“Don’t be silly! It was my fault, if anyone’s. You were busy bailing. Chances are the light couldn’t have been seen from shore, anyway. Gosh, what weather! Who ever heard of sleet in August!”
“Look out—behind you!” yelled Bill.
A moment later she felt herself snatched from the wheel and was crouching below the bulwark with Bill’s arm around her waist. Then as a brimming swell lifted them sluggishly, its combing crest washed into the boat. The next wave flung them forward and crumpled over the gunwale.
The Mary Jane’s motor gave a strangled cough and stopped. The boat yawed off and came broadside on her stern upon a line with the beach.
“This is what I hoped for,” he shouted in her ear. “Gives us a chance to get clear.”
She saw him gather up the boxes and fling them overboard.
“Keep close to me. We’ll need each other in the undertow!” she yelled back at him, as he pulled her to her feet.
Then as the next big comber mounted and curled, they dove into the driving water and the wave crashed down upon the sinking boat. Dorothy felt her body being whirled over and over, sucked back a little and driven ahead again. The water was paralyzingly cold, but she struck out strongly and with bursting lungs reached the surface. A second later, Bill’s head bobbed up a couple of yards away. Blowing the water from her nose, she saw they were being washed shoreward. Her life preserver, new and buoyant, floated her well—almost too well. She found it difficult to dive beneath the curling wavecrests to prevent another rolling.
Bill was swimming beside her now and as a great wave caught them up and carried them forward he grasped her under the arm.
There came a last crumbling surge and the mighty swirl of water swept them up the beach and their feet struck bottom. Fortunately, the beach was not steep. The tide was nearly at the last of the ebb and there was but little undertow. Together they waded out and staggered up the shingle to sink down on the sand breathing heavily.