Nuclear Winter Devil Storm by Bobby Akart (read 50 shades of grey .txt) 📕

GPS and their course was abandoned. He simply steered the boat with survival in mind, hoping to outlast the storm.

Then it happened.

The bow was forced downward, deeper than normal, it seemed. The massive wave pounded its fist on the deck, snapping the antennas that were bolted to a steel mast adjacent to the wheelhouse. Losing their antennas meant they’d lost their GPS and LORAN navigation system. Any hope they had of reaching out by radio to issue a Mayday was dashed. Not only did they lose track of where they were, but they were unable to detect or reach out to any boats that might be in the area. Issuing a Mayday on Channel 16, the international distress frequency, would fall on deaf ears or be silenced by the drone of the hurricane-force winds.

The ramifications were simple. If they capsized, nobody would know until the debris, or their bodies, floated ashore.

Chapter Forty

Friday, November 8

Aboard the Cymopoleia

Gulf of Mexico

It was after midnight when the sea sucked Lacey overboard. Above the wheelhouse, the Bimini top that covered the upper helm had been ripped from its supports. Still holding on by a thread, the winds whipped the canvas around in circles, beating the top deck as well as the windows of the wheelhouse. The metal supports that had been dislodged from the fiberglass threatened to break the glass of the cabin with each blow. A boat that loses its windows can fill up with water in minutes.

Lacey refused to let Tucker go out of the wheelhouse to harness the flying canvas. She insisted he was more experienced driving this boat, although it was really a ploy to keep him safe. After a lot of convincing, she moved below to rummage through the stateroom and galley cabinets in search of a serrated knife. All she could do was cut the Bimini top loose without having it beat her down in the process.

“Mom, you’ve got to stay tethered!”

“I know. Just hold it steady and don’t slow down. We’ve got this!”

She leaned over and kissed her son on the cheek. She held onto the cushioned seating and the ceiling as she made her way through the door onto the aft deck. The nonskid gelcoat was no match for the three inches of standing water that seemed to remain on the decks during the deluge. She immediately wondered if she’d be able to pull off the task as the wind caught her clothing and tried to lift her into the air.

Lacey reached out to grasp the ladder leading to the top deck. She gathered up the nylon rope attached to her carabiner. She clipped it to the ladder and began her ascent topside. The boat continued to pitch with the passing waves, making her task near impossible. It was hard to imagine a more difficult job than doing anything outside the protective confines of a boat’s cabin during a violent storm.

On land, hurricane-force gusts can slow anyone to a crawl. On the water, that same wind can knock you flat. The decks are soaked with water. The boat is rolling, pitching and heaving. The sea spray is pelting your body like birdshot from a shotgun. In the back of your mind, the fear of a misstep resulting in your being blown overboard begins to consume you.

Lacey climbed the stairs and emerged topside on her hands and knees. Her nylon rope had gotten tangled up in the antenna that was barely attached to the boat by a rubber-coated cable. She struggled with the cable, finding it difficult to hold onto something and untangle her safety line.

She pushed her way across the deck with the balls of her feet until her back was wedged into the corner of the side railing. Lacey started to cut through the cable with the serrated edge before stopping herself. If she did that, they’d have no hope of using their marine radio. She let out a deep sigh and surveilled her surroundings.

The Bimini top was flying overhead like a large kite trailing a commercial airliner. It whipped upward, and then, as the boat rode down the back side of a wave, the change in windspeed brought it downward, where it swirled from starboard to port across the windshield in a counterclockwise motion.

It was everything attached to the canvas that created the threat. The stainless supports were like sharp, twisted clubs seeking a target. The Garmin radar antenna had broken loose of its supports and was entangled with the canvas, adding a powerful punch each time the remains of the Bimini top struck the boat.

The entire tangled mess was being used by the hurricane as a weapon to pummel the Cymopoleia. Lacey couldn’t reach the cables and ropes that held the top to the boat because her safety line was tangled. She didn’t want to cut off their only chance of issuing a Mayday. She had an idea.

Lacey disconnected the safety line’s carabiner from her life vest. She held on to the ladder as she untangled the antenna’s wire from the safety line. Just like the frustration every Christmas decorator had ever experienced untangling string lights, she wound the rope over and then through the wire. Slowly, she was able to extract the safety line from the antenna’s wiring.

“Finally,” Lacey muttered as she gave the safety line a shake to confirm it was free. After securing it back to her life vest, she pulled all thirty feet of the slack up the ladder to give her plenty to work with. After another deep breath, she wiped off her face and turned around on her hands and knees to face the unpredictable top hurling itself around the boat.

In a tug-of-war against the changing momentum of the boat, Lacey pulled her way forward to the helm located on the top deck. The wires and ropes were wrapped through the front railings. Each time the Bimini top whipped around over her head, she could see the railing give and begin to pull away from the