Over the Horizon (IC, look for OOC thread if you wanna join)

As quickly as it has come, the storm passed...

The first rays of the sun were like the light of God Himself...under the clouds of the storm, it had been nearly as dark as morning even though the sun had been thirty degrees off the horizon. And there was still a dark wall of cloud and storm, receding. The ocean still bore the sign of the air's wrath, with ten-foot seas.

By some miracle of Providence, both ships had come through the storm, ending up about a mile apart. The Fairweather raised sail and made for the Farstrider, and in a few minutes the brisk wind bore the ships within hailing distance of one another.

Much of the crew came out onto the decks, both to thank Providence for coming through the storm alive, and to escape the stench of seasickness which permeated the lower decks. It was then, with nearly the full compliment on decks, that it happened...

A new smell blew on the offshore wind, one that blessed the lungs of the land-lost mariners. The smell of trees, and flowers, and fruit, and fresh water, and...and something else alive and green and growing. It was a heady, living odor, sufficient to drive the muck of the past days from lungs and throat alike.

The fragrance came from the land that was now a couple miles distant. If this were an island, the mariners figured, it was a large one, perhaps as large as Ireland herself, maybe bigger. The shoreline stretched from horizon to horizon. Inland many miles was a mountain range, with snowcapped peaks.

Captain Theodore Strecker, of the Fairweather, strode out on deck, spyglass in hand. "Stop gawking, you whoresons," he shouted at the crew, then looked at Jacob Goodwin. "Get the rabble in line," he ordered, "for we know not what lies in these new lands. Maybe France or Spain, or Portugal has beaten us to them and lie in wait." As he spoke, he never stopped scanning the new shores with his formidable spyglass. He turned to the hatchway. "Dr. Wharton, we have need of your....services...on deck!"

The good Dr. needed little prodding, for he was as curious as any, if not more so. He came out onto the deck. The Captain proffered him the spyglass. "There be people there. What lands do these appear to be?" Dr. Wharton looked through the glass. To him, the people--still tiny at this distance--looked definitely and wholly African in derivation, being richly dark in skin tone. As to the lands beyond, they appeared tropical or subtropical in character...

...but that was not what had his attention.

Flicking the spyglass up to the mountains, he saw glaciated peaks...at least fifteen thousand feet above sea level, he reasoned. But beyond these peaks, the moon was rising. And to the right of it...a second moon...

Eva straightened her long black dress and rebuttoned it. She had had to undo the top three buttons during the storm cecause she thougt she was going to choke. She knew she had better look presentable before her father found her.

Eva walked around the deck of the Farstrider looking at injuries. She was the closest thing they had to a doctor. Dr. Wharton, doctor of the Fairweather, had assured the captains of both ships that she was up to taking care of the crew and passangers on this trip when the doctor assigned to the ship tripped over a mop bucket and cut his head open. She had been coming aboard when it happened, threw her bags down, and rushed to him to stop the bleeding. She pulled a needle and thread out of her sewing kit and quickly stitched the wound, almost as quickly as the man she assumed to be the captain informed the younfg doctor they would not be requiring his assistance and please get his clumsy arse off his ship.

Luckily there were no major injuries....lots of cuts and bruises, as was to be expected during that type of storm. Eva relaxed a bit and began looking for her father. He was usually right in the center of attention, praying to God and assuring everyone everything would be ok. The last place she remembered seeing him was standing on a wine cask that was lashed to the starboard railing. She headed that direction, only to find the lashing broken and her father's immaculately polished black boot lying on its side.

Tall One was about to dive in to the water from a high peak when he saw the white sails. It was the first time in the last 15 years that he saw one. He watched them for a moment. "They are sailing this way he said softly."

"I better tell the Shaman, he said to himself. He runs as fast as he can, looking toward the sails as he ran.
The third time he looked, he noted there were two sailing ships.

Tiaret! Tiaret! He called before he even got close enough to her hut knowing she would hear him.

"Why are you calling me Tall One", she ask shim.

"Tiaret. Look." He point into the ocean. "Sail ships, look into your mind, what do you see ahead?"

"Tiaret! Tiaret!" Came the call to the Shaman's hut as children streamed throught he villiage at breakneck speeds and with the utter carelessness that only children can have. Waving and pointing wildly they reached for her hands and arms seeking to pull her along with them and making her chuckle softly at the horrified expressions on the faces of the mother's that saw the children acting so unmannerly toward the Shaman.

