Denver Is Missing

by D. F. Jones

  Then, in a few not very encouraging sentences, Bill told them our news, and both girls, well conditioned to taking their cue from him, did not get overly excited. Karen, secure in her blind faith in Bill, said nothing. Bette, slightly less hooked, said, “What are you going to do?”

  “We’ll hold this course, slap down the middle between the two, for another hour and a half. By then we’ll see more, we’ll have had another news bulletin, and then we’ll make our choice. Meanwhile, I want you all to stay aft. It’ll help to keep her stern tucked down. One of you stay here, the other two sit well aft in the saloon. It’s not much, but every little helps.”

  Karen stayed on deck, and Bette and I sat opposite each other in the saloon. She was quiet, self-contained, knitting something. I just sat chain-smoking, trying not to look at the clock more than once a minute.

  Bette showed no signs of interest in the time, but she must have been watching pretty closely, for she warned me when there was one minute to go before the news.

  It was all bad. Sydney reported that Honolulu radio and all cables had suddenly ceased in midtransmission at a quarter of three. Fifteen minutes early! Bette had stopped knitting and was as still as a statue, lips tightly compressed, Staring at me. There was more.

  Two liners, en route from the West Coast to Hawaii, packed with refugees, had failed to answer calls since two o’clock, and were feared lost. The final, gigantic blast of gas from SARAH was now a cloud of vast dimensions, drifting across the States, trailing unprecedented storms in its wake. The chaos in the States and Canada was so great, no real idea of its extent or effect was possible. And there had been another bad earthquake in Alaska.

  But all this was as nothing—to us—beside that news from Hawaii. As soon as the fearful recital was finished, I immediately went on deck.

  Bill had Karen wetting the sails with buckets of water to get every ounce of power out of the wind. I blurted out the news, and he too waved aside as irrelevant all items except that one from Hawaii. That fifteen minutes meant more to us than all the disasters in the world. He thought for a moment, never taking his eyes off the sails.

  “It doesn’t make much difference to us except that it washes out any idea of getting a second look at the other island at first light tomorrow morning. That would be cutting it too fine. Either we’re in shelter, or we are in deep water. I’m not going to meet this lot in shallow water.”

  There was nothing more to say. I lingered in the cockpit, unwilling to be below, staring hopefully at the islands, now much clearer. There were now only twenty minutes to go to the point of decision.

  As I gazed, frightened to look in case my hopes were dashed, yet avid for some sign of refuge or life, I had a sudden change of vision. No longer was I a man, despairing for his life, near panic, looking for salvation with uncritical eyes. Some feature triggered my mind, and I saw the islands as a geologist. That made a difference.

  “Gimme those glasses!” I almost snatched them from Bill and scrambled up on the cabin top, forgetful of his orders about trim. I paused, clutching the mast, fighting back fear and excitement. I had to be calm, scientific, objective….

  I forced myself to take a long, slow look at the island to starboard. With the sun behind it, it was thrown into sharp outline, but little detail could be seen. Two peaks, with a connecting ridge between them. Below the peaks the ground sloped a lot less steeply, flattening out as it descended to a small level plain, studded with palm clumps. There was no sign of rocks or surf. I turned to the other island.

  The sun shone on the side nearest us, and more detail could be seen. At first sight it was a lot less promising. It was smaller and there was plenty of surf.

  We were northwest of this island, and north of it stretched a large area of broken water, where spray flew high in the air. Reefs, for sure. I shifted to the main part, a cone-like formation, which appeared to be truncated as if by a downward and sideways blow from a mighty sword, the cut starting high up on the north side and ending, as far as I could see, near sea level to the south.

  I studied the slope of that cone with more care than a mother bestows on a newborn babe. I switched back to the reef, looking for a particular feature, burning with impatience for the moment when we were elevated on a wave and I had the area in vision. Finally I got the view I wanted. In the middle of all that surf and foam there was undoubtedly a large, calm patch. That clinched it. My reasoning was painfully thin; Suffren would have screamed with rage at my unscientific guesswork, but this was no cloistered campus.

  Trembling with suppressed excitement I stumbled aft, full of confidence. I must be right; I had to be right! At last I had a real contribution to make.

  Bill and Karen were looking at me with considerable surprise. “Well,” said Bill curtly, “spit it out!”

  I nodded as casually as I could toward the island with the uninviting reefs. “That’s the one, Bill!”

  He took in again those reefs, and the dashing sea. “We’re not going into that lot,” he said flatly. “I spotted that calm area, but there’s no betting that there is a gap big enough for us to get in, and anyway, it would be damned useless—”

  “I know! We’ve got to shelter on the other side, the south side. There’ll be no reefs there.”

  “How the bloody hell can you be sure! We can’t see through that rock. The reefs could be as thick as blackheads on a brothel-keeper’s face! I’m more for the other. At least there’s no sign of reefs this side, and it’s a good bit larger.”

  “No. That’s the one. There won’t be any reefs!”

  Bette put her head out the hatch. “What’s all the shouting about?”

