Catalina had spent much of her life ensconced in the thick, dusty books of her tutelage, and as such, never had the opportunity to experience an explosion of any sort with any kind of proximity. So when the next cannon ball tore through the main mast and skipped off the deck before striking the man in front of her and sending his body into the sea, she was amazed at the power of the concussion of air as the enormous projectile passed by. The displacement of which twisted her lungs and made Catalina involuntarily retch. Thousands of deadly wood splinters tore through the air in search of something soft to pierce. She wanted to duck but her world seemed oddly lacking in gravity, or a clearly defined sense of up and down for that matter, and instead her head lashed uncontrollably from one side to the other as wooden shrapnel pelted her.
Had she hit her head? Why was she unable to focus?
Catalina fought the nausea to see the huge main mast twisting free of the ship not twenty feet to her right. And though it occurred to her that she needed to roll or crawl away as it teetered above her, her ragged body was too wobbly to react. She could only keep still on her back and watch as the giant wooden cylinder broke free of the myriad of rigging that temporarily slowed its free fall and would soon become her tomb.
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