“Gasoline!” he shouted. “I hope.”
Ken nodded and set to work. Within a few minutes he had dried the plugs and the wires of the engine.
Sandy was still struggling with the rusted fastener. When he looked over and saw Ken point to the engine, with a gesture that said “It’s ready,” Sandy stepped back and drove his foot at the door of the lean-to. It cracked down the middle. Sandy struck it again and the hasp flew off. The door sagged open on twisted hinges. Sandy dropped to his knees and peered inside.
When he straightened up again he held a five-gallon can in his hand.
“Sandy!” Ken had time to shout only the single word, and to clamp his fingers around the engine-house doorway. He hadn’t noticed the huge wave approaching until it broke over the bulwark and poured across the deck in a smothering flood.
Ken saw Sandy go down and his big body swept along in the grip of the water. Ken reached for him blindly, his eyes pinned shut by the piercing spray. He felt his fingers clutch a flailing oilskin-clothed arm, and he hung on with all his strength.
The water poured over them for what seemed an endless length of time. Sandy’s weight dragged painfully, threatening to pull Ken’s arm from its socket.
And then again the water receded and they were left on the sloshing deck.
When Ken was able to move he found he had to force his fingers open to free his grip on Sandy’s arm.
“That was close,” he gasped.