A Ravel of Waters

by Geoffrey Jenkins

  As I temporized, my eye fell upon Thomsen's photograph of Jetwind. The towering aerofoil sails and streamlined masts had a stylized beauty all of their own. I remembered a similar strange exultation when I had first seen the Venetian Rig's reefing lines streaming contrary to the wind's direction — it had been a kind of mystic revelation of man's complete conquest of the wind.

  Thomsen waited for the kill now he saw he had me hesitating.

  'There'll be a lot of delays,' I added lamely. 'Air tickets to arrange, clearances, connections, and so on…'

  'Your seat is booked on the Aerolineas Argentinas Boeing leaving Cape Town for Buenos Aires tomorrow. From Buenos Aires you will fly to Comodoro Rivadavia in the south and onwards to the Falklands. You will have my full written authority to act as you think fit — fire anyone, hire anyone, bribe anyone. Only, for Pete's sake get going?

  Fatigue, they say, gives an extra dimension to perception. It was not only the challenge which influenced my decision. Jetwind would, I told myself, give me the vehicle to prove whether the awesome thing I had sighted among the wild waters of the Southern Ocean was real, or the substance of shadows, a lone sailor's hallucination. 'I'll do it,'I said.

  Chapter 6

  Dinner began with champagne and ended with a telephone call.

  Whether or not Sheila had anticipated that there would be something to celebrate as a result of Thomsen's meeting with me, I am not sure, but certainly the meal was a treat I might have dreamed about when chewing ship's biscuits and raisins in Albatros's cockpit. Thomsen made handsome amends to Sheila for his earlier unsociableness towards her, blaming it on his anxiety to sign me up for Jetwind. I was reminded of my earlier impression of people being drawn to him like filings to a magnet. Certainly Sheila warmed under his charisma. We drank to Jetwind's success; in our euphoria we toasted the new golden age of sail. Suddenly Thomsen put down his glass and eyed me. ‘Peter’ he said. 'You've overlooked a most important aspect-pay.' 'Frankly,1 never thought of it.'

  'I believe money is important. What do you expect to be paid?' 'I've no idea. I don't know what the job's worth.' 'There is no real yardstick for this. It's a one-off job — special.'

  'Short-term, too — you want me at Gough in a week, then another week or so after that to Cape Town.'

  He shed his affability like a shirt. 'Don't think that if you reach Gough on schedule you can coast home to the Cape. The last leg is shorter. Your service speed is to be twelve knots — that means under a week from Gough.' 'The shorter the time, the shorter my pay, it seems.'

  'On the contrary, the quicker you make it, the more I pay.' 'What do you suggest?'

  'I will pay you five thousand dollars a day to flog the hide off Jetwind. For every day under a week you reach Gough, there'll be a bonus often thousand dollars. For every day less than a week you take from Gough to Cape Town, you earn another five thousand dollars.' 'Either you're very reckless or very desperate.'

  'I have already gambled twenty million on Jetwind. Fm staking everything on you to put the project back into orbit. It's as simple as that. What are a few thousand dollars more?'

  We drank to it. Looking back on the occasion, I am inclined to think it was tension rather than alcohol which made Thomsen loquacious. He talked volubly all through the meal about the velocities, angles and forces acting on a sailing ship; the equilibrium of those forces; the aerodynamic performance of Jetwind's rig and the hydro-dynamic performance of her hull. He dilated on side forces and thrust components; the damping effect of the sea-way motions of a sailing ship compared to power. He even got to sketching rough graphs and jotting down constellations of algebraic symbols. It was all too esoterically technical for me; Don looked owlish; Sheila smiled a fixed hostess smile.

  As Thomsen brought his dissertation to an end, he began a barrage of phone calls to London, New York, Buenos Aires, Cape Town. He seemed to be issuing orders in every direction concerning Jetwind. Finally, he became flushed and angry at not being able to raise Port Stanley.

  All I craved was sleep. I said my farewells. Don motored me to the jetty where I had moored Albatros's dinghy. He and Sheila had tried to persuade me to stay overnight with them. Finally Thomsen accepted the guest room which had been prepared for me. He and Don were to call for me early and Thomsen and I would fly to Cape Town.

  I rowed out to Albatros. As I reached the yacht, my hackles rose. One does not spend a month alone in a boat, listening to every creak of its structure, without being able to sense a change on board. In a flash I knew I was not alone.

