Collection 1: "Rogue Wave" by Theodore Taylor

A killer wave, known to mariners as a “rogue wave,” was approaching a desolate area of Baja California below Ensenada.

Driven by an unusual pattern of easterly winds, it was a little over 800 feet in length and measured about 48 feet from the bottom of its trough to its crest.

Driven by an unusual pattern of easterly winds, it was a little over 800 feet in length and measured about 48 feet from the bottom of its trough to its crest.

Melissa “Scoot” Atkins went below into the Old Sea Dog’s tiny galley, moving down the three steps of the companionway, closing the two solid entry doors behind her, always a good idea in offshore sailing.

Under a brilliant sun, the glittering blue Pacific rose and fell in long, slick swells, a cold light breeze holding steady.

They’d grilled it on a small charcoal ring that was mounted outboard on the starboard side at the stern, trailing sparks into the water.

It was one of those perfect days to be out, Sully thought: the three Dacron sails belayed and whispering, white bow waves singing pleasant songs as the fiberglass hull, tilting to starboard, sliced through the ocean.

Built by Ta-Shing, of Taiwan, she was heavy and sturdy, with a teakwood deck and handsome teakwood interior, and the latest in navigation equipment.

Built by Ta-Shing, of Taiwan, she was heavy and sturdy, with a teakwood deck and handsome teakwood interior, and the latest in navigation equipment.

She rose up the surface of the wall stern first and then pitch-poled violently, end over end, the bow submerging and the boat going upside down, taking Sully and Scoot with it, the forty-foot mast, sails intact, now pointing toward the bottom.

Scoot was hurled upward, legs and arms flying, her head striking the after galley bulkhead and then the companionway steps and the interior deck, which was now the ceiling.

Water was pouring in and was soon lapping at Scoot's chin. It was coming from a four-inch porthole that had not been dogged securely and a few other smaller points of entry.

She had settled against what had been the deck of the galley alcove, her body in an upright position on debris.

Just aft of her body, and now above it, was the small diesel engine as well as the batteries.

Over the next five or six minutes, Sully dove repeatedly, using his feet as a fulcrum, and using all the strength that he had in his arms, legs, and back, in an effort to open the doors.

Finally he climbed on top of the keel, catching his breath, resting a moment, trying desperately to think of a way to enter the hull.

She’d always been spunky. He’d taken her sailing locally, in the channel, but she’d wanted an offshore cruise for her fourteenth birthday.

With a wiry body, she was fast in tennis and swimming and already the school’s champion in the hundred-yard dash.

Scoot said tentatively, “Sully?” Maybe he’d been drowned. Maybe she was alone and would die here in the foul water.

Though it might be fruitless, Sully yelled down to the galley alcove, “Listen to me, Scoot. You’ll have to get out by yourself. I can’t help you. I can’t break in. Listen to me, I know you’re in water, and the best way out is through the skylight..."

Sully’s voice was almost like a recording, a mantra, saying the same thing again and again, directed down to the position of the galley.

She was already in dank night.