I was new to the camp. And I gathered from other people's conversations that so were most of them. I surveyed us. There were about ten others, maybe less, and I noted that Sarah Jones was one of them. I knew her name. We had been standing next to each other when the lifejackets were being given out, and as there were two short, we had to wait while they found the final pair, so we exchanged names. She seemed nice. Well, everyone seems nice.
I was stroking the flat dark wood running along the edge of the boat, and my eyes following the white crests of the waves as they undulated along, ever-moving, ever-peaceful. I have lived all my life by the sea, so the sea itself was no phenomenon. But I had always been wary of the deep seas. They had treacherous currents, said my uncle the fisherman. They had hideous monsters, said my grandfather the seafarer. They had so many dark secrets, unknown corpses in those black depths, said my brother, but he had an overactive imagination.
Now as I pondered on this, enjoying the fresh air, because cold miserable weather is one of my fortes, I heard a shout behind me.
"Storm!" cried the girl with the dark hair. She had a really nice voice, in fact if I had to describe in using real words (not 'nice') then I'd call it golden. Round and full.
My brain must've taken note of the word she spoke, for my eyes flicked up towards the sky. All I could see were some fluffy white clouds. I looked further. My uncle had taught me about clouds. Far on the horizon, where the sea met the sky and they merged into one in the fuzziness, loomed an army of heavy dark clouds. They didn't seem to be moving very fast, but they were as menacing as a man in a dark cloak, a silver knife glinting in his hand. In fact the sky seemed to be that menacing man, the folds of the clouds the folds of his cloak, and the sun tanning the fringes of the fluffy white clouds a luminous silver the glinting knife.
Some of the girls looked a bit worried, but the counselor just laughed.
"Won't reach us on this trip," he said.
"Unless we meet a strong current clawing us deeper into the ocean and it sucks us into the heart of a magnificent whirlpool compelling us under with an iron grip," I said unexpectedly, even to myself. I just come out with things. And I never do regret them.
The counselor laughed harder. "You've been reading too many horror stories," he said.
I frowned, and turned away from the starboard side of the boat. I'm not a kid.