Denver Is Missing

by D. F. Jones

  “Karen!” His voice was practically unrecognizable. Before anyone could move, the high-pitched yell came again. “Karen!”

  We scrambled for the ladder, Karen first. It was an astonishing sight. Bill was pressed back against the after coaming, staring at the floor of the cockpit, his face twisted with anguish. “There.” He pointed, and if his hand was not shaking, it was not far from it. “See?”

  “Okay, Bill.” Karen was very calm. She bent down, cupped her hands over something. Bill looked away, his face wrinkled with disgust. Karen straightened up. “It’s all right now.” She spoke as if to a scared kid. “It’s all right!”

  Clearly the crisis was over. Embarrassed, Bette and I withdrew. Bette looked wide-eyed at me. “What was all that?”

  “Search me, honey.” We heard Karen banging about up forrard, then she came back, grinning at our expressions.

  “Bill’s the bravest guy I know, but he’s got one weakness —spiders.”

  “Spiders?”

  “Spiders,” she affirmed, adding unnecessarily, “he goes mad if he sees one.”

  “You mean he can’t even stamp on one, or bash it with something?”

  “Hell, it’s much worse than that! I have to catch them! There’s a special jar in the forepeak—I have to empty them ashore. He won’t hear of killing them.”

  “Well, I’m—”

  Karen grinned at me. “Now you know the real reason he has me around!”

  There was nothing fresh on the radio; not that that meant a thing. News was only going to be released when it was already widespread the hard way, that was for sure.

  So there we were, a good one hundred and fifty miles south of the Golden Gate and still going. Lunch was over, and Karen and I were doing the dishes. Bill, after consulting the barometer, pulled his nose thoughtfully, and joined Bette on deck. I was in a happy frame of mind, for when Bill had taken over, Bette and I were in line for an afternoon in the double bunk, a situation which, having got my sea legs, as you might say, I looked forward to considerably, even if it did leave me tired when we went on watch again at midnight. We finished the dishes, and Karen, who was theoretically on watch, started preparing supper. Bill hardly needed her help on deck, and this left her free to do most of the cooking, which pleased everybody.

  Getting a little impatient, I went on deck to see what was keeping Bette, and found them both deep in a nautical discussion. I took a few deep, appreciative lungfuls of air and looked around. I can, from time to time, contain myself.

  The wind had dropped a good deal and blew only fitfully. The sky was a little hazy, with a faint yellowish tinge. The sea was smooth as oil, disturbed only by that following swell.

  “You know, Bill,” I said, getting into the conversation, “I reckon that swell is a fraction less. What d’you think?”

  He looked at it with little interest. “Yes, you could be right.” The wind died momentarily, and the mainsail flapped loudly.

  I went on, “Guess we could do with some more wind!”

  “Don’t worry, Mitch. Unless I’m very much mistaken, we’ll get it by midnight.”

  His tone was not altogether what I could have wished. “You think we’re in for a gale?”

  He nodded. “Look at that sky, and the barometer’s going down like a lift!”

  “Come on, Mitch,” said Bette. “Let’s catch some sleep while we can.”

  We got to bed, and although sleep was not the first item on the agenda we were soon asleep.

  Karen shook us just before midnight. “Bill said to tell you to put on oilskins.”

  Well meant, but hardly necessary advice. The easy pitching had become a very pronounced corkscrew motion. The weather had changed.

  Chapter 14

  Hell is not red and hot; it is black and wet. At least, that is my opinion.

  Down below it was dark, noisy, and very lively. On deck it was the same only noisier and wet. Karen squeezed past me and went below. For two or three minutes we just hung on, waiting for our vision to adapt to the total blackness, the wind off the port quarter, screaming in the rigging and dashing warm spray down the backs of our necks. Gradually I began to see Bill’s outline, and moved over beside him.

  “Wind’s gone round to nor-nor-east, force six to seven. Hasn’t kicked up much of a sea yet, but it will, by morning!” He was close, shouting in my ear. “I’ve reefed down on the main, and set the storm jib. We’ll run before it for the night. Setting a bit more to seaward, but that doesn’t matter. If she tends to dig her nose in, get the jib off her. Lifeline’s rigged! Use it if you go forrard! Here, you take her!”

