Despite the prompt easing by the helm, the “Restless” bowled over a good deal as the crest of the first in-rolling wave hit her.
Powell Seaton, a cap on his head, appeared at the motor room hatchway. Tom motioned him to remain where he was.
Clutching at the rail, Tom Halstead kept his face turned weatherward most of the time. He knew, now, that a fifty-five-foot boat like the “Restless,” weather-staunch though she was, was going to have about all she could do in the sea that would be running in a few minutes more.
Nor did he make any mistake about that. A darkness that was almost inky settled down over them. Bending through the hatchway, the young sailing master yelled to Powell Seaton to switch on the running lights.
“For we’ll need ’em mighty soon, if we don’t now,” Captain Tom added.
Hank reappeared with rain-coats, and with his own on. Hardly had those on deck so covered 206 themselves when, accompanied by a vivid flash of lightning and a crashing peal of thunder, the rain came down upon them. At first there were a few big drops. Then, the gale increasing, the rain came in drenching sheets. The decks began to run water, almost choking the scuppers.
The heeling of the “Restless” was no longer especially noticeable. She was rolling and pitching in every direction, accompanied by a straining and creaking of timbers.
Powell Seaton, standing below, clutching for support, and not much of a sailor at best, began to feel decidedly scared.
“Are we going to be able to weather this, Captain Halstead?” he yelled up, as the young skipper paused close by the hatchway.
Though the noise of the now furious gale prevented Tom from making out the words very clearly, he knew, by instinct, almost, what had been asked of him.