The boat was so old and rusty, it kept rocking violently from side to side. At least, that was what she first thought was the reason for the endless swaying of the boat. She was concentrated so heavily on moving the oars backwards and forwards, she didn’t even think of looking at the sky. Greying rapidly by the second, it was now a dangerously dark colour, almost black.
That was when she looked up and realised it was the wind that was rocking the boat. A storm was coming. She barely had the thought, when the rain crashed down on her, knocking her down and sending the oars flying into the foaming waves.
It was all she could do to hang on for dear life. On and on they flew through the waves and she feared she would have to die alone at sea.
And yet the boat held. So old and rusty, not even another storm could harm it.
Friday Fictioneers, 26 August 2016
Photo prompt provided by Georgia Koch