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”.