A rusted-speckled red sedan hung half out the back. The boat rocked as another wave struck and the old Volvo rolled off the deck, splashing heavily into the ocean.

Once she'd hit the water she briefly doubted abandoning ship was the right decision. Those doubts vanished now.

Shivering, teeth chattering, she called Martin's name.

Another surge washed a body onto the shore. A man with short, dark hair. Face down on the beach.

She called again. With the surf pounding into a nearby alcove it was hard to hear anything over it.

A woman rolled up beside the man and began racking with coughs. The young mother. The moment she realized her son wasn't with her she screamed his name. "Ryannnnnnn! Ry-yannnnnn!"

Out among the waves the dog owner splashed her arms like a child in a mud puddle. The surf threw her into shore then pulled her back, hungry for a victim.

The old man was near the ferry, dangerously close to a giant gash in its hull. He pushed against it with his cane, crying out in fear as the water rolled in. The next swell sucked him away from danger, toward the shore.

Half a dozen heads bobbed in the water. Orange lifejackets. She still couldn't tell if Martin was among them. If he was the unconscious man on the beach. In all the commotion, she'd forgotten what he'd been wearing.

She wondered again if they made a mistake.

As if in reply, the ferry rose further onto the rocks. The hull juddered as it peeled open. A weathered aluminum camper rolled off the deck into the water, dragging a jam-packed station wagon along with it.

As they crashed into the surf a car horn blared. At first she thought it was an alarm but it was too intermittent, too frantic.

The ferry groaned again, lurching further onto the rocks, tipping further on its side. The back of the white pickup rolled out and its undercarriage slammed against the deck, the back wheels spinning uselessly.

She couldn't see the driver but he was obviously still inside, beating on the horn as if it would do him any good.

With the next surge, the ferry tipped at a forty-five-degree angle and the truck flipped onto the driver's side. The honking stopped.

The little boy washed ashore. His mother crawled toward him, still choking, calling his name. When she reached him, the boy grabbed her so tight around the neck she yelped.

The unconscious man still lay face-down in the wet sand and shells.

It was time to get off this rock.

The water churned in front of her, seaweed swirling. A virtual whirlpool. Fifteen feet between her and the shore, maybe less.

She got to her feet, standing precariously on the slick rock.

More passengers reached the shore, gasping for breath, pealing triumphant laughter. A woman cradled her arm, crying out in pain. The old man with the cane rolled the unconscious man over.

It wasn't Martin. Whoever he was had a goatee.