Page 66 of Take Me Away

‘Yeah? Then steer like it.’

I bite down on the urge to snap. He’s not wrong. I took that last swell too wide. Sloppy. If I were him, I’d call me out too.

‘Wind’s picking up,’ yells Cal, our skipper, from the deck, securing the second line. ‘Feels like a force seven and climbing.’

‘Then hold tight,’ I shout into the rain. ‘She’s gonna dance.’

We drop hard into the next trough. My gut lurches. The engine groans, a low metallic protest, and for a second it feels like the boat might not rise again – but then she does. Always does. This boat’s seen worse. So have I.

Still.

I’m not dialled in. Not the way I should be.

Because every time I blink, I see her.

Isla Quinn.

‘Hey.’ Jude’s voice is closer now. ‘You’re off your line.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Bullshit. You nearly clipped the starboard marker.’

‘I corrected.’

‘You hesitated.’

I don’t answer. Can’t.

‘Jesus, Kit,’ he mutters. ‘Get your head back in the boat.’

I clench the wheel tighter, jaw locked. He doesn’t get it. How could he? He didn’t just taste ten years of regret pressed against a kitchen sink.

Ahead, through the blur, a flare bursts upwards – jagged red light clawing the sky.

‘Visual!’ Cal shouts. ‘Flare’s up. That’s our boys!’

‘Bearing zero-one-five,’ I bark. ‘Brace for push.’

We surge towards the wreck site. The fishing boat’s hull is split like a cracked tooth, half submerged near the rocks. One man clings to the remains of the wheelhouse, two more flailing in the water, slicked with fuel and kelp. No time for hesitation now.

‘Jude – grab the aft line. Cal, you’re with me.’

I cut power and let the swell bring us close. The boat rocks wildly – too much drift – but Cal’s already moving, throwing the first line to the man on the hull. Jude’s working the side rail, eyes sharp, voice steady.

It’s automatic now. Muscle memory. I’ve been on this crew since my twentieth birthday. Never regretted a moment of it.

Pull. Haul. Secure. Shout above the wind. Ignore the burn in your arms. Get them home.

One by one, we drag them aboard. Cold. Shaking. Alive.

The third man’s heavier, barely conscious. Cal and I haul him over the side, both of us panting by the time we collapse back on the deck.

‘Got him,’ Cal breathes. ‘That’s all three.’

Jude confirms from the radio: ‘Coastguard’s got a fix on our location. They’re pulling back to base. We’re clear to return.’

I nod, pushing to my feet. My hands tremble from the cold and the effort – or maybe it’s not the cold at all.