We'll make the point first.

If it does thunder, summer storms don't last." He paddled harder and a small white wave lapped the canoe's bows.

The sky was getting dark, and now the lines that streaked the lake were white, but the wind was astern and they were going fast.

The glimmering reflections had vanished and the rocks ahead rose sharply from the leaden water.

The point was some distance off, but Lister knew he must reach it soon.
A flash of forked lightning leaped from the sky and touched the lake, there was a long, rumbling peal, and then a humming noise began astern.
Angry white ripples splashed about the canoe and lumps of hail beat Lister's head.