” Chrissy yelled from the forward bench, getting everyone’s attention. She was
We were still sixty miles from the outer markers of Port Royal Sound, and the sky to the southeast was just starting to purple, signaling the coming of a new day. The storm looked like it was half that distance.
Chyrel sat next to Art and pulled up the weather radar loop out of Savannah, which was just off to port, lost in the gray storm clouds. She turned it to me and said, “It’s moving away from us at about fifteen knots. By the time we catch up to the trailing edge, we should just be entering the main shipping channel.”
“Good,” I shouted above the now growing storm, rain beginning to pelt the overhead and plastic windscreens. The powerful spotlight mounted on the roof seemed to do very little to light the way. “We’ll only be in the worst of it for fifteen or twenty minutes. Switching to subdued lighting.”
Chrissy gasped when the overhead lights went out, replaced with low-level red lighting. I left the autopilot on, which would take us to a waypoint half a mile from the first set of markers.
The wind began to build and the rain fell in torrents. I adjusted the spotlight so that little of the light spilled onto the foredeck. Pointed above the horizon, it wouldn’t help us to see our way, but it would allow anyone else crazy enough to be out in the storm to see us. The reduced glare from the foredeck allowed me to search for the flashing lights of the channel markers. Just a few degrees off the port bow, I saw the first red and green markers, indicating the entrance to the shipping channel.
The Revenge doesn’t need deep water, at least not as deep as the main channel, where it’s more than twenty-five feet deep. She only draws four feet, but the rollers rising up on the ten to twenty feet of water outside the channel would cause the waves to slow and build in height. I remembered fishing near the mouth of the sound, with waves breaking along the shallows on the north side of the channel, but only a slight swell where we were anchored.
Within minutes, we were in the full fury of the storm, and I brought the throttles back to thirty knots as we approached the waypoint. Sighting the second set of markers a mile north of the first, I switched off the autopilot and lined them up, aiming the bow between them. The seas grew, the waves rising above the shallower bottom now. Fortunately, the seas were directly astern, so we crested each one perpendicularly before diving deep into the trough.
Andrew calmly read out the forward depth readings, his voice at a constant soothing tone and pace. I made minor corrections, trying to follow the deepest water in the channel and thus the smaller waves.
We passed the first set of markers just as the third came into sight. Without a seat, Tony stood alongside the forward bench, holding the grab rail with one hand, his legs slightly bent to absorb the sudden changes in the pitching deck. We began to encounter choppy waves seeming to come from all points of the compass, and I did my best to keep the Revenge aimed at the openings between the markers. Tony resembled a bull rider, hanging on with one hand and using the other to maintain his balance.
It was a heart-pounding twenty-minute ride, but we eventually sighted lights to the west, early risers on Hilton Head preparing for another day. Slowly, the wave action decreased as we entered the mouth of Port Royal Sound. A few miles later, I followed the channel markers, steering the Revenge into Beaufort River, the southern tip of Parris Island appearing as a dark outline to port in the gathering gray light of dawn.
I slowed to twenty-five knots as we passed the old Spanish-American War fort on the starboard side, the beach and sandbar just past it appearing as a low fog on the water.
“Oh my God!” Chrissy yelled from the forward bench, getting everyone’s attention. She was
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