Word count day 13

[essayel]

Over halfway *does happy dance* but, my, today was difficult. I kept thinking "Patrick O'Brien does this so much better so why the fuck am I bothering?" Come to that so do all the Aubrey/Maturin and Hornblower/Archie Kennedy fanficcers. But I'm reliably informed that 25,000 is the point where existential angst sets in.

Anyway time for a

Valliere and Kit clung to the tiller, leaning on it to keep Africa’s head into the huge seas. They couldn’t speak but communicated with shouts and gestures to the compass and sent runners to pass along orders to the men. It was exhausting, but Kit could feel how the little ship answered to her helm and knew that she would weather the storm.
Unless, of course, there was something out there he didn’t know about.
He recalled with misgiving the great flotilla of ships heading home from newly won Gibraltar in the wake of the flag ship Association. He had overheard the anxious discussion of the captain of the little yacht, Isabella, with his first Lieutenant as they compared their readings with that of the sailing master and watched a storm brew.
“But surely they realise,” Lt Payton had been saying when Kit came upon them with news of tasks completed.
“Maybe my calculations are wrong?” Captain Redall said, his tone hopeful and his face worried. “The sailing master says we’re off Ushant and I have to trust his judgement.”
And that of the Admiral, they all thought but didn’t say as they watched the flagship flying down the wind to where, Redall had calculated, the Scillies with their ferocious rocks and shoals lay waiting.
Later, on deck as they did their best to save their ship and themselves, too busy to be scared, Kit had seen the spouts of spray that marked the sharp teeth waiting to rip the heart out of Isabella and had joined with every hand aboard in cramming on every sail they could and praying that it would be enough to carry them round the point.
They had made it, but others hadn’t and Kit remembered Redall sitting in his shattered cabin with his head in his hands as he tried to find the words to express what had happened.
“By the grace of God” he had written.
“By the grace of God,” Kit murmured now, his shoulder hard against Valliere’s as the Africa reared up, bowsprit to the sky then plunged over the crest of another huge wave.

Comments

[metallumai.livejournal.com]

Lovely! Halfway and it isn't even half-past November yet. And it's going to be ever so cool!!

[erised1810.livejournal.com]

what? angst? about this? i suspect you slam yoruself for forgettign to describe everyoen for instance aand I say don't worry about that because everything comes alive here. adn if this makes me head over to patrick o'brien you can put that in yoru pocket too because i usedt oshrug about marien fiction.

[wulfila.livejournal.com]

Your snippet sounds very good to me, so stop telling yourself that other people might write better.

On an unrelated note, as you were musing about what the Scythians might have looked like some months ago: I just realized they did a reconstruction (http://www.zdf.de/ZDFde/inhalt/12/0,1872,7226316,00.html?dr=1) of the face of a Pazyryk mummy for a German TV programme (apparently, this guy was in his 60s when he died and about 1,67 m tall). I hope this helps!