by D. F. Jones
Bette had the table cleared in record time, and I spread the chart. Bill measured distances carefully with the dividers, his hand rock-steady. Bette was watching, tense but outwardly calm. I knew I was pale, the sweat was cold on my face; my mouth was dry.
Bill did a few short sums in his usual, careful manner, then he went through the process a second time. He straightened up, patting a pocket absentmindedly for his pipe. “I make it roughly three thousand miles to the center of this disturbance. If they’re right, and the waves are moving at sixty miles an hour, that would give us fifty hours from the time of the collapse. We don’t know exactly when that was, but it can’t have been more than ten hours back. So we can work on the assumption that we have forty hours left. Mitch, you check.”
Watching Bill, so calm and self-reliant, it seemed incredible that the sight of a spider could make him panic. Just then, the thought of this chink in his armor saved me from hating his iron guts.
Somehow I managed to check Bill’s calculations; my hand was shaking uncontrollably, I fumbled and swore, but made it. “Okay, I agree.” I hardly recognized my own voice.
He nodded. “Forty hours…. Well, with luck, it means we meet it in daylight.”
“You think it will reach this far?” It was a question prompted by fear, and a damned silly one, for I knew the answer. I was hoping against hope.
“Think! Don’t be so bloody wet! If those reports are right, this lot will bloody near bounce round the world!” This was a much tougher Bill, hardened by strain. “Go and put Karen in the picture—and don’t overdo it! Bette, I think a tot of rum won’t do any of us harm.”
Karen took it badly, but tried hard to retain control. I put an arm around her in the darkness; she was shaking with fear.
“What’s going to happen, Mitch?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. It’s a hell of a long way away. Maybe it’ll have spent itself out before it gets this far.” and maybe it won’t. I tried a few encouraging words, reminding her that we had been a lot closer to SARAH at the time of the last collapse, and that, okay, it was not so good, but we had survived, and we would do it again. I ended up by repeating that it might well be exhausted long before it got to us.
“You think so?” She was eager to believe me.
“Sure I think so!” I said stoutly. “Think of all that ocean we’ve crossed! We’re three thousand miles from it. That’s one hell of a long way!”
“What’s Bill doing?”
“You know Bill! Sorting out his ‘seamanlike precautions,’ getting it all doped out. He’ll see us through! You know you can trust him.”
“I know I can.” Some of the fear had gone, and there was a different quality in her voice as she went on. “Where the sea and this boat are concerned.”
I noticed the remark, but had neither the time nor the inclination to follow it up. “Well, guess I’d better get back there. I’ll keep you up to date, Karen, honey, don’t you worry.” I gave her a little squeeze. “Bill’s breaking out the rum—how about a slug of that?”
She refused that, and I left her.
Bill and Bette were hunched over the chart. Bill looked up and raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“Karen’s all right,” I answered. “She doesn’t want a drink, but I do.” He poured three large drinks.
“Okay, Bill—what do we do?”
Bill sniffed at his rum, his eyes fixed on the chart. “Not sure, yet. We need information. It seems incredible even to think that this should affect us, but from that broadcast it’s clear that this earthquake is far beyond anything previously recorded. If it really is such a vast movement, I suppose we, even at this distance, might get something like the one we had before.” He looked up at me, weighing my reactions. “Frankly, Mitch, the point I do not care for is this reference to ‘a chain of waves.’ Several of them could be a fair cow! I was telling Bette just now, I think that our best bet, until we get more news, is to aim at finding shelter—if we can.”
“Shelter! We’d be damned lucky!”
“No, not as much as you might suppose. Provided I’ve got our position roughly right, there are plenty of atolls and islands about a hundred miles to the south of us. We have a chance.”
“You don’t like the idea of meeting it at sea?” Bette was as cool as he was.
“Not if I have any choice. As I say, it’s that train of waves that could make a considerable difference. If it meant going into shallow water to find an island, well, I might think again, but these islands are mainly isolated sea-mounts sticking up from a long way down, so that’s at least one problem we don’t have.”
