(This one is dedicated to Kelly Parra, who sent me a link to a picture and challenged me to make it come alive. Here is my attempt.)
A roaring wind consumed the sea. Driving. Furious. Mountains of water rose from the deep and smashed the land.
Patrick shivered. The sand rumbled beneath his feet.
No one spoke. They stared out at the listing schooner blown onto shoals. It looked peaceful in the distance. A sleepy maelstrom of whitecaps and spray.
"Hup!" a voice bellowed.
Six men lifted. The grit of the gunwale dug into Patrick's palms. Muscles hardened by weather still stung with the weight of the boat.
The gale heaved, and Patrick’s collar slapped his chin. The rain returned, pelting him sideways. As wet seeped into his shoes, rings of dry pressed the sand where he stood.
A wave unrolled and blasted a line down the beach. They watched the sea bleed out. The foam sizzled, then pulled back. Patrick offered a silent prayer.
They trotted forward. Patrick's shins banged the stern. Ahead, another boom. Spray leapt up, and the wind tore it away. He tasted the salt. Boiling water cut cold across his knees.
The keel struck water, and the men folded in. In pairs, they rolled over the side and scrambled to benches. They lifted the oars as the current dragged them.
Patrick remained in the surf, his first task upon him.
Fifteen feet strong, the next wave fed on the outward rush. Patrick's grip whitened. His feet dug sand.
He braced, and the huge wall crested.
On to Part 2