  “Mitch has suddenly gone psychic on us; says that’s our refuge.” He jerked his head toward my island.

  Bette craned her neck to look, then shifted her gaze to me. “Why? The other looks like a better bet to me.”

  “Now listen to me,” I said heatedly. “I may be a noaccount guy as a sailor, but I am the geologist around here!” That altered their expressions. “Take another look at the reefs! See, they’re practically circular on plan.” I pointed. “That cone is perched just on the edge of the southern side of the circle. Look!”

  Bill took the glasses, hopped onto the cabin top. “Yes, I agree. Go on.”

  “What we’ve got here is a large, extinct volcano, submerged. That circular reef is the rim of the crater, probably built up to the surface by coral. That circular formation is typical. Now the cone is a parasite—”

  “A what?”

  “Parasite—”

  “Stop!” commanded Bill. “Save it. Are you sure of your facts, Mitch?”

  “Sure as I can be of anything!” Suddenly I was full of doubts, but I kept going. “We’ll get a safe anchorage there! I’ll stake my reputation on it!”

  “You’ll be staking somewhat more than that!”

  “Yeah, I know! But I still stick—”

  “Right!” He transferred his attention. “Bette, what d’you think?”

  She shrugged, “I like the look of the other better, but this is Mitch’s province. If he’s that sure, then I’m with him.”

  At once Bill altered course, heading the yacht toward my choice. I had to be right now. Settled on the new track, Bill looked at me again.

  “Go on, Mitch—what about the cone?”

  “Let me get back to the old volcano. Volcanoes occur usually along the line of a fault. The lava, pressing upward, finds a weak spot and bursts out. The overlying and surrounding rocks are blown up, most of it falling back to form the familiar Fujiyama-type mountain. Okay? Right. Now, imagine that the pressure stops for some time. The lava in the vent of the volcano cools and solidifies. More time passes, and the pressure gets going again, but now the weak spot that was is blocked by a solid plug of lava, and may no longer be the weakest spot. So the lava finds another one, which may be very close, the lava forces up—”

  “I see,” interrupted Bill. “So you can get another volcano on the side of an old o
ne.”

  “Right. That’s what we’ve got here.”

  Bette said, “I’m with you on the reef point, Mitch, but I don’t see that we have any more than a reef-free island to hide behind.”

  “No, honey, there’s more to it. Look at the way that rim of the cone slopes down into the sea. Not all of it is above water. At least that is my opinion. I think we have a genuine atoll, a horseshoe-shaped lagoon with the entrance facing south.”

  “If you’re right,” Bill said softly, and stopped.

  “There needn’t necessarily be an entrance,” objected Bette.

  “No, but it’s highly probable. Remember that cone was formed on a slope, not level ground. The downhill side of the crater wall would tend to crumble and roll away, especially with the weight of lava welling up on the inside.”

  Karen gave a shaky little laugh. “Mitch, I so hope you’re right!”

  “So do I,” I said with great feeling. Soon we would know. We watched the scene in tense silence. Details of the cone were now much clearer, we were skirting the reef, rim of that much larger, older volcano. Bill was standing in as close as he dared, cutting corners, saving vital time, and the sloping sides loomed menacingly close. I estimated that the highest face, the northern one, was a good hundred feet high. A somber, black shape, with practically no signs of life, animal or vegetable, but it looked mighty good to us.

  Bill broke the silence. “Mitch, have you any ideas about the depth of water on the southern side?”

  “I’d expect it to shallow steadily—that would be the slope of the old large volcano—then, if I’m right and there is a gap, it will shoal very fast. That’ll be the vestigial lip of the parasite crater. After that it will drop away to deep water; how deep, I wouldn’t know.”

  “Yes! You’ve reminded me, Mitch!” He was quite excited. “When I was wandering around the Greek Islands I put in at Thira. That’s an old volcano. Outside, in the open sea, the depth was about sixty fathoms. Inside it was more than two hundred. Let’s hope it’s not as deep as that! Two hundred fathoms is twelve hundred feet, somewhat more than the length of our anchor cable.”

  The surf was thundering in our ears, the air was sprayladen, salty. I glanced at my watch. Barely two and a half hours of daylight left!

  Bill looked at me, warning me to say nothing. “We’re getting under the lee of the cone now. Bette, you take her; I’m going to start the engine.”

  I also had spotted the smooth water ahead, undimpled by the wind. As the mainsail flapped, the boom lifting, the engine chugged into life. We were close enough to the cone to hear the echo of the engine beating back at us. Slowly we motored around the curve. I could hardly bear to watch.

  Time split into two different scales; it roared along on my watch, and crawled in my mind as we skirted that rock-bound slope, the sea dashing against it with dreadful force. The tension was electric. And then, one of those moments….

  There, marked by the absence of breaking seas, was the gap. On either side the sharp edge of the crater rim curved down and disappeared into a flurry of white foam. Between those menacing jaws, smooth water….

  Bill hauled slightly further offshore, studying the gap intently. As we got in front of it, we could see the lagoon beyond. I felt like laughing and crying, both at the same time.

