Charlie St. Cloud Page 0,16

of 12. All night, the crests had been breaking into spindrift, but now they were toppling, tumbling, and rolling over. That meant only one thing: The storm was gathering strength.

Once before, Tess had made it through a Force 10. It had been on a family outing to the Gulf of Maine, and on that night she had invented her other test of a storm’s power. It was less scientific, but just as effective. She called it the Carroll Scale, named after her dad. It involved counting the number of mouthfuls of seawater ingested per wave. Any quantity greater than three meant you were crazy if you didn’t seek shelter.

Dangerously close to pitchpoling, Querencia was hurtling down the face of a giant wave now at a near-vertical angle. Tess held her breath as she plunged into the trough with the next huge wave rising before her. She heard a loud crack over her head, looked up, and saw that the windex and masthead instruments had blown off. Then the boat broached as the wave smashed the starboard side. She lost control of the wheel, caromed off the cockpit coaming, and skated to the very edge of the boat, now heeling at an extreme angle. Her body was wrapped in the lifelines, and she felt the ocean whooshing inches from her face.

Querencia seemed to be going sideways faster than forwards. The rigging was screaming in the wind. The ocean was almost entirely white. After another mouthful of spray, she knew it was time to go below.

Hand over hand, she climbed uphill to the cockpit. She flipped on the autopilot and adjusted the course to run before the storm. Then she waited for a break in the attacking ocean. She would have only ten seconds to make it inside.

Three . . . two . . . one.

She raced forward to the companionway hatch, slid open the cover, and pulled up the washboard. She put both feet on the first ladder step, then fumbled to unhook the tether from the jack line. Her neoprene gloves were thick, her fingers were deadened by the cold, and she couldn’t even feel the carabiner. She needed total concentration. The stern began to rise, and there were only seconds before impact.

As a marauding wave overtook the boat, she unfastened the harness and slid inside the cabin, accompanied by a torrent of seawater. With a swift and practiced motion, she jammed the washboard back in its slot and slammed the cover closed.

She waited for a moment in the darkness, listening to the roar outside, the dripping and creaking inside, and the pounding of her heart. Querencia was groaning from the relentless attack. She shimmied to port, sat down at the navigation station, and flicked on a light. She unzipped her hood and pulled off her gloves. Her hair was soaked, her face was burning, but there was no point trying to get dry.

She checked the map on her laptop monitor and guesstimated she was a good three hours from landfall in New Hampshire. She reached for the single-sideband radio. It was probably time to give Tink an update. He was at the Marblehead High football game against Beverly, but she would try his cell. She called the marine operator, gave him Tink’s number, and waited for the connection. Damn, she would have to admit she had ignored his advice. She had sailed straight into the low. The pressure had dropped so fast her ears had actually popped, and she was stunned to see a reading below 29.4 inches on the barometer. Tink would probably rip her a new one.

Unless she lied.

Tink’s voice crackled on the speaker. “How’s my girl?” he asked. The roar of the crowd echoed behind him.

The boat lurched violently, but Tess stayed cool. “Everything’s great,” she said. “Smooth sailing.” There was no point telling the truth—it would only make him worry and ruin the game. “Just checking in,” she went on, trying to sound unfazed. “Who’s winning?”

“The Magicians by one touchdown, and I’m up to hot dog number three.” He burped. “How’s the weather?”

“Plenty of wind,” she said, listening to the hammering waves.

“What about the mainsail?”

“It fits perfectly, with a beautiful flying shape. Tell everyone they did a great job.”

“Will do.”

“I better run,” she said, as the boat pitched forward and plummeted down a steep wave. “I’ll call tomorrow.”

“Adios, girl. Take care.”

Her white lie wouldn’t hurt him, she thought. She’d be back in time for supper on Sunday, and he’d never have to know the truth.