You've got to try and keep her aright, he told himself. Try and lash yourself down with one of the lines. . . .
The wall of water hit, hurtling him over the side. He grasped for a section of gunwale, but it was too late. The wave obliterated everything. Now the swell was churning against his face as he tried to stroke back, his lungs filling with water. His arms were flailing, hands trying desperately to grasp the slippery cypress planking. The Switlik vest was holding, so he was in no danger of drowning. Yet.
Fighting the swell with his left hand, spitting water, he reached out with his right, trying to catch any piece of wreckage floating by. Finally, he succeeded in wrapping a line around his wrist. He gasped, choking, and caught his breath. Then, still grasping the line, he draped his left arm across Odyssey II's shattered side and used the line to pull himself over, into what was left of the hold. If he could stay with her, he figured, he might still have a chance.
Just as he tried to rise to his feet, however, he looked up to see the mast slowly heeling over, coming straight down.
He toppled backward, hoping to dodge it, but it slammed him just across the chest. The world swirled into blackness, as even the light from the blazing ship behind him seemed to flicker.
Stay conscious, he told himself. Stay alive.
Holding onto the toppled mast, using it as a brace, he managed to rise. And now the Hind had completed its gruesome handiwork and was banking. Again it was going to pass directly overhead.
By God, he thought, this thing isn't over. Those bastards are not going to get off scot-free.