Personally she found it amusing and endearing. Sinking down to the level of the smallest, she drew the young girl to her and hugged her warmly, "Now, now, all of you quiet down. I'll listen but with all of you talking at once it's like the chattering of birds. Oni, tell me what is going on," she said softly and had to hide her smile as the young girl beamed at being the one chosen to tell their news.

"We were playing on the beach and far out on the water a giiiiiiiiant canoe appeared," she said unfolding her arms as wide as possible to emphasize the size of the boat they'd seen. "It had great white wings flying above it that seem to push it and it's coming closer. It's hard to tell Tiaret, but it looked like there were ghost-people in them," this last was said in a soft, almost frightened whisper.

Taking the little girl's hand Tiaret stoodto her full height and pointed the way the children had come, "Show me."

The children beamed and Tiaret could seem some of the the other villiagers smiling to themselves thinking the Shaman merely indulged the children in their games. Unlike most who'd heard the children however, Tiaret believed the children.

Following the children down toward the beach she saw Tall one coming toward them and paused as he called to her as the children had, "Tiaret. Look." He point into the ocean. "Sail ships, look into your mind, what do you see ahead?"

Reaching the beach she stared out onto the horizon at the ship that approached and gasped as a sudden feeling whipped around her. The best she could do to describe it was to say that it felt like a cold wind swirling around her and through her though that wasn't quite right and couldn't encompass the pain and pleasure of her gift riding her. The children around her stilled as her violet eyes flashed and grew distant and she almost seemed to stop breathing.

When at last the vision passed she crumpled to her knees in the sand, teard in her eyes.

"Too many, sweet Mother Goddess there are too many paths to see clearly!"

Rising from the sand she spun and ran with the swift grace of her namesake back to the villiage. She had to speak with the Chief and their Warriors. It was unclear from her vision if these strangers would be harmful or friendly - she'd seen both possibilities - but one thing was clear, they needed to be on their gaurd and nothing would ever be the same again.

Tall One knew, that even amongst the old ones. The Shaman Tiaret had the sight to see into the future.

The ships were slowly getting closer to the beach, how close he couldn't tell.

He hears people gasping and turn to see the Shaman on the sand. One look into her teary eyes, and he knew what he feared
when he first saw the ships. "I guess now I'll find out how well they've learned their lesson". He said to no one in particular.

Tall One didn't know why he could do things that he didn't even remember knowing, they just came to him, and yet he couldn't even remember his name, or where he came from.

The first year on the island was the hardest for him. The natives, although they cared for him, they didn't really trust him, He was much taller then the men here in the village, except maybe for Arapmoi, it was hard to tell. he spent countless hours going through his movement with that sword, and his knives.

The warriors were the first to make friends, the all wanted to learn how to use a sword, except that there were no swords to be had.
The warriors were adept on making things so they made them out of wood. The knives were fashioned out of stone like all their spears.

Over the next few years every warrior was skilled in the use of a sword, and most on the men in the village skilled in throwing a knife. Their blow guns were mainly used for birds hunting.

"Lets hope it never comes to that for the sake of all."

Back on the Fairweather, Ensign Bryce Hammer had come to the conclusion that the Royal Navy was not for him.

He had actually come to that determination after his third day at sea. No, it wasn't the hard work. Having grown up on a farm and then apprenticing as a mason, Bryce was no stranger to manual labor. No, it was the constant bullying by the upper ranks. Seemed like you had to have a certain something, an "it," to be accepted as a sailor, and Bryce didn't have it, whatever "it" was.

Perhaps Bryce's problem was that he took things a little too personally. Rather than accepting the hazing that was a part of being at the bottom of the rank system, he chafed under it. So the rift began to open between Bryce and his shipmates, and each day it grew wider. The 20 year-old man with the reddish-blonde hair had been on his way to becoming an outcast when the storm hit.

The crowning blow had been the afternoon before the storm. He had gotten into a scrap with the fair-haired nephew of a minor noble who was being groomed for a position in the officers' corp. What had caused the altercation, Bryce had forgotten, but he had neither forgotten nor forgiven the flogging he had been given as punishment.

