From far off there came a low sound, something like the moaning of a large animal in pain.

It grew louder and closer, and with it came an advancing wall of water crested with white foam.

The sky, too, grew black, and air filled with a sort of sulphurous smell.
"It's a thunder squall," shouted Tubby, as Merritt shoved over the lever and started the engine.
As he spoke there came a low growl of thunder and the sky was illumined with a livid glare.
"Here she comes!" yelled Merritt; "better get out those slickers or we'll be soaked." Tubby opened a locker and produced the yellow waterproof coats.

The boys had hardly thrust their arms into them before the big sea struck them.

Thanks to Tubby's steering, however, the Flying Fish met it without shipping more than a few cupfuls of water.
The next minute the full fury of the storm enveloped the Boy Scouts and the Flying Fish was laboring in a heaving wilderness of lashed and tumbling water.
"Keep her head up!" roared Merritt, above the screaming of the wind and the now almost continuous roar and rattle of the thunder.