8
“Oh. My. God.”
“I don’t think God is helping much on this one,” Sarah answered.
She and Tabby were standing side-by-side on the flying bridge of the 47-MLB. Suzy was down below checking on the engines. The boat’s two rescue crew were down in the survivors’ cabin—a six-seat watertight compartment directly below their feet. They were fully dressed in wetsuits and probably playing their usual gin rummy despite the rough ride.
Sarah may have been last off the line by eight minutes, but she’d sliced such a line through the surf over the Columbia River Bar that in the half an hour from Cape D, she was the lead boat.
“Wreckage at ten o’clock!” Tabby shouted and pointed off the left bow.
“Good eye,” Sarah backed both engines hard. A container floated just awash, visible only as an incongru
