Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [127]
“Get it upwind of them, Morales,” a crewman offered, his tone like a reverent prayer. “If they’s to have a chance, you’ve gotta get it just so.”
Hand over hand on the rope, Morales frantically pulled the ring back to him. For a moment, he clutched it in his hands, lifted his eyes to heaven—offering a prayer. He drew back muscled arms and heaved it out over the waves. Only this time, he’d turned the direction of his body, pivoting left. The ring appeared to be in slow motion as they all watched it sail out and away from them. Miraculously, it landed a couple of feet upwind of the three. And they all watched breathlessly as a small hand reached out to grasp the ring, pulling it toward them.
They had it.
On deck, a raucous cheer went up. Jaurez and Captain Luis joined the jubilant crew, Luis shaking his head at the apparent miracle. “The Coast Guard’s on her way,” he said.
“Shouldn’t we launch the Wilder’s dinghy? Try to get to them?” Morales asked. “We can’t lose ’em now.” He didn’t take his eyes off the survivors, not even to acknowledge his captain’s presence.
“There,” Captain Luis shouted, his extended arm pointing through the haze hovering over the water. A reverberating blast of a horn announced the arrival of the Coast Guard vessel, its bow coming into view from the opposite side of the bridge.
“This is the captain of the Coast Guard,” a voice called out through a loudspeaker. “We’re coming to get you. A crew is on its way now. Hold on.”
The crew quickly lowered the ship’s rescue boat and made their way toward the survivors. As they grew closer, they could hear a child’s voice, sobbing, nearly hysterical.
Finally pulling up next to them, they looked down to find two women and the child: a girl, her arms in a stranglehold around the neck of a woman with blood streaming from a gash on her forehead, and next to them, a younger woman. All three locked eyes onto the faces of their rescuers, blinking in shock, skin deathly white.
“Are you real?” the young woman asked.
“Ma’am, we’re from the Coast Guard. And I can assure you we’re quite real.”
The crew reached to pluck the child first, the woman she was clinging to eager to hand the little one up to the rescuers. Then they pulled the two women into the boat, giving special care to the one with the wound, and wrapped them all in heavy blankets.
The child scrambled away from her rescuer, flinging herself back onto the woman’s lap, desperate not to be separated from her. A kindly crew member wrapped a third blanket around them both, binding them together.
“What’s your name, little one?” he gently probed. “Can you tell us your name?”
Wet hair plastered to her small skull, lips blue and teeth chattering, she whispered, “Aubrey.”
He turned to the woman holding her with the same questioning look. One of the crew had already staunched the flow of blood; a bandage covered her wound. “And you are?”
“I’m Fran. Fran Thomason. My son. My husband. They’re still out there somewhere. You’ve got to—you are looking, aren’t you? Because they’re still out there, in that awful water. Please, you’ve got to find them.” She began sobbing, all the while hugging Aubrey to her. Needing to fill her empty arms. Charlie …
“Ma’am, I promise you. We will continue to search. And we will find any survivors. But just now we need to take care of you. Are you hurt anywhere else?” To Fran’s no he continued, “Are you sure there’s nothing else we need to attend to? On you or the child?” She shook her head again and closed her eyes. Grasping the little girl as tightly as the child grabbed onto her. He turned his attention to the other woman. “And you are?”
“Michal. Michal McHenry.”
The crew exchanged looks, a tacit agreement passing among them to wait, allow others to ask