This is a story from a picture prompt on @HistoricalFiction. In five hundred words tell a story about it. Two salty mariners get into a tale-spinning match in a tavern.
"Ella Mae shuddered again as the surf lifted her, and I watched the inclinometer's needle rest on the stops, bracing myself and hugging the binnacle." Manley took a long draught from his pint. "I was sure we would capsize this time." He wiped the froth from his moustache and continued. "But, no sir, the fates had a different story for us."
"Pfff. I've been agin the stops many a time. Forty-five degrees ain't but a wee tilt." Athole drained the dregs and put up his hand, signalling the serving wench. "And you said this was a serious one."
"But Ella Mae's stops are at sixty degrees. The needle rested against the starboard one, and we continued to roll. I was near as damned riding astride the binnacle as she paused a long while before slowly beginning to right."
"Hah! Been in many like that out in the chuck. Ain't but a..." Athole paused as their new pints arrived, then he patted the wench's butt as she set them down, receiving his customary slap in return. He rubbed his cheek as he continued. "A ship'll take care of herself in a blow out there. It's only bein' close to land you need to be afeared."
"Aye, and that was the problem. The tossing had stirred up sediment in the fuel tanks, and the filters clogged one after another, keeping the engineer busy changing them to give us another few minutes of power to claw seaward before clogging again." He blew the excessive froth from the top of his fresh pint. "By this time, the seas and the swell had merged, and we were less than a cable off the rocks at Pachena Point."
"Now, that's serious." Athole nodded as he assessed his table mate. "So what did you do?"
"There was little we could. The engineer had exhausted our supply of spares, and he couldn't get the engine running again. I ordered the crew to deploy both bower anchors in an attempt to hold us off the rocks."
"Wise move."
"It was useless until much later. The combined seas were forty feet and more, changing the scope and dragging both anchors."
"So, you wrecked onto the rocks?"
"But for fate, we would have." Manley took a swig of his dark stout and paused. "You know how waves come in cycles of seven, each seventh being a major. Well, sir, all the sevenths coincided, and we were lifted and placed on the ledge beside the point."
"And then you were bashed around by the seas?"
"No, sir." He shook his head. "We were within half an hour of the low tide, and it bottomed as the storm abated."
"And you expect this malarkey to win you the rounds of drinks?"
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Manley pulled out a tattered photo. "Bit dark, but we shot this as we walked to the lighthouse to share a fine dinner with the keeper. We pulled ourselves off with the anchors on the next tide."
