Trembling fingers clamped tightly onto my mother’s soaking sleeve. If she too was afraid she never let it show. Instead, with each of my screams she simply pulled me that little bit closer. In the bow, my father and sister huddled together, shielding us from the worst of the spray.
The stomach spinning dips and swales kept coming. Each fresh surge of frothing, freezing cold water threatened to sink our flimsy craft. All hope seemed lost.
Suddenly, mercifully, the raging water was becalmed. A bearded man reached out a wrinkled, scarred hand to pull me onto dry land.
Since that day, even being near the Log Flume brings me out in a sweat.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.