  I bawled back. “How about Bette?”

  He banged me on the back. “Take turns, it’s hard but simple work! Only thing you’ve got to avoid is jibing. Keep the wind on your quarter, and you’ll be all right!”

  “D’you think I’m good enough for this weather?”

  “What weather? Don’t worry, you’ll be okay, but if in doubt, shout out or shake me. I’ll be on the cushions in the saloon. I’ll give all this to Bette down below.”

  The doors shut and I was left on my own, nervous, but very honored by this show of confidence. I’d handled Mayfly a lot in the past two days, but not in this sort of weather. Holding the tiller was a full-time job. I hung on, one eye on the compass, the other on that mainsail, and prayed for the moon to rise.

  I’d have felt less honored had I known that Bill was telling Bette to conserve herself for later when he expected it to get a lot worse.

  Bette came up with a jug of coffee and a vacuum flask of it for later. This was where Bill’s old-maid attitude paid off. In one of the lockers there was a specially formed recess to take just this size flask, so that there was no question of it getting spilled. Bette took over while I drank, and I was surprised that I should be happy to take the helm back again afterward. It would be stretching it too far to say I was enjoying myself, but I wasn’t crying, either, especially with the heavily muffled Bette comfortingly close.

  Another hour passed and I was really working at it. It could be that I was getting tired, but I had the idea that the motion was more energetic, and that there was less spray and more solid water going down my neck.

  I grabbed Bette, hauled her close to me. “D’you think it’s getting worse?”

  “Yeah. Wind’s freshened, and the sea’s getting up! You happy?”

  “Sure, I’m okay.” More time passed; a watery moon rose, mostly hidden behind black, racing clouds. Bette took over for two hours, and I was very glad of the rest. By 4 A.M. I was not only tired, but beginning to get a mite worried. The wind howled and screamed and tore at us like a vast, malevolent creature, invisible and with a thousand hands. Mayfly was rolling and plunging, and every now and then she seemed to stagger slightly, and hesitate.

  “Okay, Mitch, get that harness on. Time to get the jib off her!”

  I shouted back, “D’you think we should call Bill?”

  Her wind-torn answer came back defiantly, “No!”

  I struggled into the stiff harness, clipped on, and made it up to the foredeck. Bette eased the jib sheet until the small triangular sail flew out over the bow, whip-cracking. It took an age to secure it, and I was completely soaked by the time I clambered back aft, but the yacht’s motion was a little easier. Around six-thirty there was enough light in the watery dawn to see the ocean. I had prayed for the dawn, but now I was not so certain.

  Gray-green water, heaved into gigantic waves, came endlessly at us from astern. A monster would appear out of the flying, stinging spume, roll menacingly and with awful speed toward us, spray whipping downwind off its crest, then, just as it seemed quite impossible that we should not be engulfed, Mayfly’s stem would lift, and we would be sliding on and down with the wave. Then the bow would rear skyward, to come plunging down, the whole boat shuddering with the impact. It was incredible that she did it at all, but Mayfly managed it quite easily untiringly, every minute.

  Only the arrival on deck of Bi
ll at seven saved me from giving way to my panic. Another half-hour and I’d have called him, regardless of Bette, which shows the state I was in.

  He flashed his indestructible grin, took in the wind, sea, and the state of things on deck, then motioned me below.

  Down there we could hear ourselves speak, just. “Rough night, Mitch?”

  I reckoned he should know. I’d only been down once, and found him sleeping happily on the deck, presumably on the basis that he couldn’t fall off anything down there.

  “Yeah,” I replied with admirable restraint. “You could say that—and it’s not getting any better.”

  “ ’Fraid it won’t, not yet awhile. It’s slowed down, but the glass is still falling. Must be a hell of a depression over Mexico! Any radio news?”

  “It’s hardly news, but they put out a gale warning an hour or so back—force eight to nine.”

  He grinned cheerfully. “I’d say we were up to eight now. How’s our course been?”

  “Maybe we’re a bit further west, we’ve been pretty careful about jibing.”

