The Atlantic is an unforgiving entity. It is, in truth, a wrathful God who seeks to destroy those who love it best.
Cross has been witness to this harsh truth for centuries. Early into the twentieth century, a group of sailors on leave from Boston decided to take a pleasure cruise along the coast near the mouth of the Cross River.
It was a poor decision.
The sea had been rough for the better part of three days, and it had tossed larger, more seaworthy vessels onto the shore. Our life-saving station had been busy, and only a handful were still able to man their posts. I was there as a favor to a cousin, hoping that we would not be called out. I have no great love for the sea, nor does it have any for me.
My hopes were dashed, of course, as easily as the sailors against the rocks beneath the waves.
What hellish creature upended their small craft, I do not know. Considering the wounds I saw on the survivors and the bodies we were able to recover, I count myself lucky in not having seen it.
Of the nine sailors who took their little trip that day, only four survived, and each of them was wounded. We recovered the bodies of two others, and some of the parts for three more.
When I asked if anything had predicated the attack, the answer was a unanimous ‘no.’ They had been sailing, and then they were fighting for their lives.
I went down to the beach a short time later and stood there, trying to determine what happened. As I pondered the situation, a head tumbled out of the waves. The eyes had been torn out, and I understood the message perfectly well.
It was time to go home while I still could.
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