“I’m going into the fore cockpit and start the engine.”
“You mean we can pull in the sea anchor and taxi out of this dangerous position?”
“Hardly that. The old bus would pound to pieces in this sea if I tried to send her over these waves. The idea is to give her just enough headway to offset the wind drift that is driving her ashore. I want to keep her the same distance off the surf that she is now. The tide will then have a chance to carry us sideways round the point. There’s bound to be quieter water to leeward of that headland.”
“Sounds fine! Anyway, it gives us a chance. What can I do to help?”
“Crawl out on the nose, please. When I give the word, haul in the anchor line. If you try to get the sea anchor aboard from a cockpit the bus will slew to the side and I’ll never be able to keep her headed into the wind.”
Bill took his place at the controls in the fore cockpit and idled the engine until he was convinced everything was running smoothly. Then he placed his feet on the rudder pedals and motioned his father to proceed.
The huge white-capped rollers, aftermath of the hurricane, tossed the plane up and down as though each oncoming wave was bent on destroying her. Bill knew that his father’s task was no easy one. The decking forward of the cockpit was rounded and absolutely smooth. There were no handholds to prevent one slipping off its wet surface.
With a smile, the middle aged gentleman climbed out of the cockpit, lay flat on the deck and wormed his way toward the nose with a wriggling motion that allowed both his arms and his legs to hug the slick planking.
Arrived at the end of his short but perilous journey he sat up, and straddled the deck as though he were riding a very broad horse. Then with a hand on the anchor line, he looked back over his shoulder.
Bill was ready for him to start, and with his stick held well back of neutral to prevent the nose dipping under the waves and throwing spray into the propeller, he held up his free hand.