“Think we’ll be going above before too long,” he said to Will, in a doleful tone, and slumped to the floor.

It wasn’t too long at all—about five minutes. A gust screamed through—Will thought it reached 120 knots—and was followed thirty seconds later by another just as violent. Double Eagle lifted and shook her head, and as the wind settled back to a steady 100 knots, the second anchor cable gave way and the schooner shot sternward then fell off broadside to the seas. Will grabbed the storm oil, bolted up the companionway, and forced the hatch open, Nathaniel following with the sea anchor. Outside, they could not stand or even get to their hands and knees; raging over them at nearly twice the speed of an express train, the wind pinned them flat to the afterdeck. It eased somewhat a moment later, and seizing their chance, they sprang to their feet. Sea, sky, and cloud were mingled into a single element, a maelstrom of thundering air and exploding spray, of whirling vapor, rain, and wash as blinding as fog. With the boat heeling to the storm and yawing in the eddies atop the waves, the boys were disoriented, unable to tell which direction was which. They seemed about to lose their sense of up and down. Bowing his head, Nathaniel peered at the compass card, and saw that the schooner was heading, or, rather, drifting, a little south of east. To get through the channel and clear of the reefs, she had to go west of south. The ship jumped, the top of the brass binnacle gave him a hard rap on the nose, and he felt blood start.

“Hoist … Foresail!” he cried.