He saw her hanging onto a tree, her body buffeted like a rag doll by the intense wind and pelting rain.

Can I get to her? he wondered. She's going to let go and be swept under by the water at any moment.

Don drove his Ram to the highest spot he could find, and stopped, without turning off the engine. The water still covered the wheels. He picked up the binoculars he had in the glove compartment and focused them on her. She saw his vehicle. The look of total despair on her face suddenly reflected a glimmer of hope.

I have to try, he decided. Best to get as close to her with the truck as I can. I hope this Dodge can swim.

The hurricane had already hit the Outer Banks of North Carolina with thirty-foot waves, causing extensive flooding, destroying homes, flipping cars, uprooting trees, and cutting power. And now he knew it was moving directly toward them.

Surprising to him, he was able to drive right up to her. But the water pressure prevented him from opening the passenger side of the truck, or his door. He rolled down the passenger side window and screamed at her. She couldn't hear, and continued to hold onto the tree for dear life.

Don unfastened his seat belt and moved over to the passenger side, extended his arms through the window and yelled as loud as he could, "Take my hands, I'll pull you through the window!"

She let go of the tree and reached for him, but lost her footing and began to slide under the water. But he grasped her by her long red hair just as she almost totally submerged. Slowly, he pulled the gasping young woman up and they locked hands, and he struggled to pull her through the window. He did, all but her feet.

His head hung out the driver's side window as she lay on top of him, with her feet still out the window. She clung to him fiercely, her body trembling spasmodically. Not knowing what else to do, he petted her hair like he did to his golden retriever, Mable.

She sobbed, and it seemed as if her entire body made gurgling noises.

Her black blouse had been torn partially open. No bra. He wondered if she could feel his building erection. Finally he spoke. "Good thing you're skinny, miss, or I never would have been able to pull you through the window." Yes, a little skinny, but very pretty, he concluded, despite her disheveled appearance. He gazed into her bright blue misty eyes, and wiped some sort of sea slime from her sparsely freckled cheek.

"I thought I was going to die," she moaned sorrowfully. "You saved my life."

"We are not out of danger. The worst of the storm is yet to come."

"Maybe, but I feel a whole lot safer with you than I did a few minutes ago."

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Mable."

"You're not serious, are you?"

She laughed lightly, color beginning to come back to her face. "No, but you called me Mable when you petted me. Is that your wife or your dog?"

Now he laughed. "Well, whatever your name is, you are getting very heavy lying on me like this. And your waterlogged clothes are not helping matters much."

"They call me Skippy." She struggled to get her feet in the window, and as she did, the last button on her shirt ripped loose. "Uh... sorry. Am I hurting you, squirming like this?"

"Your knee is in my crotch, Skippy. Other than that I'm fine," he managed to say in as much of a monotone voice as he could, trying to look away from her breasts, most of which he could see. Just the size I like. The kind that stare you in the face, daring to be sucked. "Got milk?" he wanted to ask at that moment. And more than just ask. He fantasized about finding out for himself. His wife hadn't let him see her breasts, or anything else, for quite some time.

Finally Skippy got herself in a sitting position in the passenger seat. "What's your name?"

"Don."

"I'll call you Donald. You look like a Donald. I bet you like computers." She smiled, glancing at the desktop and discs sitting on the backseat of the cab.

"Whatever you say, Skippy. Yes, I do like computers. I'm glad to see you are recovering rapidly. Uh... what in the world were you doing out here?"

"I'm a senior at a Christian college outside of Philadelphia. I was attempting to make it down the coast to my parents' home in Florida. They are elderly but refuse to evacuate. I wanted to be with them. I'm adopted but they are the only mother and father I've ever known."

"You shouldn't have taken this highway," he chastised. "Too close to the ocean. Didn't you notice there were no other cars on the road? And who gave you a name like Skippy?"

"Yes, Donald, I did notice there was nobody on the road but me. My car stalled out in the water. I started to walk. It got worse." Skippy began to cry.

"It's okay, honey," Don consoled, putting his arm around her, trying to avoid looking at her right breast that peeked inviting out of the open blouse.

"What are we going to do now?" she asked softly.

She looked so innocent and vulnerable. "Find some place to ride the storm out. I have a cottage about a mile back. On a little hill. The water hasn't reached it yet, at least not a half hour ago. I went up to get my computer equipment. Didn't want to take the chance of it getting wet. On the weekends I often come up here to work on my novel. I wish I would have brought some plywood to board the windows, and sandbags to bolster the foundation. Oh, well."