I wanted to know the worst. “This chain that has you worried—why?”
“Well, it depends how close together they are, and how many. If, for instance, there are three of them half a mile apart, then I think that all we can do is to kiss ourselves goodbye. If they are four or five miles apart, that would give us a much better chance.” He grinned slightly. “One thing, if you have to meet this sort of stuff, you’re better placed in Mayfly than most. I’d hate to be in a big ship. We can bob up and down like a cork, but a liner stands a good chance of breaking her back, or if the waves are close together, not to have recovered from the first before the second strikes.”
His calm, dispassionate manner made the reality of the situation even more unbelievable. I tried to tell myself that this was all a hideous nightmare, that it couldn’t be happening…. Life was so normal, Bill smoking his pipe, reading Admiralty Sailing Directions, Bette making coffee, Mayfly sailing easily on, her roll so regular one hardly noticed it.
But the next news bulletin shattered any half-baked hopes I might be trying to entertain. The secondary earthquake in Japan was very bad, even by the standards of that country. Tokyo had suffered, and it was believed that Hokkaido was a devastated island. There was no fresh news from the United States, and the very fact of there being no news was frightening. Worst of all from our angle, there was an aircraft report that a wave or waves—the report was not clear on this—had been sighted, the height being estimated between forty and fifty feet. That, as Bill said, could be wildly wrong. An aircraft, as I well knew, was no place to measure wave height.
“That does not get us much forrader,” observed Bill. He carefully stowed the chart. “By now it’s night, clear across the Pacific. There won’t be any hard news on the waves until daylight. I’m going to turn in. You relieving Karen, Mitch? Take the hourly bulletins on the headphones, but don’t bother to call me unless there is something that upsets our estimate of forty hours grace from the time of the collapse. We must get all the sleep we can, while the going is good—and that touches you two. ’Night.” He went forrard.
I could only marvel at the man. I took over from Karen, and she joined Bill. Bette stretched out on the settee, and Mayfly was all mine.
Alone with the night, brilliant with stars, I settled back to think. My mind oscillated between SARAH, our appalling situation, and the unknown state of affairs back home. Above all, I kept a major part of my concentration on driving Mayfly as hard as I could to the south. I dared not think what would happen if the wind dropped, but it showed no signs of doing that, and the yacht plowed steadily on at around five knots, a good speed, but nothing compared with those waves, racing at fifty knots to catch us, racing with unimaginable power. . , .
With the aid of the long-lead headphones I checked hourly with Sydney, and so it was, standing alone at the helm, watching the dim-lit compass card, I heard the fate of San Francisco.
A strip of coast land, narrow at the northern end by wrecked Eureka, widening further south, and stretching down to the Bay area, had subsided into the sea. At the same time, part of the central San Joaquin Valley had sunk, and with it the land in the mountain gap where San Francisco had stood. San Francisco, the whole metropolitan Bay area, had gone. So had Sacramento. In one mighty, cataclysmic movement they had joined Atlantis beneath the waters of the implacable sea.
The sheer magnitude of t
he disaster was far beyond anything I had imagined remotely possible. For a long while I did not consider what this meant to us, and I had the grace to weep.
Bette came on watch at four, and I told her. For a time she was struck dumb, then, with a half-strangled “Oh, Mitch!” she was in my arms, and together we cried for all that had gone….
For me, sleep was out of the question. My mind reeled under shock, sorrow—and growing fear. Bette, strong in crisis, as always, forced me into action, checking the sails, making unwanted coffee, tidying up the saloon and a dozen other chores. Between times, we held hands, saying nothing.
Shortly after first light, Bill came on deck. I could not tell him, and left it to Bette. In short, clipped sentences she recounted the ghastly story.
For a long time he stood, balancing easily against the roll, staring at the sea. Then he said, simply, “My God! How dreadful…. Mitch, Bette. Words are useless…. I can only say I am truly, deeply, sorry.”
As he said, words were useless. He roused himself and addressed me, his eyes thoughtful. “Mitch, I don’t like to impose on you, but I would be grateful if you told Karen. I think she would take it better from you. D’you mind?”
