The storm’s high seas and wind came on them faster than the captain was prepared for. A hefty man, planting his feet, he braced against the pitch and yaw of his tiny ship. His first mate, considerably smaller and lighter, skittered about trying to get his balance as each roll threw him about. The five passengers didn’t fare any better, much to the dismay of some that expected—no demanded—better treatment.
“Skipper,” the mate called and pointed as the squall cleared just enough for the captain to look where his buddy pointed and see what seemed an unexpected landfall and safety. An opening into a lagoon and island just beyond. Guarding the entry into those protected waters were two large clusters of jagged rocks (seeing them a more well-read man would have thought of Scylla and Charybdis) gnashing and grinding the waves in their teeth.
Pushing his ship futilely, unable to make way, the captain knew he couldn’t clear the rocks to get to that small piece of calm (little did his passengers know of the worn-out engines). The storm took them in its cruel hands, and a blast of rain scoured the deck as a rogue wave rolled the boat over, casting all aboard into the sea. Despite the courage and fearlessness of the crew, all knew they were lost.
As the wind and waves smashed them into the rocks and then washed the seven away from the little island… within minutes each was dragged under.
And there was no television series.