
There is a special misery reserved for those caught on a little boat in the middle of the sea late at night when a storm is raging. True, there was no rain, but on this night the angry wind swept across unguarded water and threw up muscular waves to toss and knock and soak us. There was a little moonlight, and by it I could see my friends huddled low, heads down, shivering, worrying over the growing pool in the bottom of the boat. What else could we do?
Then we saw something worse. Off to one side there was a wave that leapt up and stood still, or so it seemed. Or was it the fin of a huge fish cresting the water, plowing directly for us?
But no—it was a man, or the shape of a man. A ghost! The ghost of a sailor lost in this place, a sailor sent to warn us of our doom or else tug us with him into the depths forever. Others saw it. Someone screamed, and another. It drifted over the water, coming—yes, definitely coming toward us, though slowly, cruelly, full of deadly anticipation. A great swell lifted the figure, then the trough as it swept past brought it low, as if it were gliding on the water like a child on snow. Now there could be no question: a ghost was approaching. I began to see eyes, gleaming eyes in the moonlight, and the terror rose into my throat. I told myself: I would not scream. But yes, soon I must scream.
Continue reading “Walking on Water”