4. Chapter 4
Muriel sat on one of the large rocks that sheltered her secret cove and gazed out over the Gulf of Mexico.
The salty tang of the ocean air filled her lungs and the breeze whipping her hair from its pins made her eyes water.
It was the wind causing her tears, not self-pity.
Not a soul-deep craving for what remained out of reach.
The cry of a seagull overhead called her bluff as the first tear rolled down her cheek.
Fine. It was more than the wind. She scrubbed at her eyes impatiently with the heel of her hand and sniffed in a decisive fashion.
Feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t help her situation.
Her da had given her a challenge, and she aimed to meet it.
To prove herself so dependable that he’d have no choice but to reinstate her swimming privileges.
She’d apologized to Mr. Crabtree and arrived early to services last week for a replacement rehearsal with the choir.
She’d poured her heart into the gentle strains of "In the Sweet By and By," engaging with the words in a way she hadn’t before.
Mr. Crabtree had even dabbed his eyes at the end of her solo.
Singing had always been as natural to her as breathing or swimming, and without realizing it, she had taken it for granted.
The notes came easily, requiring little effort on her part.
Everyone complimented her vocal range and purity of sound.
They called her voice angelic. Heavenly.
A beautiful instrument. A rather apt description, seeing as how she approached making music much like an instrumentalist. Her voice became a trilling flute, a belting cornet, or a soaring organ.
Lyrics served as a vessel for the melody.
They were not part of the music. Not until her da’s reprimand had brought her some perspective.
Heart full of grief and contrition, she’d been susceptible to the words of the hymn she performed in a way that had never penetrated her more carefree self.
Words about the sweet perfection of heaven drew her inward-focused gaze upward to a loving Father and his promise of rest. A place of music and no sorrow. A place likened to a beautiful shore.
Her favorite verse rose in her mind as she gazed upon the ocean, and she sang it softly, just loud enough to be heard over the wind. Emotion clogged her voice, but she sang through it, her soul needing the balm of the words.
“We shall sing on that beautiful shoreThe melodious songs of the blest;And our spirits shall sorrow no more-Not a sigh for the blessing of rest.”
She was blessed. Blessed with music. With family. With a home by the sea. Blessed with a heavenly Father who exhibited endless patience and an earthly da who loved her enough to expect more from her than she expected of herself.
These last two weeks had been excruciating.
Two weeks without the sea. No swimming. No boating.
She’d not even dipped her toes in for a quick wade.
Not that her da would have forbidden such a harmless escapade, but because she didn’t trust herself to withstand the temptation of having a taste without diving in for the full experience.
Two weeks of battling envy as tourists and sea bathers swarmed the beaches and pavilions.
Two weeks of tedious clock watching and responsibility.
Two weeks of beating down the resentment that flared whenever her da praised her efforts yet refused to reunite her with the water she loved.
I know I’ve let ye down, Lord. Let Da down.
I’ve been selfish. Seekin’ me own pleasure with little care for how me choices impact others.
I know there be more to life than swimmin’ and better uses of me time than dreamin’ up fairy stories 'bout livin’ in a fancy house with a handsome prince I’m not likely to meet.
Yet . . . ye made me with a hankerin’ for the sea and a body shaped for swimmin’.
Surely ye formed me this way for a reason.
Ye don’t seem the type to make mistakes.
So what am I supposed to do? Be who ye made me to be, or be what Da wants me to be?
‘Tis a puzzle, fer certain. One that leaves me in a muddle. Is there a way to be both? If so, I’m gonna need ye to show me.
I haven’t had much luck findin’ it on me own. ”
One of the hymns the choir had been rehearsing this week sprang to mind, and a chord struck in her spirit, demanding she give it voice. With no one around to hear, outside of God and the gulls, Muriel rose to her feet and sang from the heart, holding nothing back as she sought the Lord’s guidance.
“Jesus, Savior, pilot me,Over life’s tempestuous sea:Unknown waves before me roll,Hiding rock and treach’rous shoal;Chart and compass come from Thee-Jesus, Savior, pilot me!”
