LIGHTS
The thunder and lightning died away after a time but the rain continued.
The constant boom of the sea gradually wore away some of Skippy’s calm
and he raised his head from time to time to gaze apprehensively at the
dark sea rising all about him in mountainous waves.
The sky seemed a black void and at times as the little boat tossed about
in the waves, he had the breath-taking sensation that he had turned
turtle. Once, he mused about what probability there was of his being
carried clear across the sea to some European port. He had heard of men
being able to live without food or water from ten to fourteen days.
Well, he had his fishing outfit, he reasoned hopefully; he needn’t
starve, but how to get water puzzled him.
After a few more minutes of tossing wildly about, he decided that the
little boat could probably never stand an ocean voyage. With each
succeeding wave it came perilously near to upsetting and he doubted that
the craft could triumph over the angry sea much longer.
That contingency awoke a strong determination in him, for he got to his
feet, reached for the oar and struggled valiantly to balance the boat
against the oncoming foe. The rain soaked him through to the skin but he
was not cold for he was kept in constant action trying to make one oar
do the work of two.
He had lost all sense of time and direction; he thought only of keeping
the boat balanced. That he could not keep it up very long did not occur
to him, for he already felt the effects of the past week’s malnutrition
and his long journey from the Basin had fatigued him.
After what seemed an interminable time he caught a glimpse of a light, a
faint gleam, but nevertheless a light. He gasped with joy and looked
hard into the darkness to get a definite idea of its location. In point
of fact he looked so hard he all but swamped the boat.
Great beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead when he righted
the boat, but he came up triumphant on the crest of a wave. The exertion
was too much for him, however; he felt inexpressibly weak and tired. His
muscles ached and a giddiness in his head made him feel as if he must
lie down.
But there was the light just ahead and he bent his frail body in a
supreme effort to reach it. He was cheered because it did not seem to
move and he ventured to hope that it might be on the shore. The main
thing—it was a light, and light might reasonably be expected to mean
rescue by all the rules of the game.
Suddenly a great arc of faint yellow light swept from behind and circled
his head. He had come to no decision about its origin before it came
again, a little brighter than before. Then after some minutes had passed
and it had grown still brighter, it occurred to him that it was from the
lighthouse at the Hook and the great light had gradually penetrated the
fast dissolving haze.
He took heart at this because he knew he could not be so very far away
from land. But he knew it was futile to even hope to get back there in
his boat. It might be ten miles and it might be twenty. The great light
at the Hook boasted a range of thirty miles on a clear night, he had
heard his father say.
The light that gave him real hope was the heartening glimmer just ahead.
He knew that it was not just because he wished it so fervently, but he
could plainly see that it became brighter as the boat advanced.
Then suddenly he heard the faint ringing of a bell, which echoed eerily
on the shifting wind.