I shook my head. I knew he wasn’t trying to duck out of anything. It would be better for Karen if I told her.
“Good. Thank you.” He spoke gently. “She’s in the galley.”
White-faced, one hand clasping her throat, she heard me out, then her face seemed to disintegrate as she burst into a flood of tears, her arms around me. With great care I got her into the sleeping cabin and onto the bunk and left her there, sobbing, moaning, “No more—no more!”
She refused breakfast, despite Bill’s gentle pleadings. None of us felt much like eating, but Bill insisted, with much less gentleness, and we ate. Yet again, I was full of admiration for the man. Burdened with responsibility, with vital life or death decisions to make, he still took time out to try to soothe Karen.
He ate his food with Unusual speed and returned to the deck. He did not say so, but I knew he was hoping for a sight of Enderbury Island. It was a small enough target, and with our small elevation, we could not see for more than fifteen miles radius, and it would call for miraculous navigation—with our instruments—to hit that target on the button.
The morning seemed to flash past. Bill never left the deck, and he did not speak except to give a curt order. His eyes never left the horizon, searching tirelessly forty-five degrees each side of our bow. Ten o’clock came, nothing. At eleven, the sun high and hot, still nothing. No one mentioned islands, but Bill’s eyes were not the only ones to watch that blank inhospitable horizon. We were all acutely conscious of SARAH’s final, titanic stroke astern, moving inexorably toward us, at ten times our speed, knowing this was a race we couldn’t win. Shelter was our only hope, and that a slim one.
We lost Sydney for a couple of critical hours in the morning. I searched desperately among the static, but without getting the faintest trace of the station. It was only when I was giving up for the second time that I realized it was my fault, a slip due to fear and near panic. I had to admit it.
“Bill, I don’t know how to tell you. Gee, I’m sorry—”
His eyes did not move from their ceaseless watch of the horizon. He said curtly, but without emotion, “Just tell me.”
I took the plunge. “We’ve missed those newscasts because I was still looking for Sydney on their night frequency instead of the day one. I’m—”
His lips tightened slightly, then relaxed. “Thank you for telling me, Mitch. Try not to do it again, won’t you?”
That was the measure of the man. With all the strain and worry, no one would have blamed him if he had foamed at the mouth and busted a gut bawling me out. He was wiser, better than that, knowing full well that whatever else I might louse up, one thing was for sure, in the future I’d remember the day and night frequency pitfall.
I got Sydney all right the next time. Reception was bad, but good enough to get the gist of the news, which concentrated almost exclusively on the SARAH waves.
The Royal Australian Air Force had located them: four major waves, traveling in pairs, with approximately five minutes time interval between the pairs. The lead wave was estimated at sixty-five feet, with the others not much smaller. They were expected to reach the Hawaiian Islands at 3 P.M. Central Pacific Time. Throughout the group a general warning to get onto high ground was in force. There were also genuine tsunami, two or three of them, estimated height six to ten feet, radiating from the Japanese disaster. With their incredible speed, there was every chance that they would pass us by, and we would not even notice their passage, although the damage they would do when they hit something solid or entered shallow water would be by no means negligible. There was also the comforting thought that we had most of the islands of Micronesia between this disaster center and ourselves. They would absorb much of the energy. In any case, we had no real thought for anything but SARAH’s waves. The rest, by comparison, was nothing.
I nearly leapt up the ladder to tell Bill. He listened impassively, never ceasing his watch.
“Three o’clock…” He screwed his face up with mental effort. “We’re as near as makes no odds, one thousand two hundred miles from Hawaii. Allowing for error in position, and in their estimate, let’s say impact is now. That gives us, um, twenty hours.” He rubbed his eyes. “And it could be less. Twenty hours….”
“Hell, they must lose a lot of their steam before they get this far!” I was trying to convince myself.
