The cliffs were close now. It had only taken Syrina ten minutes to haul the crates out of the hold and rig everything together, but she could feel the spray of the surf as it blew off the rocks. Birds wheeled above in the predawn glow, launching themselves from hidden nests in the gray rock. The dark tideline was still thirty hands above the surging water, and the waves heaved foam, b****y red in the dim light, halfway up the cliff. She was down to five minutes, tops. So much for luck.
Syrina secured the last knot on the rigged crates, pushed the tangle of boxes into the rolling froth, and followed it over the rail. Instantly, she knew she was in trouble. Her head went under, and she lost track of where the crates were, where the ship was, where the cliffs were, where she was. This close