Zane piloted his newly refurbished catboat through slightly choppy waters, grinning as the mainsheet swelled with the wind and sped him along the Galveston coast. Manning the tiller from a bench in the stern of the boat, he laughed aloud at the thrill of racing across the Gulf at speeds rivaling a galloping horse.
Better than a horse, for a boat didn’t tire.
As long as the wind blew, the boat ran. And how he loved it!
Freedom. Complete and utter freedom. No matchmaking mama trying to tie him down, no father glaring in thinly veiled disappointment, no meticulous mentor evaluating his every measurement. Just a man and the sea.
And a song?
A woman’s voice carried on the wind. A sweet, pleading call.
Heartfelt and beautiful. Zane adjusted the tiller to steer the bow more into the wind, feathering the sail to forfeit power and slow the boat.
He scanned the shoreline, seeking the source of the song, like a sailor falling prey to a mythical siren.
Something about that voice stirred his soul and set his heart to pounding an irregular rhythm.
“Wondrous Sov’reign of the sea,Jesus, Savior, pilot me!”
A hymn? Even more intrigued, Zane urged his boat nearer the shore. There. She stood on a rocky outcropping. A woman dressed in dark blue, arms open and raised, hair whipping about in the wind. Red hair? It was hard to tell from this distance, but it seemed to absorb the sunlight and catch fire.
His hand grew lax on the tiller, his attention riveted not only by the music but by the passionate woman in the throes of worship. In a low voice, he joined her song for the third verse, the words familiar yet somehow new as he softly blended his tenor to her soprano.
“When at last I near the shore,And the fearful breakers roar‘Twixt me and the peaceful rest-Then, while leaning on Thy breast,May I hear Thee say to me,‘Fear not – I will pilot thee.’”
She repeated the final phrase, taking liberties with the notes like an opera diva, elongating some, trilling others, rising in a crescendo as she turned the music skyward, climbing up instead of down the scale until she hit a note of such purity, he rose from his seat, wanting to climb with her.
The climactic tone rang through the air, raising gooseflesh on his arms. Slowly her arms lowered, and a change came over her.
A stillness. Like a startled rabbit. She’d seen him.
He felt the connection between them, even though he couldn’t make out her features from this distance.
He stood there, watching her as she watched him, neither of them moving, the moment fraught with meaning too heavy to set aside.
Then the wind gusted from a different direction, rocking the boat and whipping the long, horizontal pole supporting the bottom of the sail violently over the cockpit.
Zane tried to duck, but it was too late.
The wooden boom crashed into the side of his skull and launched him overboard.
A gasp tore from Muriel’s throat as she witnessed the young man topple over the side of his boat. A knock on the head of that strength would surely render him unconscious. Without aid, he'd drown. A vice tightened across her heart.
Scrambling down the rocks to her cove, she tore at the buttons of her bodice. If she was to get to him, she couldn’t be hindered by heavy fabric. She stripped down to her chemise and drawers as quickly as possible then ran into the surf.
Please let me reach him in time.
God had made her a strong swimmer. For such a time as this. Just like Esther in the Bible. She could do this. She had to do this.
Muriel cut through the water at top speed, pulling her arms, kicking her legs, ducking her face into the sea.
Each time she took a breath, she sighted the boat, but she stayed on her original course, trusting her training to keep her on a straight line.
The wind would draw the boat off course, moving away from its submerged captain.
Lead me to 'im, God. Don’t let him drown. Please.
Coming even with the boat, she ceased swimming and scanned the water for signs of the white shirt he’d been wearing. A wink of something white tickled the edge of her periphery. She whirled to her right just in time to see a shoulder sink out of view.
No!
Muriel dove underwater. She had to find him.
Save him. The salt stung her open eyes, but she pressed on.
A glimmer of white caught her attention.
She surged downward and clasped the man’s arm.
Thank the Lord! Hauling him to her, she positioned his back against her chest, wrapped an arm across his torso beneath his arms, then kicked for the surface.
He offered no assistance, but the ocean gave them added buoyancy, and after a final, powerful kick, Muriel broke through and drew in a deep breath.
No such breath echoed from the man in her arms.
Get him to shore. Ye can get him breathin’ again if ye get him to shore.