He motioned me closer, glanced momentarily down the hatch to see if the girls were within earshot. He spoke softly. “I expect they will lose something, but there’ll be more than enough left to put the kybosh on us! I remember talking to some people in Japan. There was a nasty earthquake in Chile in 1960, and although they had plenty of warning, there was extensive damage and lives lost in Japan when the wave, which originated in Chile, struck there. Twenty hours—less! Frankly, Mitch, if we don’t find a hole to hide in by that time, I think our chances are less than rosy. Don’t forget, our time limit is sunset. We can’t go fooling around in the dark.” He gave me a quick, hard look. “Keep this to yourself. No point in alarming the girls.”
Lunch came, and I for one had little appetite. Luckily, I had a reasonable excuse, for it was no feast for the gods. Tepid orange juice, corned beef and crisp bread sandwiches, a couple of raw carrots, and an apple. Bill had his on deck.
It was nearly one o’clock as we sat down to this banquet. Bette ate stolidly. Karen picked at hers, and I did much the same.
Bill’s impassive face appeared in the hatchway. “Mitch, a word with you, please.”
“I’m standing by for the news.”
“Let Bette take it.” Superficially his voice was flat, unemotional, but I detected something more. So did Bette.
She nodded, and raised an interrogative eyebrow, but he had gone. I got on deck, to find him staring ahead through his binoculars. Without a word he unslung them and passed them to me.
“Four points off the starboard bow.” His voice was low. “Get up on the cabin top, by the mast—quietly.”
It was only a few feet more elevation, but even that could make a difference.
“What is it?” I said.
“You tell me,” he replied tersely. “Get moving!”
Balanced precariously, one hand clutching the mast, I tried to focus on the point he had indicated. All I got was a close-up of a lot of reeling sea. I let go of the mast and just balanced; at once the vision steadied. I searched hastily, well aware that he must be in a fever of impatience. Suddenly I saw it, lost it, then saw it again. A black, hazy mass. I stared until my eyes hurt. There was no doubt about it; the swaying blob I glimpsed was land. Not much of it, but land. I could have shouted with joy, but Bill’s presence held me steady. To ease my racing heart, I panned slowly across the horizon, and once more felt that deep surge of exhilaration. Forty-five degrees off the port bow was another break
on the rim, a peak that could only be land. Surely, one or the other must afford us refuge!
I looked aft to Bill, grinning like an ape and pointing toward my discovery. He nodded in his usual, casual way, and motioned me to come aft.
“For sure those are islands, Bill!” I whispered excitedly. “You go take a look!”
With maddening deliberation he slung the glasses around his neck, adjusted the eyepieces to his vision, and went forward, moving silently with his usual cat-like grace. I could hear the clatter of plates from below as the girls cleared up. Desperately, I wanted him to come back and give his verdict before one of them appeared on the scene.
He returned, showing no outward signs of excitement. “Well?”
“Yes, it’s land, all right. Two islands, both about fifteen miles off.”
“Jesus! Is that all you have to say?”
He shot me a warning look. “Take it easy, Mitch! There’s no guarantee that either will give us shelter, and we also have the dilemma of choice. Which one?”
“Well, hell! Let’s go take a look at the one to port, and if that’s no good, go to the other one!”
“I wish it was that easy! Use your eyes, man! If we go to port, we’ll have the wind well forrard of the beam, not her best point of sailing. If we go to starboard, fine, we’ve got the wind aft, but if that island is no good, we’re faced with a dead foul wind for the other one, and have to beat back against it. Either way you look at it, there won’t be time to do both before nightfall.”
A lot of my excitement left me. “How long have we got?”
He rubbed his unshaven chin. “Five and a half hours, not more. Say three and a quarter to reach the one to port, three hours for the other. They must be twenty miles apart, so going one way with a fair wind, say four hours. The other,” he scowled, “six hours.”
“How about using the engine?”
“Not on.” He was quite decisive. “Over-all, we’d save little, and I want to keep our fuel as the last ditch reserve. We’ll need it!” He grinned slightly at my sagging face. “Cheer up, Mitch! At least we have a choice. Better call the girls. Bette should be finished with the radio by now.” They came on deck, Karen still wiping her hands from washing the dishes. Bette reported that there was no change since the previous news at one o’clock.