White Moon Rising

The magnificence of the storm held him at first—the swatches of stars between clouds, the thunder of waves, and a spellbinding glimpse of the moonrise—but when water began leaping onto the deck, Will knew he had pushed his luck. The only other passenger on deck sat huddled beneath a blanket; he supposed she had her own reasons for defying the crew’s orders. As the ship veered sideways, they exchanged an alarmed glance.

Getting to the cabin door would require timing. Will would have to let go of the rail, and Marisol, her chair. He waited for a lull, but the wind and rain had risen to such a pitch that he could no longer measure the rhythm of the swells. Seawater sucked from crests flew into his face and sloshed onto the deck, lathering the wood. A skinny deckhand shouted at them from the door, cursing in Cantonese, “Stupid Americans!” then let the door fall shut again.

People on couch
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