Page 26 of Unmoored: How to Fail at Hating the Boss

“Quincy! The skiff is too small…”

“I can do this!”

Reef stares at me for one charged second. “She does have a higher cert than I do,” Susan reminds him, referring to my second-level search-and-rescue certificate, which Reef had told me on my first day that I wouldn’t need. But now’s not the time to point out the irony.

The look of grave concern flashes in his eyes. He’s genuinely worried about me, on some deep, core level that he can’texpress. He doesn’t want me to go, but not because I can’t. Because he literally can’t bear to have me out of his sight. The thought would be wildly thrilling if this weren’t a life-threatening emergency.

There’s no time for him to argue with me, and he knows it.

“All right. But be careful, Quincy. Radio me the second you reach them.” He points at me with the radio mic in his hand.

The first rumble of distant thunder rolls over the ridge. I grip the wheel of the skiff as Susan leaps aboard the speedboat, and with a roar of the motor, I shoot out across the choppy water toward the stranded sailboat, leaving Reef and Susan to rally the rest of the fleet.

Somehow I make it to the sandbar. The skiff scrapes against the shore, and I leap into the knee-deep water, rain slashing sideways.

Sailboat 32 is nowhere to be found. Spray slaps my face as my chest tightens. I haul the skiff all the way onto the shrinking sandbar as the water rises.

Where are they?

I trudge to the middle of the sandbar and turn a slow circle. No white sail. No vessel. No beached boaters. Just the angry sky and the roiling water. Lightning cracks, too close, and I jump, aware of how much danger I’m in out here.

I try the radio in the skiff. “Reef, come in! This is Quincy. I’m at the sandbar, there’s no one here!”

The response is a crackle, and then all I hear is sharp static as lightning strikes somewhere close. I drop the radio.

I could try to navigate back to the marina, but the probability of getting lost in this storm, or completely waterlogged, is pretty damn high.

But if I stay, I’m a sitting duck for a lightning strike.

“Think, Quincy.”

I can only think of one thing to do.

With everything I have in me, I drag the skiff to the highest part of the sandbar, then drop to my knees. My fingers claw at wet sand, digging a shallow trench. This emergency task seems to take forever as rain clobbers me. But I get it done.

By the time I climb into the hollow and curl up, I’m hyperventilating from terror.

I pull the upended skiff on top of me, and I wait for the storm to pass, shutting my eyes tight.

Twelve

Reef

The last call from Quincy had been cut off by static, and now the radio is dead.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter to myself, scanning the horizon that isn’t there.

All the race participants are accounted for, some having taken shelter in some of the many coves along the shoreline and others having made it back to the marina. Boat number 32, Susan and I found shortly after separating from Quincy; they boarded the speedboat, and we assured them we’d help them find their vessel when the storm had passed.

Once they were all safely on land, I immediately went back out to look for Quincy, kicking myself for letting her try to do a search and rescue on her own.

A flash of lightning illuminates the churning water, and I can see into the distance. No skiff. No sailboat. No Quincy.

My heart slams against my ribs.

“I can’t lose her,” I say to no one, my voice breaking. I need her safe.

The speedboat jolts as the hull scrapes the edge of the sandbar. I kill the engine and leap into the shallows, waves splashing and water blinding me. “Quincy!” I bellow.