The Ardmore Inheritance by Rob Wyllie (reading the story of the .txt) 📕

in perfect harmony, extracting the maximum thrust from every stroke as he carved through the water. And on this outward leg, he was getting some assistance from the current although he knew the prevailing vector would be pushing him seaward. Meaning that getting them both back to the shore was going to be pretty much impossible, but that was something to worry about later. All that mattered right now was getting to Flora before the tiny dinghy gave up its struggle.

As he got further away from the shore the waves grew higher, a constant spray of salty water stinging his eyes, causing him to struggle to see where he was going. It was difficult to maintain a straight path against the cross-current, and the effort needed to correct course was beginning to sap his strength. His upper arms burned with pain as he ploughed on, forcing out one stroke after another, his body begging for him to stop. It was like his army survival training, except today there was no brutal sergeant-major making damn sure it would be more unpleasant to give up than to keep going. But today, the stakes were immeasurably higher. Today, it was a matter of life and death.

As he got closer, he could see her, sprawled across the bottom of the dinghy, her body already partially submerged as the waves crashed over the side, so close to sinking the flimsy craft. With a final effort he reached it, grabbing hold of the stern, grateful to have a moment to regain his breath. Now he could see Flora was unconscious, a trail of half-dried blood running down her cheek from where she had been struck a disabling blow on her temple. Bastards. He remembered vividly what they had drummed into them back on that survival course. Stay with the boat if you possibly can. Aye, if it was still afloat that was, and he could tell just by looking that the wee dinghy was seconds away from being overwhelmed. One more decent-sized wave and that would be it. The fact was, he had no choice. He had to get her out right away, before it dragged them both to a watery grave.

He pulled himself round so that he was parallel with her shoulders, where this close, he could see her chest moving, if imperceptibly, but enough to know she was still alive. Thank god. He reached over the side, keeping himself afloat by balancing his chest on the rim of the boat, and placed his hands under her armpits. As gently as he dared, he drew her towards him, the buoyancy of the salt water thankfully taking some of her weight. Now he had to flip onto his back, the classic passive-rescue position he had been taught in the army but had never before put into practice. Hook your arms under the armpits of the casualty. Support their head with your hands. Tread water to save energy. Do not attempt to swim to shore except when there is no hope of rescue. All so easy to accomplish when you were reading it in a book. Not so easy when a ten-mile-an-hour tide was pushing you away and the cold was draining you of every ounce of energy you possessed. But he managed to get some leverage by pushing with his knees against the side of the dinghy, forcing it to tilt towards him, and then with a powerful leg-stroke, he propelled them free.

Now, all they could do was wait for the rescue party and hope that it came bloody soon. Because Flora hadn't stirred, and he began to fear the onset of hypothermia, remembering another of these damn slides from the survival course. At a water temperature of zero to six degrees, death is likely to occur between thirty to ninety minutes. Flora was strong and fit, but she'd been in the water at least thirty minutes, probably more, and he had no idea the extent of her injuries. Shit. He held her closer to him, knowing that it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference, but he wasn't going to let her die on him. Stay with me darling, stay with me. Don't leave me.

A few metres away Tinytanic, now totally submerged, had given up its heroic struggle and was about to embark on a one-way journey to the bottom of Loch More. So that was it, they were on their own. And then he heard it, the angry buzz cutting through the cold evening air. An outboard motor, coming from the direction of Lochmorehead. Thank god. Then the slap of the inflatable boat as it carved through the waves, its prow raised like a Viking long-ship. Jimmy raised an arm in the air and yelled at the top of his voice although he doubted he could be heard above the noise of the engine.

'Angus! Angus! Over here!'

He heard the engine note change as Dr McLeod eased off the throttle, allowing the prow to settle back in the water, tweaking the tiller to bring the inflatable alongside his daughter and her rescuer. Jimmy answered his father-in-law's question before it was asked.

'She's alive Angus, but she's in a bad way. We need to get her warm as soon as we can.'

'I've got blankets and towels, and it's only a few minutes back to the jetty,' Angus shouted. 'Let's get her into the boat.'

It was difficult, but somehow between them they managed to bundle her limp body over the side. As her father swaddled her in the warm blankets, Jimmy dragged himself up and flopped onto the bottom of the boat, spent with exhaustion.

'Get her home Angus, get her home.'

Dr McLeod gave a nod of acknowledgement and opened the throttle to its maximum setting.

'Hold on to her Jimmy, it's going to be a rough ride.'

And as Jimmy pulled her close to him, he knew he could never ever let her go again.

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It seemed as if half the village had been waiting for them at the jetty, together