Then the storm came, and Bryce had temporarily forgotten the smoldering resentment as the drama of survival had caused grudges to be temporarily set aside. But only temporarily. As the ship emerged from the storm, there was the First Mate, who had given him the lashing, and the nephew, talking like old friends!

With wonder, Bryce gazed out across the water at the new land. It looked vast! And as the lad's eyes roved hungrily from beach to jungle to snowy peaks, he decided with finality that this was the point at which he and the Royal Navy would part company. Oh, it might take a few days to find the right opportunity. He did not want to be caught...deserters faced the gallows; that had been drilled into him. But to hang him, the Royal Navy would have to find him. And once he disappeared into that forest and set out for the mountains, the finding would be rather difficult. Once he reached the mountains, bloody impossible...

He would get himself placed on one of the landing parties. With his skills at carpentry and woodcutting, he had little doubt he would be selected early. And, when the opportunity presented itself, Ensign Bryce Hammer would jump ship...

Jessica awoke to the sound of shouting. Joyful shouting. Grunting, she brushed her hair back and strode over to the pail of water in the corner, splashing her weary eyes. Picking up the bandoleer and sheath, she buckled them about herself and picked up the longrifle carbine she had picked up from home. Slinging it over her back, she walked out, pausing by the extra storage bay to pop her head in to check on Traxis, her mount. Satisfied, she brushed her hair back, walking onto deck to investigate the commotion.

She looked around for someone in uniform, with authority. Spotting a man in Lieutenant's braids, whom she vaguely remembered as Whittaker or something, she waved him over. "Lieutenant! What's this hub-hub about?"

"LAND HO!!!!!" came the cry from Farstrider's topsail. George Whittaker was in the Lieutenant's mess at the time, relieving the sprogs of some of their allowances. It went hard against a chaps morals to take childrens money, but someone had to teach the young Middies to play cards, and he wasn't the sort of man to shirk his duties, oh no.

Folding up the last hand, he scraped the pot into a handkerchief, along with a couple of notes of hand and grabbed his sword from the rack. "Topside, you young whelps, and to your stations! I don't doubt the old man will call us to general quarters within a five minute."

Scrambling up ladders, rudely barging aside the more wobbly legged passengers (and thanking God almighty that he was immune from the affliction) he was soon on the quarterdeck. There was some damage to the sails from the storm, he could see that, but there were already men on the ropes with spare canvas and needles. The mate of the Farstrider was not a man to risk his Captain's wrath.

The verdant coast stretched out before him and from the hardwood visible George knew this island held at least fresh water. With trees like that, though, it seemed inconceivable that more resources were not available. Probably enough wood, food and fresh water to totally refit both ships, and not leave a mark on the abundance in front of him.

That was when he spotted the second moon over the mountainous peak. It hung there, offending him with its alien presence. There was ONLY one moon.

A voice called to him at that moment and he lowered the eyeglass, turning to face the Farstrider's resident mercenary, hired by the colonists to protect them against any natives they might encounter. He smiled broadly, he'd spent the first part of the voyage persuing Miss Everchild diligently, with no result, alas. He still retained a fondness for the woman that weren't entirely due to her impressive physical attributes but more to do with her capacity for drink and gambling.

"Miss Everchild! Glad to see the storm has not sticken you with the same flux that besets half our passengers. I should have known you'd be made of sterner stuff. The stir you're seeing amongst the Pilot, Helmsman and Captain is caused by us meeting land where there ain't supposed to be any!" He gestured with the spyglass at the coastline before them.

"Upon my soul, though, the thing that REALLY has us spooked is nothing to do with the land at all, it's in the sky!" Here he pokes the spyglass towards the second orb next to the usual singular moon. "What do ye make of THAT, then?"

Steiner said:

"Upon my soul, though, the thing that REALLY has us spooked is nothing to do with the land at all, it's in the sky!" Here he pokes the spyglass towards the second orb next to the usual singular moon. "What do ye make of THAT, then?"

Click to expand...

Ensign Bryce Hammer was standing a few feet away, helping with some rigging while stealing glances at the land. In the sky. He craned his neck a little, seeing the second moon. His hand let go of the rope he was pulling, and only the curses of a pimply-faced deckhand down the rope a few yards brought his focus back to the task at hand.

Hammer felt a chill creeping down into his testicles. What he was seeing...Hammer had never had a formal education beyond literacy and numeracy, but the lad knew that what he was seeing...just wasn't possible. He blinked, rubbed his eye with his free hand.

