"If it's rocks, Heaven help us!" Clif gasped.
It seemed an age to him, that brief struggle. Breathless and eager, he watched the great white caps breaking, smiting against the stern, struggling to turn that boat but a few inches so that they might catch it on the side and fling it over.
And meanwhile the wind and waves and oars all helping, on swept the boat—bounding over the foamy crests, sinking into the great hollows, leaping and straining, but still shooting on in the darkness.
And every second was precious, for the shore was not far away; the roar of the surf grew louder—louder almost upon them.
And then suddenly one great seething billow came rushing up behind. Clif saw it, and shouted to the men. In a second more its white crest towered over them.
It was just on the point of breaking in a giant cataract of foam; it would have buried the little boat and its occupants beneath tons of foaming water.
But it was just a second too late. The little boat's stern shot up; for a moment it was almost on end, and then it rose to the top of the wave and a moment later as the crash came and the sweep in toward shore began the frail craft was flung forward as if from a catapult.
And in it shot with speed that simply dazed the Americans; but it was toward shore—toward shore!
They had passed the breakers!
And Clif gave a gasp of delight as he felt the wild leap forward. It seemed but a second more before the rush ended.