  The intruder was hidden by the cockpit overhang on the starboard side, which housed Albatros's rather elementary instrument panel. I took a heavy pin from the rail and vaulted inboard. The man spun round and faced the improvised weapon.

  'If you've any ideas of souvenir hunting, forget it’ I rapped out. 'Get below! I mean to have a look at you!'

  The first thing I was aware of was the American accent. 'These instruments are Rube Goldberg stuff. What about critical sailing angles, optimum course, speed made good?' 'What's that to you?'

  'I would have expected that sort of thing, after this boat's track record.'

  'Half of those instruments don't work any more. They drank too much Southern Ocean.'

  My eyes were adapting to the darkness. My visitor was shorter than me, but square and stocky. His dark hair, cut unfashionably short, was brushed back from the temples, his chin was as square as his powerful shoulders, and heavy brows completed the impression of determination and strength. He wore a dark, tight-fitting sweat-shirt and sneakers.

  He seemed quite unconcerned about the fact that he was a trespasser. 'I don't understand the downwind performance of the Venetian Rig…' he began.

  'You don't have to, until we've sorted out why you're on board my boat. Below! That door's not locked. Switch on the left.' 'Okay,' he replied. 'My question will keep till later.'

  He did as I said. The cabin had a welcome, familiar deep-sea smell.

  My captive looked round. 'The guy who designed this must have been either a pinch-gut or a monk.'

  He didn't look like a petty thief to me. I liked his easy laugh, as if he knew in advance that he would be exculpated. Humour ran from his mouth up into his brown eyes.

  He held out his hand. 'I'm Paul Brockton. Boy, I thought the America Cup Twelves were pretty stark below, but this!' He indicated the cell-like spartan scantlings. 'I thought you would have taken up a crash-pad ashore rather than sleep here any more.'

  I said, although now I wasn't convinced of my accusation, 'Is that why you took the opportunity to sneak aboard my boat?'

  He smiled and shook his head. 'I've been waiting for you for about half an hour. If I'd wanted, I could have cased the whole boat and got the hell out again, and you'd never have been the wiser.'

  Somehow, I believed him. He faced me with a half smile and a slight lift of his left eyebrow. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Paul Reveres. I noted the ripple of powerful muscle under the close-hugging fabric.

  'Listen, Brockton’ I said. ‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. I've had people on my neck all day; I'm dead beat. I want some sleep, and I intend to get it. What do you want? Say it quickly.' 'I want your story and that of Albatros9 'You a newspaper-man?'

  'No. American yachting journal — the Deep Sea Sailer. I'm looking for an exclusive.'

  'You reporters all are. There's nothing new left to be told. Albatros's record is on the board now. That's all there is to it, even for the experts who may read Deep Sea Sailer.’

  'There's always something hew if you know the right questions to ask.'

  'I don't intend to answer any questions, however clever. Nor do I intend to be interviewed. When I came aboard I intended to make myself a cup of coffee before turning in. You can stay and share it, if you wish.'

  'I'll do more than that. I'll make it, if you'll tell me where things are.' He got the gas going and I sat on a locker seat.

  'You didn't
come from America to write up Albatros› I said. 'What's behind your visit, Brockton?'

  He fiddled wtih cups and sugar. 'The big story was, of course, Jetwind. I flew out to cover her arrival in Cape Town. The record attempt has aborted, as you may have heard. So logically Albatros was the next best.' 'I heard about Jetwind — tonight,'

  He was very acute and tried to milk the line. 'Why.. tonight?' *I had dinner with Jetwind's owner, Axel Thomsen.'

  'I noticed him around during the day. I wondered what he was doing in Knysna. Pity. Jetwind had the makings of a winner.' 'She's faster than those America Cup Twelves you mentioned.' 'Who says?'

  'Thomsen. On paper she is, at any rate. Wind-tunnel tests proved it.’

  'Is that a fact? I was aboard Courageous and Independence when they worked out off Marblehead back in 76. They were engaged in a trial horse contest one against the other in preparation for the Cup. If you want to see every goddam thing optimized and then re-optimized, take a look inside an America Cup Twelve.'

  'None of them could do twenty-two knots in a Force Nine gale — especially in the Southern Ocean. Jetwind can.'

