exit. The ship slid faster down the hillside. He had to get out soon or the El Oro Señora would lead him into a watery grave.
Nick paddled for the top of the ship, hoping to escape out a stairwell at the deck of the ship. The force of water pressed against him like a wall. He bent his head down and dug into it. He found the stairs and heaved himself along, losing his grip on the railing as the ship crashed against the rocks beneath it. His chest wheezed and pain tore away at his will, shredding him like the ocean ridge outside was ripping up the El Oro Señora .
A cold realization hit him—he was likely going to die, like Jim, and wash ashore bloated and blue-skinned. The curse of Rán was real. He knew then that it had taken Jim, probably Keith, and now him too. He thought of Matt again, of what would happen to him and how he would handle his death. The thought of his son suffering even more roused him with one last fight for survival.
He hoisted himself up the stairs and through the current and debris. His fist hit a latched door. The good news was that the door probably opened to the cargo hold on the deck. He tried the latch but it wouldn’t budge. Something must have moved across the deck and rested on top of it.
This close to escape, he couldn’t give in now and slammed himself against the door. A railing along the wall was still intact, and he used it to kick his foot at the door. His heart pounded so fast, and his lungs gasped for oxygen—he hoped he would have enough oxygen left to make it back to the surface, if he even made it out of the El Oro Señora . Sharp pain pierced his ears again as his body struggled to equalize under the pressure of increasing depth.
For Matt . Nick shoved his foot at the door as hard as he could. His foot slipped and broke through. Heavily filtered light shined through, dim as an eclipse, but enough to see shadows, to tell the difference between the inside of the ship and outside of it in the deep. Water surged around him as the momentum of the ship’s plummet pulled him with it. He pushed his arms and legs against the current as hard as he could, struggling to swim horizontal and out of the current of the sinking ship. The bag at his waist slowed him down, but he couldn’t release it, not now that he had escaped and was almost free.
A long shadow soared at him, the mast of the ship. The wrought-iron tip clipped the side of his head and tore off his mask. Nick grabbed for his regulator, making sure it didn’t dislodge from his mouth again. The light-headedness of decompression sickness washed into him. He had to ascend slowly to avoid getting the bends, but he was nearly out of air. Not knowing how much farther he had to go, he judged time by his pain, rising only as fast as he could withstand the ache. He wasn’t going to die; he would escape the clutches of Rán, he told himself.
When the water pressure lessened to that of a deep swimming pool, he took his last, short breath of air from the empty tank. The surface might still be 20 feet up. He held his breath tight, fighting the urge to breathe in and forced all his energy into climbing up through the dark water. A force squeezed around his chest, pinched into his throat and around his head. The bag of valuables acted like an upside down umbrella, slowing him down with its resistance.
The water thinned, until finally his hand shot into the air. He gasped in a hard breath of fresh air. A shower of stars sparkled above. Another gasp, so fitful, he could barely inhale. Only when his breath finally returned, did he realize he had made it. He was alive. He swirled around in the huge shelf of a wave, searching for the Dawn Maiden. It was just a few meters away.
Something brushed against his leg. It sparked him with fear. He was sure the cut on his side was still oozing blood. While sharks weren’t necessarily common in the area, the landslide might have brought them in with the displacement of food sources. The brush
Nick paddled for the top of the ship, hoping to escape out a stairwell at the deck of the ship. The force of water pressed against him like a wall. He bent his head down and dug into it. He found the stairs and heaved himself along, losing his grip on the railing as the ship crashed against the rocks beneath it. His chest wheezed and pain tore away at his will, shredding him like the ocean ridge outside was ripping up the El Oro Señora .
A cold realization hit him—he was likely going to die, like Jim, and wash ashore bloated and blue-skinned. The curse of Rán was real. He knew then that it had taken Jim, probably Keith, and now him too. He thought of Matt again, of what would happen to him and how he would handle his death. The thought of his son suffering even more roused him with one last fight for survival.
He hoisted himself up the stairs and through the current and debris. His fist hit a latched door. The good news was that the door probably opened to the cargo hold on the deck. He tried the latch but it wouldn’t budge. Something must have moved across the deck and rested on top of it.
This close to escape, he couldn’t give in now and slammed himself against the door. A railing along the wall was still intact, and he used it to kick his foot at the door. His heart pounded so fast, and his lungs gasped for oxygen—he hoped he would have enough oxygen left to make it back to the surface, if he even made it out of the El Oro Señora . Sharp pain pierced his ears again as his body struggled to equalize under the pressure of increasing depth.
For Matt . Nick shoved his foot at the door as hard as he could. His foot slipped and broke through. Heavily filtered light shined through, dim as an eclipse, but enough to see shadows, to tell the difference between the inside of the ship and outside of it in the deep. Water surged around him as the momentum of the ship’s plummet pulled him with it. He pushed his arms and legs against the current as hard as he could, struggling to swim horizontal and out of the current of the sinking ship. The bag at his waist slowed him down, but he couldn’t release it, not now that he had escaped and was almost free.
A long shadow soared at him, the mast of the ship. The wrought-iron tip clipped the side of his head and tore off his mask. Nick grabbed for his regulator, making sure it didn’t dislodge from his mouth again. The light-headedness of decompression sickness washed into him. He had to ascend slowly to avoid getting the bends, but he was nearly out of air. Not knowing how much farther he had to go, he judged time by his pain, rising only as fast as he could withstand the ache. He wasn’t going to die; he would escape the clutches of Rán, he told himself.
When the water pressure lessened to that of a deep swimming pool, he took his last, short breath of air from the empty tank. The surface might still be 20 feet up. He held his breath tight, fighting the urge to breathe in and forced all his energy into climbing up through the dark water. A force squeezed around his chest, pinched into his throat and around his head. The bag of valuables acted like an upside down umbrella, slowing him down with its resistance.
The water thinned, until finally his hand shot into the air. He gasped in a hard breath of fresh air. A shower of stars sparkled above. Another gasp, so fitful, he could barely inhale. Only when his breath finally returned, did he realize he had made it. He was alive. He swirled around in the huge shelf of a wave, searching for the Dawn Maiden. It was just a few meters away.
Something brushed against his leg. It sparked him with fear. He was sure the cut on his side was still oozing blood. While sharks weren’t necessarily common in the area, the landslide might have brought them in with the displacement of food sources. The brush
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