  Karen staggered in from forrard, pale and tired. “Bill, I can’t handle that galley. Everything’s jumping around, and any more of the smell of food, and I’ll be really ill.”

  Bill patted her on one of her more pattable parts. “Don’t fret, my dear. Get an oilskin on and go on deck. Fresh air’ll do you good. I’ll deal with breakfast.” He reverted to me. “Tell Bette I’ll relieve her in fifteen minutes.” Punctually, fifteen minutes later, he took over, shouted something unintelligible at us, and pointed at the saloon. I got the idea.

  Breakfast was tea and bacon sandwiches, eaten bad weather fashion, the tea made in a kettle, milk and sugar added as a compulsory extra, and suspended from the deck-head. The sandwiches were in a tin tray on a wet cloth—to stop it from sliding—on the deck. How he’d cooked at all was a mystery to me. We ate everything in sight and drank all the tea, and felt more human.

  “Any point in turning in, honey?”

  “Sure—why not? Anyway, we can’t just slide around this damn cabin all day.”

  “We won’t get much sleep.”

  “Who said we would? But we’ll do better wedged in the bunk.” She braced her legs against the opposite seat and struggled out of her top clothes. “Leave your wet stuff out here. We want to keep the sleeping cabin as dry as we can.”

  I stripped, stowed the wet gear in a drawer, and joined her. On deck it had been chill, but down below it seemed warm, and we just lay naked on the bunk.

  Bette was right about one thing; it was more restful, wedged there, but not much. Every time the bow lifted, we were pressed downward, then as the bow crashed down, we got a moment of near weightlessness. The deep retaining board kept us from rolling out, but even so, it was no rest cure.

  We lay there, listening to the endless crash and rush of water alongside. Less than an inch of wood stood between us and the blind, mindless fury of the sea….

  How long we had been there I don’t know, but for some time I had suspected the motion was getting worse, but what with Bette’s calm attitude and the fact that noise and motion on deck seemed different, I put it down to my overworked nerves. Now there was no doubt about it, and Bette agreed, if her painful, convulsive clutch was anything to go by.

  There was a horrible crash aft, louder than most, followed by a frightening lurch. The boat seemed to shoot forward. My head was pressed against the backboard.

  “Jesus, what was that?”

  Bette’s face was tense, alert. “Hold it, Mitch! Bill will sing out fast enough!”

  A few minutes later the sequence was repeated, the same horrible stagger, and the sound of rushing water. It was enough for me, and I clambered out.

  Karen staggered in, her black hair plastered down, water streaming down her face. I doubt if she even noticed I was nude.

  “Bill wants you on deck!” She gasped, paused to push her hair back, turned and left.

  I scrambled into some pants and a jersey, nearly frantic to get out of that cabin. In the saloon, water sloshed around my ankles, and as I made the ladder, the heart-stopping process was repeated, water cascaded down. I gasped with cold and fear.

  It was a wild scene on deck. Looking back, I know very well the seas were not “mountainous,” but a thirty-foot wave of endless length, viewed from below, looks a lot worse than most mountains I know. As I stared in horror, we sank down into valley, all around the gray-green white-veined slopes of fast-moving hills; then we were sliding, as it seemed, sideways up a vast incline. On top I glimpsed an endless waste of rolling, tumbling water, and then we were sliding down again….

  Bill, his body rigid, legs braced, looked as if he was carved out of granite. I leaned into the wind, and clawed my way to him. He was soaking, water slid down his face, drops formed on his nose, only to be instantly blown away. He beckoned me closer.

  “Getting a bit wet! We’ll have to heave to! Get Bette and Karen on the pump, then stand by here. Want you to tend the jib when we come round—harness—okay?”

  I passed his orders, spray like bullets stung my face as I got back on deck, and hastily slammed the doors.

  I prefer not to think too often about the next few minutes. I got forward, ready to let fly the jib, and hung on, almost unable to breathe in all the flying stinging water.

  Bill chose his moment with care. As we reached the summit of a gigantic roller and my end began to rear skyward, he put the helm hard over. We slipped down the slope, turning slowly. I knew enough about sailing to know this was the moment. If we got caught now, broadside on by a breaking sea, that would be the end….

