Indeed, Hozier
himself, sailor as he was, felt more than doubtful as to the fate of
their argosy. But Marcel paddled ahead with unflagging energy once he
was clear of the tortuous passage, and, before the catamaran had
traveled many yards, even Iris was able to understand that the outlying
ridge of rocks both protected their present track and created much of
the apparent turmoil.
At last the raft, for it was little else, bore sharply out between two
huge bowlders that might well have fallen from the mighty pile of
Grand-pere itself. Pointed and angular they were, and set like a
gateway to an abode of giants. Beyond, there was a shimmer of
swift-moving water, with a silver mist on the surface, though from a
height of a few feet it would have been easy to distinguish the bold
contours of Fernando Noronha itself.
Marcel plied his paddle vigorously, and Iris thought they were heading
against the current, since there was a constant swirl of white-tipped
waves on both sides of the curved plank, and her dress soon became
soaked. But Hozier knew that one man could not drive a craft that had
no artificial buoyancy in the teeth of a four-knot tidal stream.
Marcel was edging across the channel, and making good use of the very
force that threatened to sweep him away.
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