Shingle drag beneath shallow wave pages.
The lapstrake swings heavily towards him and if it were any rougher, waist-deep in the swell, Knott would surely be pulled beneath it. Sam, flapping his arms, wades from the beach into the surf. Ffooks, bow in both hands, says, get in, get in. Knott pulls himself up over the starboard and is in. Sam, port side, struggles. The gunwale catching him across his knees and, for a moment, he may just tumble back into the water. But, somehow, he’s in and perching, soaked, one of the benches and rubbing his legs, miserable. Ffooks plops over the side, out the way, out the way, he says. Crablike, low and all arms and legs, scuttles to the stern. The next wave reckons to carry them back to the beach, the bow rising, the boat begins to spin. But Ffooks, with one sudden jerk on the ripcord, come on, come on, starts the engine. When Knott next looks back, the beach is far away. Golden Cap soaking up the sun and the water is diamond.