  We glissaded down and down. Life slipped into slow motion. At the bottom of the trough we were no more than halfway round, and already the next fantastic wave was advancing remorselessly. We began to rise. I could see the crest thundering toward us, glass-green and white, dimpled and slashed by the wind. Still turning, we heaved up the slope. I wanted to shut my eyes, and couldn’t. I clung to the mast desperately. Surely we’d never make it!

  But just as the crest hit us, I realized that while we were not bow on, we were a lot better than broadside to the sea. Mayfly staggered, water foamed diagonally across her. I lost sight of Bill in sheets of broken water, foam. The yacht laid over to an impossible angle; then very, very slowly, came back, white water cascading off her. Bill was waving. With cold, sodden hands I tore at the jib’s lashing.

  It thundered free, and I got out of the way as Bill sheeted it home.

  I made the hideous journey aft. Bill grinned, and pointed to the saloon.

  Karen was in the saloon, half on, half off the settee, holding on. Bette was crouched in the head, pumping steadily. As soon as she saw me, she stopped pumping.

  “You take over while I take a look at Karen!”

  It was no time for questions and I got pumping. The motion was much better. Spray still thundered down on the cabin top, but there was no water coming down the ladder, and those paralyzing lurches had ceased, but the movement was still like a crazy big dipper, plus. Fairly sure we’d cleared the worst, I went to see what had happened to Karen. She had lost her grip and slipped as we turned, spraining her ankle. Bette applied a cold compress, getting the wet cloth for free from the deck. It took both of us to get Karen into the sleeping cabin. There we got her holding the bunk and stripped off her jersey. Bette sent me for the first-aid scissors. “We’ll have to cut these jeans off!”

  “My jeans,” wailed Karen, worried about her scanty wardrobe.

  “Never mind your blasted jeans! You’ll get saltwater sores on your ass if they stay on—and that bunk’s going to be the only dry spot on this boat for some time!”

  I guessed which point weighed most heavily with Bette. She took the scissors. “Okay, Mitch. I can deal with this.” She jerked her head.

  No doubt about women. One worried about her old, faded jeans; the other determined that there should be no free show for the boyfriend, who had been far too concerned wi
th the storm even to consider Karen’s well-stocked bra, let alone anything else. Women!

  I told Bill the situation. “Tell Bette there’s a car-type safety belt tucked under the mattress about one-third of the way down. Then pump her right out. When Bette’s finished with Karen, tell her to come up here.”

  Bette was already back pumping when I told her about the belt.

  She grinned at me. “You’ve got to hand it to Bill!”

  Ten minutes, and the pump was sucking air. Thankfully I stopped. Bill was busy in the galley. Although the stove was gymbal-mounted, I thought it was asking for trouble even to try, but he did not see it that way, slopping cans of soup into a pot. It was not quite Karen’s standard. Certainly it would not have occurred to me to break three eggs into the soup, or the broken crackers, but the rum seemed a fair idea. The result was good, anyway.

  In retrospect, I realize that the instant when we were turning, and I was stiff with fear on the foredeck, was the peak of my personal crisis on that voyage. I’d had a lot of faith in Mayfly since the day of the tidal wave, but when she came out of that cauldron of raging water, I accepted that with Bill at the helm, she could lick most anything.

  All the morning and the afternoon Mayfly fought the battle, assisted by Bill and Bette. I was relegated to tea-making and odd-job man, but it did not hurt. I know when I’m outclassed.

  The wind had shifted around slightly to the north, an indication that the depression was moving. Toward evening the wind began to moderate, and by dusk it was down to force six or seven, and Bill decided we could get back on course. He would have preferred to have waited a little longer, but considered that on balance it was better to turn in daylight than to leave it till later. We got a met. forecast that promised a steady moderation of the weather, with a nice, high-pressure system to follow. So once more we turned, rolling heavily as we did so, but it was nothing compared to the first time. Once more we were’ on our way, Mayfly swooping like a gull over the waves. Our deck was not dry, but there was now little spray coming aboard. All in all, it looked good. About the only minor fly in the ointment was that we had no idea of our location.