The second moon remained.

"I'd say it means we got blown a wee bit farther than Hispaniola," he finally opined, to no one in particular. Not that it affected his plans, he assured himself. Two moons or five, he was humping his ass right off this ship, as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

Eva strode over to where George and Jessica were looking at the moon....no, that would be moons. But she really didn't notice the spectical in the sky. "Have either of you seen my father today? I can't seem to find him," she said as she raised his boot slightly.

George shifted his attention from the curvaceous mercenary to the preacher's daughter. This was obviously his day for attracting the ladies - he wondered what he'd done special when dressing this morning.

"Ahhh, Miss Usher. I have just come topside myself, Miss and haven't yet had a chance to see to the passengers."

George cursed under his breath. It was actually one of his duties after a storm, so he summoned a hand and sent him below to check on the health of all the Farstrider's passengers.

"That fine gentlemen of my very own guncrew will seek after your dear father, Miss Usher. Why don't you calm yourself after that small bit of a blow we had by getting fresh air here at the railing, hmm?"

Eva Usher

"Hmmm, yes, the fresh air is good," she hesitated and looked around. "There are no serious injuries, just some cuts and bruises, but I guess I could help get some of those washed up." She looked around the deck again, as if her father would appear. She walked away mumbling, "This just isn't like him,"
as she tucked his boot into her apron.

On the shore, Tylia heard the commotion as she gathered reeds where a cold, clear creek flowed into the warm ocean. The freshwater fanned out across an expanse of sand, into which a channel had been carved by its glacier-fed, ceaseless flow. There the reeds grew, perfect for making the baskets young Tylia was renowned for already.

She set the reeds down, then got into the water. She was an expert swimmer, stroking lazily down toward the sea. Water and sun played off her chocolate skin, its ebony absorbing almost all light. Darker still was the scrub of hair between her thighs, and her fine braids, held by colorful beads, tied back by cotton fabric.

Tylia could see the white sails. Something strange...no doubt the Alignment...those rare times every seven and a half years when the moons lined up together in the sky. An Alignment had just occurred two days ago. She remembered the last Alignment, when a strange, silver bird making a loud drone had flown nearby. It had four wings, two large ones in the front, and small ones in the back. On each of the large wings, a red dot, like the Sun at dawn. It had flown away, never to be seen again...

Tylia was near where the surf met the outflow from the creek. A pleasant juxtaposition of warmth and chill, where glacier melt met the sea. The waves still ran high, and Tylia could see the distant wall of cloud from the storm, now moving off.

The sails were closer now.

The Captain took the spyglass back from the good Doctor, and folded it up. "There's a creek to the WNW flowing into the sea. We can replace our water there, and probably find some hardwood there. If the natives are typical, their village will be near the water source. We can make contact, and take the labor that we need. And I am sure that the native women will be happy to entertain us. And if they are not...they shall entertain us anyway! "

Cheers arose from the ranks as the ship slowly made its way toward the no longer distant shore.

OOC: Ah.. Orcish.. We might have to disregard Ensign Bryce Hammer's comments. We're on different ships. Check the roster again. XD I propose stating location of where the RP is happening before people post their RP to avoid confusion.. Something like...

[FARSTRIDER]

The mercenary glanced at the lieutenant, giving him a cold, distant stare, before replying, "I wouldn't be a mercenary worth my salt if the ocean could beat me, now would I?"

Taking the spyglass from the good lieutenant, she peered through it, staring ahead at the second moon for an inexorably long period of time. Finally, she snapped it shut and handed it back to him, looking more thoughtful than shocked. Without saying anything, she began to walk towards the bow of the ship, weaving in between crewmen scrambling about, leaning over the deck rails to stare at the sea spray, before returning her gaze to the inlet that had been pointed out before.

George shrugged - from the center of female attention his spot at the rail was now solitary and lonesome again. Maybe he'd done something WRONG dressing this morning.

Still the mercenary could just BE like that sometimes, it was part of her aloof charm, and the preachers daughter was obviously worried about her father. George absently hoped the old man hadn't become disoriented by the storm and become lost overboard, or decided to end his seasickness the direct way, as some did.

Peering back up at the moon, he shook his head.

"Damme if that isn't going to cause problems - 'pon my very soul it will."