  Brockton contemplated me. 'I've sailed with skippers like Ted Turner of Courageous and Lowell North of Enterprise and if ever there are guys who can extract the last hundredth of a knot out of a hull, it's an America Cup skipper. They are refined, highly sophisticated machines, those Twelves.' 'And therefore unsuited to the Southern Ocean.' 'Could be.'

  'With a gale on her quarter or beam, Jetwind is probably the fastest sail-powered hull ever to figure on the high seas.'

  'By contrast, a Twelve is relatively slow downwind,' he answered. 'You have to tack 'em at critical angles for best performance.' Brockton screwed up his eyes. 'You seem pretty sold on Jetwind, Peter. You wouldn't think you'd just proved that the Venetian Rig is the fastest rig afloat.'

  ‘Albatros is a yacht, Jetwind is a ship,' I answered. 'That's the difference — Paul,' I added, taking him up on his use of first names. Perhaps I wanted to psych myself into believing in Jetwind because deep down I was not sure of her true capabilities.

  Brockton whipped the milk off the stove to prevent it from boiling over.

  'If you look in the for'ard locker, there's a bottle of Navy rum,' I said. 'It helps the coffee.'

  He found the bottle, unscrewed the cap and sniffed. 'Boy, that sure is nanny-goat sweat.'

  We laughed about it. Brockton had an easy man-to-man way.

  'Keeps the icebergs down south at a respectable distance,' I remarked.

  He brought the steaming mugs and put them in front of us on the swivel table.

  'From what I hear, "down south" are the operative words for Albatros — you kept much further south than is customary.'

  'Customary? What is customary any more, Paul? What some old windjammer did, or what modern techniques dictate?'

  I noted that I was echoing Thomsen. Perhaps Jetwind made one think like that.

  'You sure stuck your neck out in a little craft like this — what was your track?' he asked.

  I got up and pulled a metal object from a locker. I handed it to Brockton. 'First, take a look at that. Life harness hook from Albatros's cockpit. See how it's straightened out? A wave did that.'

  He weighed the heavy hook in his hand and shook his head. 'And you?'

  'When the hook gave up, I went overboard. The next wave scooped me up and deposited me neatly back in the cockpit.' 'Congratulations to your guardian angel.' 'That's what happens — down south,' I replied.

  'Sometimes, maybe.' He brought me back to the subject of Albatros's track. 'Show me where this happened.'

  As I got out my track chart, I wondered further about Brockton. If this was eliciting information, the extraction process was certainly painless.

  He pored over the chart for some minutes before he asked, 'What made you choose such an unusual course? It disregards the Great Circle route between Cape Horn and the Cape.'

  'Wind,' I answered. 'I had to have wind, plenty of it, all the time. Plus a current that would add speed to Albatros. I went north about the Falklands on a favourable slant, cut through the Jasons to use the tide-rips…' 'Jeez! The Jasons!'

  'That's the second time I've heard that exclamation tonight. Thomsen said the same thing.'

  'It takes a sailor to know what it means. And you also disregarded the biggest hazard of all — ice?' 'Ice isn't so hazardous if you keep a sharp look-out.'

  'One man can't keep a sharp look-out for twenty-six days on end. You had to sleep sometimes.' 'Sometimes’ I echoed. 'You'd never have made it in winter-time.'

  'It's still summer down there. The bergs drift continually in the general direction of Gough. The warmer the seas, the smaller they grow.'

  He pointed again at the chart. He was close to me; he was sweating. Even Navy rum doesn't act that quick. I froze when I saw the place he indicated. It was about 600 sea-miles southwest of Gough. 'What took you here?'

  He was watching me closely. 'Wind’ I answered curtly. 'I went where the best winds blew.'

  'Did you choose this course yourself, or was it Weather Routed?' I resented his probing.

  'I sail by what I feel’1 replied offhandedly. 'Not by what some boffin halfway across the world tells me what the weather should be where I am.' 'Are these exact day-to-day fixes marked on the chart?'

  'No. They were by guess and by God.' The relaxed air had gone out of our talk. 'At the point you're interested in I hadn't had a proper sight for a week.'

  'Ah!' The remark might have meant something. He followed it with a large gulp of rum-laced coffee.

  His next query was phrased carefully. 'The area where my magazine considers a story may lie is in your inner reaction to such a long voyage alone. A study in depth, so to say, of the mind of the lone sailor.'

