Close to the shore, she leaned against a thick old tree and watched the vessel near, recognising the two figures on it as Conchobhar and Brendán*, with the former calling directions to the latter from the prow, which she could now see bore the name Athchóirigh.
Although small for a fishing vessel, Sara had to admit that the vessel looked a bit large to make it into the inlet cave, but she watched silently as the vessel eased into the inlet and neared the gap that was the very discreet mouth of the cave.
Sara stepped to adjust her position, wanting to watch around the other side of the tree, but her feet shot from under her. She screamed, startled, sliding down the slope before she somehow was flipped over and tumbled down the remaining slope before she landed in the frigid water.
Immediately Sara flailed for the surface, but she couldn’t tell which way was up. She squeezed her eyes shut against the burn of the saltwater, even though she wished she could open them and be able to discern the direction she needed to head in.
Suddenly a strong arm seized about her and pulled her powerfully in the direction she’d been feeling like she ought to go in, she finally felt the water break over her head and opened her mouth to gasp in a big breath of air.
She stroked as much of the water as she could from her eyes, but some still got in and burned a little bit, preventing her from being able to see her rescuer, whose grip had loosened for a moment before tightening about her again and towing her across the water.
“Here Saraid!” Conchobhar called.
Her vision still blurry from tears seeking to wash the burning saltwater out, Sara struggled to make out a rope, but once she did, she grabbed it and started climbing until her hands brushed wood just as a strong hand grabbed her arm.
With her free hand she was able to find a rail and pulled herself up, letting the hand guide her over the side and onto a deck. She drew moisture from her eyes carefully to try and clear her vision. She could hear sounds of her rescuer clambering over the side.
“Here, use this,” Conchobhar said, handing Sara something dry.
She dabbed at her eyes and was able to clear them and see that she was sitting on the fishing vessel, and that a shirtless and soaked Brendán was using vigorous hands through his hair to shake excess moisture out of what now looked to be auburn locks.
Looking down at the dry material in her hands, Sara realised that Conchobhar had given her Brendán’s shirt to dry her eyes with.
Brendán strode over to her and used his shirt for the same purpose before springing onto the low, flat deck she was sitting on the edge of with a bound. Conchobhar had retaken his place at the prow, the small cargo of fish lay mostly still and gathered about the mast.
Pronunciation:
Brendán: brehnduhn
*to disguise his identity, Aodhán is using the alias of Brendán.
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