He could already hear mutterings from the superstitious crew, mutterings the captain would need to head off. Signals broke from the lead ship of the expedition, though, orderering a move to the head of the river for landing and refit. THAT sparked cheers from the men, who were looking forward to fresher water and food.

George had worries that distracted him from these more earthly concerns, however - he was watching the Captain and the Navigator closely.

Instead of striding about the quarterdeck and spreading calm, the Farstrider's captain had retired to the very aft of the ship, the poop deck, along with the navigator and the first lieutenant. Their whispered conference, guarded by marines, was urgent enough to warrant the Captain's neglecting the storm damage done to Farstrider. Moreover the Navigator did NOT look happy, and George was very worried about that.

Most Navy men attributed superhuman powers to the navigators, who guided the big ships between continents with studied ease. George respected their skills, but he knew the tricks - and he knew how a storm could make the most skilled Navigator lose their way. Once they were lost, a navigator had to strike out to find something familiar, some reef or shoal or island described in their precious rutters. If no Navigator had been this way and returned to tell of it, then their own navigator was sailing blind.

wrong thread

OOC: There is an OOC/Casting Call here: https://forum.literotica.com/showthread.php?t=482635&page=1&pp=40


Now, for my character

The Bloody Spear: https://forum.literotica.com/showpost.php?p=20460696&postcount=8


The Bloody Spear, M'rke Mawthuna, returned to his village, the body of a giant lion draped over his shoulders, his powerful frame barely able to hold the beast up after the two miles he had carried it. He dropped the great animal upon the dusty ground in the center of the village. The women came to it immediately, and began to prepare the meat for dinner.

The feast, however, was a somber one. Something was approaching; Tall One called them "sailing ships" that traversed the great sea. Their little canoes and rafts for fishing would never hold up on the ocean; to build a large one, with sails, for several people... was more than Mawthuna's mind could comprehend.

His mood was grim. After he ate, he left the elders and went out to a cliff, to look out to sea. The sun was setting; these "ships" were clearly visible on the horizon. His grip on his spear tightened. He senses his life, and the lives of his people, will never be the same.

Tall One Watched The Bloody Spear through out the meal. he could see it in his face that he was worried. and rightly so.
After The Bloody Spear finished eating he got up and walked away. Tall One kept his eyes on him the whole time. He saw him
on top of the cliff where you could see far into the ocean.

He waited a while than casually got up and went up the cliff.

"M'rke Mawthuna". He called him by his true name. "Yes Tall One" he said with out turning. "I see worry in your face.
I feel the same inside." He didn't reply. He just nodded his head a few times.

"M'rke Mawthuna". we must ready all the warriors and all the men in the village to prepare. it won't be long now. He nodded his head again without speaking. They both looked at the sails as they moved closer to shore.

"Tall One. are these your people, are they coming for you." he asked. "No M'rke Mawthuna. They are not my people. my people are all here in the village." M'rke Mawthuna again nods his head.

Tall One waits a few minute, looks at the sails again than walks back to the village.

The Fairweather and Farstrider came within a half-mile of the shore. The two vessels pulled alongside each other as their captains conversed, then barked out orders. A landing party was to be formed, and a defensible beachhead established. Three skiffs were readied, and volunteers chosen to go ashore. Muskets and provisions were readied, and the decks turned into a hub of activity.

The sailors could tell that, whatever these lands might be, they had day and night like any other. The westering sun was dipping near the far mountains. There was perhaps two hours of daylight left now. The air here was remarkably clear, with sights thirty or forty miles distant having only the barest hint of haze. The storm that had borne the ships to these lands was now far in the distance to the southeast, soon to be lost to sight.

The landing party began to climb aboard. The ships themselves continued a careful, slow approach to the shore, sails all but furled, making one to one and a half knots. At the bow of each ship, two sailors scanned the waters for reefs. One pulled up a rope. "Seven fathoms!" He shouted out the reading.

"That be close enough," the captain of the Farstrider shouted. The sails were reefed, and the ships broke formation as anchors plunged into the sea.

Yes! As the senior of the second lieutenants (by a good six months!) George would lead the shore party! Gathering up some sturdy sailors from his own gun crews and whatever civilians / marines were also coming, he set Farstriders skiff off to be the first to hit shore.