  Did Brockton know — or suspect — anything of my secret that he should have pinpointed the place where it had happened? How could he, I asked myself. There had been no witnesses, not one for a thousand miles. I told myself I was becoming unnecessarily sensitive. Nevertheless, I decided to fob Brockton off.

  'Listen, Paul, I said. 'As far as I'm concerned there isn't a story in lone sailor soul-searching. If you're looking for a hard news story, the Jetwind record attempt is on again. I am her hew captain. Thomsen offered me the job tonight. Tomorrow I fly to Buenos. Aires from Cape Town, and then on to the Falklands.'

  My earlier inner questionings about Brockton were revived by his over-kill reaction to my news. He gave me an all-American grin and pump-handled me. 'Boy, what a scoop! This'll lick the ass off the other reporters sitting back in Cape Town playing crap games to pass the time of day!' 'I thought you wrote for the Deep Sea Sailer?

  'Not only,' he replied. 'A small outfit like that couldn't afford to fly me out to the Cape.'

  He seemed to take a sudden hold on himself, as if aware of his over-reaction, and went on in his previous manner to which I had been attracted. 'Peter, I'm glad for your sake. If any man can make it, you will. Nevertheless, to reach Gough from the Falklands in a week is one hell of a tall order. But you're the man to put the Jetwind project back in orbit. I'd like to be able to tell the world about it as it takes place.' 'What do you mean?'

  'Take me along in Jetwind. From what I hear she's got plenty of spare passenger accommodation. A day-by-day write-up of her progress will put the public back on Thomsen's side. You're still riding the crest because of Albatros's run. The two go together, news-wise.' He slipped the question — it was only later that I remembered it. 'I guess you'll be taking the same route as in Albatros’

  I must have nodded agreement, but primarily I was considering whether Jetwind could afford'a supernumerary aboard like a reporter.

  I sensed his tenseness and attributed it to anxiety regarding my decision.

  'Right — you can come, if you can wangle a seat aboard the plane tomorrow night. If you can't, it's off. I won't wait.'

  He laughed and said enthusiastically, Tm damn sure you won't, Peter. Yo
u'll get that flier moving the moment you step aboard.' 'I hope so.' 'Meaning?'

  'This is off the record,' I said, and I gave a brief outline of Captain Mortensen's death, the so-called arrest of the ship, and Grohman's discussions on the mainland.

  Brockton stood abstracted until I reminded him, 'You've got a lot of hard talking to do on the phone tonight, Paul, if you're to tag along with me — first, for a connection to Cape Town in the morning and, more important, on Aerolineas Argentinas tomorrow night.'

  'Nothing is going to stop me being aboard those planes tomorrow — nothing,' he asserted. 'I'll be sitting waiting here on the jetty first thing with my bags.'

  He started to leave, then came back and said, with such undisguised sincerity and warmth that I was glad I had decided to take him on, 'Peter, you've given me a big, big break. Bigger than you can guess. Maybe I'll be able to tell you about it some day. It's more than I ever expected when I came aboard tonight. Remember that, will you?'

  Chapter 7

  I dreamed that Jetwind was tearing out of control towards a monster iceberg. Her masts were without sails: a great wind was hurling her along by thrust on the stream-lined yards alone. Inside the bridge a computer was flashing and chattering insanely, 'wind-tunnel negative, wind-tunnel negative'. Then the dial would clear itself and begin all over again in a kind of frenetic repeat print-out. The monster berg, steaming and ill-defined, filled the entire horizon — it had the evil menace of a nightmare. I heard the pitch of the gale change; Jetwind accelerated; I awoke in a sweat.

  The air-brakes of the Boeing 747 of Aerolineas Argentinas were on; it was their sound that had penetrated my eight-hour sleep across the South Atlantic from Cape Town to Buenos Aires. Now, to find myself descending towards the great estuary of the River Plate in broad sunlight — we had taken off from Cape Town after midnight, in a blustery southeaster — had in itself the quality of a waking dream. Beyond the plane's window on my right I spotted the luxury resort of Ciudad de Punta del Este where I had tied up in Albatros when staging south to Cape Horn: the lighthouse with its tall, round, white masonry tower was unmistakable. The sight of it again, with sleep still fogging my senses, made me wonder whether the intervening six weeks' events had indeed taken place — Albatros, the record, Jetwind.