There were times, Ken knew, when Sandy’s stubbornness was like a rock. This was apparently one of those times.
He lifted his legs above Sandy’s head, forcing them apart at the knees until they formed the facing halves of a diamond. The movement was agony.
Sandy ducked his head and brought it up between Ken’s legs, so that Ken’s crossed ankles thrust themselves out before his chin.
Again the engine coughed into life, sputtered, and died. A wave struck the barge’s aft bulwark, and shattered into spray which rattled against the cabin like a hail of machine-gun bullets.
“Throw yourself forward,” Sandy ordered, “and hope for the best. If I go down try to protect your head.”
Ken took a deep breath. Suddenly his perch, five feet above the floor, seemed atop a skyscraper.
“Get ready,” he muttered. “Here goes.”
He leaned back and then lunged forward, his weight shoving Sandy clear of the bunk. The redhead’s foot slid on the tilting floor, his legs buckling. His shoulders jerked to the right. He was fighting with everything he had to keep himself steady.
“Hang on!” he gasped.
A single grunt of pain escaped him as he dropped forward onto his knees, striking the floor with a bone-jarring crash.