Breaking the Line

I indulged in a wholly deserved moment of brain locked immobility, staring behind us: at the breakers rolling over the body of the Marlin III's captain, at the oncoming speedboat, at Scott dabbing at a gash on his forehead incurred I don't know when.  What I was looking for I couldn't say: the Mexican coast guard?  The captain to emerge from the surf with a machine gun like Chuck Norris?  The speedboat to pull a u-turn and head back out to sea?  I don't know.

Scott's harsh, “C'mon, damn it, let's go, Dylan,” snapped me out of my impotent vapor lock.  The coast guard wasn't coming, the captain wasn't moving (except as rolled about by the surf), and the cigarette boat wasn't turning around.  Any help I got now I'd have to supply.  And there wasn't much time.  The speedboat was already nearing within pistol shot.

I put my feet on either side of the ladder's hand rails and slid down to the deck.  Scott leapt over the port side and I leapt over the starboard.  We met at the bow and began sprinting up the beach towards the nearest hotel.

“Of course it couldn't be our hotel,” I said between huffs.

“Focus on - “ began Scott before a geyser of sand erupted between us, followed immediately by the rolling report of a gunshot.

I perversely felt a brief surge of pride that my legs actually had a reserve of additional speed.





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