The icy spray stung her face like a thousand wasps.  A thirty foot wall of water hovered over her ready to crush down like a boot on a bug.  She reefed the wheel hard to starboard and caught the up rise of a forming wave just in time to miss the downward crush of the previous swell.  The sky and water formed a united front, black and ominous with a total absence of horizon.  The Naabikwaanens shuddered as the bloated swell tossed her feverishly upward.

Without warning the mounting plume split off with a tentacle soundly grabbing the bow pulling it mercilessly downward.  The second curl smashed through the wheelhouse.  The tandem attack strained the small craft and captain beyond their limits.

It is a ghostly fact, that poetic phrase of Gordon Lightfoot,..” gichigami it’s said never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy”.

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