Excerpt from When the Tide Turns
Rupert Savage pressed the tiller against his side and slacked away the sheet of the lug-sail, and the little boat paid off before the wind, the water bubbling and talking under her planks. As the white sail bellied out and strained against the mast he steered close in to the low shores, flying past miniature rocky capes and bays on the clear green water. Presently, as a small natural harbour opened out in the rocks, he slipped the halliards and lowered the sail, swinging the boat round and pointing her up the narrow passage. The water lay perfectly still in the morning heat; even the sea birds were silent; and the empty shore gave back no sound but an echo of the murmur of the tide where it slipped through the narrows. Before him, at the head of the inlet, appeared a patch of shingly beach; the little boat"s way carried her on and up until the deep silence was broken by the crunch and slow grating touch of her landfall, and by the little wave of water that, following, broke on the pebbles. And then everything was still again.
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