Skippy put her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes, and prayed in barely a whisper.

It took an hour to get to the cottage. He drove slower and slower as the water level got higher and higher.

"Here it is," he murmured as he drove up the dirt trail to the cottage. The water had almost reached the front steps.

"We'll be safe here until the storm subsides?" she asked hopefully.

"Perhaps. But we can't go anywhere else now. The surge hasn't hit here yet. A couple hours, I would suspect, judging by the weather reports I heard on the radio."

"What will the surge be like?"

"Somewhere around seven to ten feet of storm surge, and waves of another twelve feet or so will ride atop the surge."

"Oh my God! We're going to die!"

"Skippy, let's just go inside." He took the computer equipment from the back of the truck, to put it back inside. "It'll be safer in the cottage. And so will we. This could be the last I see of my new Dodge Ram."

The outside of the old stone cottage reminded Skippy of a church she once attended. But smaller, of course. The inside impressed her even more. Sleeping loft, red brick floors, cast-iron stove, a little refrigerator.

"I like this place," she offered approvingly.

"So do I." He agreed, pleased with her response. "Fond memories. My parents used to come out here to get away from all the city hassle." But my wife doesn't like it here, he mused to himself. No shopping. No neighbors. The last thing she would want is to be alone with me. "My grandfather built this cottage about a hundred years ago. I like to take care of it. For him."

"I'm sure he would appreciate that, Donald. The tag is sticking up on your T-shirt. It looks geeky." She tucked it in from behind as she pressed up against his backside gently. Skippy's touch made him feel connected to her in a way, without really knowing her. Her lingering fingers played with his hair in back. "You need a haircut, Donald." She spun him around. And then kissed him on the cheek. "And you saved me. I'm your slave for life."

He loved the way she said "Donald." She made it sound like they were intimate. Skippy looked like a little girl, standing there with the wet, stringy hair, no makeup, and soaked clothes. Such sad, big blue inquisitive eyes.

"The bathroom is over there." He pointed.

Skippy hurried off. "How did you know I had to pee?" she asked upon her return. He just shrugged. "You even have a washer and dryer, Donald," she observed. Can I throw my clothes in the dryer?"

"The power is out."

"Oh yeah, I forgot."

"I don't have any extra clothes here, either. I'll put some logs in the fireplace, and start it. Candles. I have candles, too. Actually, I have a hurricane survival kit. Ten gallons of drinking water, flashlights, extra batteries, waterproof matches. Oh, I do have rainwear." He fetched the yellow full rain suit and showed it to her. "Heavy-weight ribbed PVC fabric with soft polyester lining."

"I'm wet, not cold. No way am I wearing that thing! I'd sweat to death. But I'd really like to get these wet clothes off. I could take them off and hang them by the fire. Would you mind?"

"Huh?" Is she asking what I think she's asking? he wondered.

"If I take my clothes off? I'll leave my panties on. Is that going to bother you?"

"Uh... no... I guess not. No, not at all."

"Turn your head, please. Doing a striptease wouldn't be appropriate." He did. "You can look now." He did. "Hey, Donald, just pretend this is a topless beach, okay?" Sometimes I think I look like a guy."

Don tried not to obviously stare at her ripe luscious melons when his eyes returned to her body. He lowered his lusting eyes to her discarded clothing on the floor. "Would you like something to drink? Besides the water, I have some juice and soda in the frig. Tropicana strawberry orange and Diet Pepsi, as I recall."

"Do you have any booze?"

"You drink? I thought you went to a Christian college?"

"I do. But if I'm going to die today, I don't think the Lord would mind if I had a little wine for thy stomach's sake. 1 Timothy 5:23, 'Use a little wine for your stomach's sake.' My stomach is all tied up in knots."

"I have a bottle of 2002 Rulo Columbia Valley Viognier." He found it after rummaging through the cupboards, and poured them each some in coffee cups.

"This is good!" she complimented, after a little taste.

"Yes, lush and refreshing, with flavors of citrus zest and honeysuckle. The aroma gives you peaches, pineapple and orchid petals."

"My first drink. And maybe my last. There are so many things I haven't done." She started to cry again.

"Skippy, don't cry. Please don't cry. You'll be fine. We'll be fine."

