Page 10 of Part of Your World

And a song?

A woman’s voice carried on the wind. A sweet, pleading call. Heartfelt and beautiful. Zane adjusted the tiller to steer the bow more into the wind, feathering the sail to forfeit power and slow the boat. He scanned the shoreline, seeking the source of the song, like a sailor falling prey to a mythical siren. Something about that voice stirred his soul and set his heart to pounding an irregular rhythm.

“Wondrous Sov’reign of the sea,

Jesus, Savior, pilot me!”

A hymn? Even more intrigued, Zane urged his boat nearer the shore. There. She stood on a rocky outcropping. A woman dressed in dark blue, arms open and raised, hair whipping about in the wind. Red hair? It was hard to tell from this distance, but it seemed to absorb the sunlight and catch fire.

His hand grew lax on the tiller, his attention riveted not only by the music but by the passionate woman in the throes of worship. In a low voice, he joined her song for the third verse, the words familiar yet somehow new as he softly blended his tenor to her soprano.

“When at last I near the shore,

And the fearful breakers roar

‘Twixt me and the peaceful rest-

Then, while leaning on Thy breast,

May I hear Thee say to me,

‘Fear not – I will pilot thee.’”

She repeated the final phrase, taking liberties with the notes like an opera diva, elongating some, trilling others, rising in a crescendo as she turned the music skyward, climbing up instead of down the scale until she hit a note of such purity, he rose from his seat, wanting to climb with her. The climactic tone rang through the air, raising gooseflesh on his arms. Slowly her arms lowered, and a change came over her. A stillness. Like a startled rabbit. She’d seen him. He felt the connection between them, even though he couldn’t make out her features from this distance.

He stood there, watching her as she watched him, neither of them moving, the moment fraught with meaning too heavy to set aside. Then the wind gusted from a different direction, rocking the boat and whipping the long, horizontal pole supporting the bottom of the sail violently over the cockpit. Zane tried to duck, but it was too late. The wooden boom crashed into the side of his skull and launched him overboard.

A gasp tore from Muriel’s throat as she witnessed the young man topple over the side of his boat. A knock on the head of that strength would surely render him unconscious. Without aid, he'd drown. A vice tightened across her heart.

Scrambling down the rocks to her cove, she tore at the buttons of her bodice. If she was to get to him, she couldn’t be hindered by heavy fabric. She stripped down to her chemise and drawers as quickly as possible then ran into the surf.

Please let me reach him in time.

God had made her a strong swimmer. For such a time as this. Just like Esther in the Bible. She could do this. She had to do this.

Muriel cut through the water at top speed, pulling her arms, kicking her legs, ducking her face into the sea. Each time she took a breath, she sighted the boat, but she stayed on her original course, trusting her training to keep her on a straight line. The wind would draw the boat off course, moving away from its submerged captain.

Lead me to 'im, God. Don’t let him drown. Please.

Coming even with the boat, she ceased swimming and scanned the water for signs of the white shirt he’d been wearing. A wink of something white tickled the edge of her periphery. She whirled to her right just in time to see a shoulder sink out of view.

No!

Muriel dove underwater. She had to find him. Save him. The salt stung her open eyes, but she pressed on. A glimmer of white caught her attention. She surged downward and clasped the man’s arm. Thank the Lord! Hauling him to her, she positioned his back against her chest, wrapped an arm across his torso beneath his arms, then kicked for the surface. He offered no assistance, but the ocean gave them added buoyancy, and after a final, powerful kick, Muriel broke through and drew in a deep breath. No such breath echoed from the man in her arms.

Get him to shore. Ye can get him breathin’ again if ye get him to shore.

Refusing to consider any other outcome, she lay backward, rolling him with her. She positioned his head to ensure his chin remained above the water line, then aimed them for shore, modifying her sidestroke to accommodate a passenger. Urgency added power to her kicks, and as they neared the shoreline, the tide gave them an extra push. Muriel adjusted their trajectory west of her rocky cove, knowing she’d need a flat, sandy area for him to lie upon.

Her feet touched sand, and a prayer of gratitude seeped from her soul. Keeping his head and shoulders supported, she dragged him out of the surf, using a wave to propel him as far up the small beach as possible. Hurrying around to his head, she hooked her hands under his arms and dragged him a few more inches away from the water before plopping down on her rear. It would have to be far enough.

Not only had Da insisted all his girls learn to swim, he’d taught them the basics of resuscitation. A skill she’d never thought to need. Five years of rust fell away in an instant, as memories of practicing the Sylvester Method on her sister Alana rushed to the forefront of her mind.

Muriel positioned herself on her knees at the young man’s head and leaned over him to grab hold of his wrists. She lifted his arms over his head, stretching backward to expand his lungs as she brought his arms down along the outside of her knees. Then she leaned forward, using his arms like a giant lever. As she neared his chest, she encouraged his elbows to bend, and pressed his wrists into his ribs to compress the lungs as if he were exhaling.

She repeated the motion over and over, to the point of fatigue. Tears pooled in her eyes as hope faded.

“Ye can’t die. Ye hear me?” Her voice choked. “I won't let ye.”