…. Crack …. Boom
I fumbled for a light, but nothing happened. Even the clock, digital of course, was off. By the time I fumbled for a flashlight I saw it was a little after 4 in the morning. August in the summer. Thunderstorms almost any time of the day or night. I wondered how “The Summer Maid”, my 35′ ketch, made out. Nothing I could do about it right now, so I tried to get back to sleep.
Then came two solid days of work, meetings with customers and designers from dawn to dark. The Maid, as I often called her, has ridden out storms worse than this so I waited till the weekend. She was in a small protected creek, the only thing that could have happened would be a dragged anchor, but a 200 pound anchor doesn’t drag easily.
Finally the weekend arrived and I was able to get to the creek. At first look, from the eastern shore was that the rain-fly I’d left over the cockpit had blown off. So I rowed out to the Maid. Everything else was ship-shape. And only half an inch of water in the bilge, a minute with the pump would empty that out.
Each week a photo is used, donated by one of the participants of Sunday Photo Fiction, and the idea is to write a story with the photo as a prompt in around 200 words