She wiped the tears from her eyes. "I wonder if you'll say that when this hurricane huffs and puffs, and blows your cottage down. And we drown. Oh my dear God, we are going to die!" And she cried even louder, and began to tremble.

I have to take her mind off this. She's getting hysterical, he realized. "Skippy, would you like something to eat? Texturally, this wine works well with lemongrass-poached Alaskan halibut, with artichoke-fennel salad and blood-orange beurre rouch."

"Why yes, that does sound good," she said softly, cheering up a bit. "I'm simply famished! I love seafood. My mother makes a mean poached salmon with mushrooms, tarragon, and cream."

"Uh... sorry to say, all I really have at the moment is canned food. But, there is salmon."

"That will be fine, Donald."

"You'll have to eat it cold. No power, remember?"

"No problem."

Don found a can opener and prepared the salmon in a bowl. "Cold canned vegetables, anyone?" he asked. She shook her head, indicating no. He handed the bowl to her.

Skippy took a pillow from the bunk bed, threw it on the floor, and sat with her back up against the wall. What a picture she painted for him, legs spread, in just panties, sitting there eating the salmon, and drinking the wine from the cup. Don started the fire and hung up her clothing. The fire began to rage, as did his hard-on. He motioned to the two chairs in the room.

"I like the floor. You know, this canned salmon isn't too bad," she commented between bites, "when you're starving. Donald, what exactly causes hurricanes?"

Don patiently explained to her that a hurricane is a band of thunderstorms, spiraling in toward the center, which is called the eye. It functioned like a giant machine, converting the heat energy of the ocean water into high winds. He expounded on and on about cirrostratus clouds and such, and how a Gulfstream IV jet flies circles above the storm and releases foot-long cylinders called dropwinsondes that, tracked by global-positioning satellites, beam data to computers aboard the jet which is relayed back to forecasters on the ground.

"Are you a meteorologist or something, Donald?"

"No, Skippy, just a person who has acquired a little knowledge of the subject, in order to save his skin."

"Well, mister, you sure saved mine!"

"I hope that's not a premature conclusion."

She started to lament ruefully again. "Oh, God! We're going to die! You just don't want to tell me!"

"No, no, Skippy. We'll get through this. You'll see. This stone cottage is very solid. If the water comes in, we can go up in the loft. The water will never get that high." She had finished the salmon. "How about a Kellogg's Krave snack bar? The ecstasy of chocolate sinfully embracing the nutrition, minerals, calcium, and protein."

"Oh, yeah! Ecstasy, I like the sound of that. You should make a commercial."

"Somebody already did. That's what it says." He handed her one. She unwrapped it slowly and began to nibble seductively on the end. Oh my God! Is she teasing me?

"Are you sure, Donald? That the water won't get that high?"

"Death and taxes are the only certainties in this world," he muttered somberly. And the fact that my wife has lost all interest in sexual relations, he lamented to himself. Go to work, pay the bills, mow the grass, take out the dog--that's the story of my life.

"Death? Oh God, oh God, I don't want to die! Not yet. There are too many things I want to do." She started to convulse again, tears streaming from her deep blue eyes like the heavy rain now falling.

"Skippy, Skippy, Skippy," he whispered, sitting beside her, and putting his arm around her again.

"Donald, let's do something," she suggest, stifling her sniffling. "To take our mind off the hurricane. That big wave will hit soon. You said so."

"Yes, I suppose it will. What would you like to do? Play pinochle?" My wife likes to play pinochle, he reflected, much better than she likes to have sex with me.

"Isn't that the French version of strip poker?" A mischievous grin briefly crossed her impish face. "I'm already mostly naked."

Yes, the French version, and then you lick all the exposed parts, he wanted to say, but all he could manage was, "Uh... no... uh..."

"I'm joking. But I feel so tense. About the hurricane. I'm a bundle of jagged nerve endings. Look, I have goose pimples!"

Two big pimples, he assessed silently, the pointy, large tips of your nipples remind me of twenty-two shells, my little lovely one. "Skippy, could I ask you a very, very personal question?"

"Donald, you can ask me anything, and I'll tell you the truth. Promise. You saved me from drowning. I don't know how much longer I could have hung onto that tree."

"Anything?"

"Yes, anything. Read my lips."

I'd like to do more than read them, he thought as she tantalizingly bit her upper lip, and displayed a fetching pout. "Are you a virgin, Skippy?" She raised her eyebrows. Oh, oh, he thought for a moment, I said the wrong thing.