"Remember, when we hit shore I want Marines to form ranks and push off the beach to clear it for the rest of us. If there are any b'damned savages waiting in ambush, I want them swept away!"

George quivered with eagerness in the bow of the First Boat, his hand on his swordhilt and watched the distant shore grow steadily nearer.

Tiaret had fled back to the villiage only to find that most of the men were gone, hunting. It shouldn't have surprised her, her visions had led them to a land that was flush with game and they'd begun preparing early for a winter that the spirits had told her would be harsh and demanding. They feasted well but most of what was brought back was dried and cured so that in the lean months none would starve and die.

It was frustrating for her as she still had the rhythms of her vision pounding through her conciousness but she knew there was nothing to be done for it and simply returned to her own hut and flipping the door awning closed so none would disturb her. Deftly she lit a small fire and added sacred herbs known only to her, to aid in her visions. What she had seen had been too diverse and where many paths crossed and branched it was difficult to See clearly.

She hoped to be able to untangle the threads of vision and find the most likely path.

She didn't like what she saw.

Leaving her hut she realized that hours had passed and night was falling. The scent of roasting meat told her at least one of the Warriors had returned and as she thought it she saw Bloody Spear leaving the feast tent and striding out into the evening light. She saw Tall One follow and hung back in the shadows watching until Tall One left to return to the villiage.

Moving out of the shadows she approached Bloody Spear and stood at his side staring out toward the waters.

"Have your Warriors prepared M'rke Mawthuna. I've Seen these strangers in a vision and while the paths are crossed and tangled the most likely is the path of violence. We should greet them in friendship for that is still an option, but it is a choice they will have to make and we should be wary."

"You are right, Tiaret. It is a foul wind that blows towards us this night. How best do we offer our friendship?" M'rke Mawthuna wondered aloud. He finally looked down at the beautiful Tiaret.



A short while later...

Mawthuna grunted his approval as he surveyed the warriors, their weapons and armor.

They did not have much time. He and Tall One led the men down the well-worn jungle path to the beach. Mawthuna gripped his spear tightly. He had fought beasts from beyond the mountains; this threat was coming from an unfamiliar direction.

The moons were full; the ships were clearly visible in the night. The village warriors, maybe a couple dozen men with spears and bows and arrows and knives, waited in the darkness of the jungle.

Mawthuna looked at Tall One. They could see the boats approaching...

Dr. Wharton moved around the small chamber that served as his personal quarters. He had almost ran to his quarters after the captain's announcement of a landing party, but had retained his gentlemanly dignity about himself. Before him was a small brown leather bag and was being filled with his various instruments. The excitement of the discovery of land was enough to crack a smile on even his distinguished features. Tossing a coat over his shoulders, he pocketed his well traveled and worn journal. The weather yellow pages of the small book contained every observation he had made on the voyage, every bird, every cloud, every injury to a crew member was documented in this journal. But the opportunity to use his knowledge of the natural world in a place like this was truly thrilling to any man of science.

Snatching the medical bag and ensuring that his journal was safely in his right coat pocket like always, he made his way topside to join the captain and the rest of the crew.

Casting a look towards the shore, Wharton could make out the various dots along the shore line moving about. No doubt the natives were curious of their arrival. A chance to study the savage in his native land was something rare indeed. Perhaps the storm had been a blessing in disguise.

The roar of the surf was getting louder to the British landing party as the landing skiffs approached the beach. Out beyond were the two ships. Both had twelve cannon at the ready, with first mates scanning the shoreline nervously. The sun was close to setting now, the shadows of the distant mountains already nearly draped across the beach.

The British could now see a single native woman, Tylia. She wore a simple though colorful skirt, and nothing except a necklace above the waist. She was definitely African in appearance. Her hair was finely braided, with colorful beads woven into the braids. She carried a basket, which was in and of itself a work of art.

Tylia did not realize some of the tribe's warriors were gathering only a hundred yards away, above the high-seas mark, where the foliage of the shore began in earnest. They knew the terrain well. Well enough that the British did not know they were there.

One of the captains on board the Fairweather had decided on a show of force, in case any natives were in fact gathered. On a signal from him, a single cannon was fired. Those on the shore could see a puff of smoke, followed by a thunderous report. A moment later, about fifty yards from the native female, sand erupted in a geyser, and smoke issued forth. The woman trembled as the skiffs came through the surf and onto the beach.