  “Where d’you think the sudden shoal is, Mitch?”

  It was a marvelous sensation, Bill asking my advice! “Take a line between the two jaws; around ten yards this side of it, I guess.”

  He nodded. “Good. You and Bette get up forrard and watch the water, one each side of the bow.”

  He brought Mayfly round and very slowly headed for the center of the gap. Going forward, I glanced at my watch. Barely two hours left….

  We were up to my estimated danger point. The yacht was moving so slowly, there was no bow wave to obscure the water, clear as glass. Stretched out on the deck, head over the side, with the sun ominously down on the western side of the sky, only pleasantly warm on my side, I could see the bottom, and it was shoaling fast.

  Bette sang out. “Steady as she goes! Not an inch to starboard, there’s a damned great rock ten feet off!”

  “Right!”

  Shielding my eyes, I peered down; it would be too cruel for us to be baulked now. Depth was difficult to estimate. I had an idea, and dug into a pocket, found a nickel, and dropped it gently over the side, watched it falling, turning over and over.

  “ ’Bout ten to fifteen feet and still shoaling!”

  “Right.” He just couldn’t be as calm as he sounded.

  Down to her keel, fully laden, Mayfly must have drawn nearly ten feet. I tried to remember her in drydock—

  A sudden, very slight lurch and a long drawn-out grating sound. Bill revved up the engine. I clutched the edge of the deck convulsively. This was it; here we might stick, here a sharp coral could, even at our slow speed, damage the yacht badly. There was a loud splash. Bill was shouting something; there was another splash, further aft. The horrible grating sound went on and seemed to be everlasting.

  And then the bottom, so frighteningly close, disappeared from under the bow. I was staring down into black nothingness. “That’s it, Bill! It’s clear ahead!”

  “Jump, Mitch!” It was Bette’s voice, high and clear, urgent.

  “What?”

  “Jump, you bloody fool!”

  Then I got it. In seconds I was over the guardrail and dropping, ass first, into the water, warm as fresh milk. Hastily I swam clear, stopped, and trod water.

  Mayfly was still moving, very slowly, but moving. Bill suddenly waved, his stiff, tense pose relaxed.

  “We’ve made it! I’ve cut the engine, come aboard!”

  We swam back like a bunch of excited school kids and scrambled on board, greeted by a grinning Bill. Even he was allowing his excitement to show.

  “That was damn quick thinking, Bette! Never realized I was hauling so much weight around!” He glanced at Karen, standing on the cabin top, her hair plastered down, breathing fast, her thin cotton shirt stuck to her, dark nipples prominent beneath the thin cloth. He bent to clutch in the engine. “What do you weigh, Karen?”

  She was happy, wiping her streaming face with the back of her hand. “One hundred and fifteen.”

  Bette was one hundred and thirty, and I was a good hundred and seventy.

  “I’ll remember that,” said Bill. “Four hundred pounds of quick release ballast!” We were moving once more. “No time to waste! Bette, get down the forepeak and dig out the three longest nylon ropes—they’re all tagged with their length—get them laid out on the cabin top. Karen, you help.” He turned to me. “Mitch, we’ll do a circuit. I want your opinion on the depth of water, likely shoals.”

  The lagoon was practically circular and some five hundred yards in diameter, and all around were the steep walls of black lava, spotted with gray patches of pumice. On the north side at water level, there was a narrow shelf on which two or three stunted palms eked out a precarious existence. The only other level ground was a small beach of black, volcanic sand, near the entrance on the southwestern side. The few leaning palm trees there were in rather better shape. That low lip of the crater, cause of so many agonizing moments, effectively blocked the swell, and the water in the lagoon was practically smooth.

  Slowly we circled our refuge, once. I said that the only likely holding ground for our anchor was near the entrance, and Bill accepted my opinion without question.

  “Couldn’t be better!” He rubbed his hands, lowered his voice, one eye on the girls up forrard. “Mitch—we’ve got a fighting chance!” He looked at his watch. “No time to explain. Not much more than an hour to go.” He raised his voice, confident, brisk. “Come on, girls, get that foredeck cleared, we’re anchoring!”

  We got the Danforth down in fairly good ground in the southeast of the lagoon, close to the entrance. Bill organized that with the aid of Bette, while I broke out the dinghy and inflated it, using one of our two precious airbo
ttles to do the job. They were for emergency use, and if this wasn’t an emergency—

  Bill was full of action. He took Mayfly astern practically to the limit of her cable; then, satisfied that we had a good hold, secured one end of a nylon rope to the mast, shouted to me to get the flaming dinghy into the water, and was in it almost as soon as it hit the water. I rowed, while he paid out the rope, nursing another, longer line between his feet.

  “Head for that beach, Mitch. Hope to Christ the line’s long enough!”

  We made it to the beach, and the line was long enough. Bill made a bowline around the bases of three of the palms while I secured the dinghy.

  “Come on, Mitch!” We set off, scrambling over the steep slope. I began to see his plan. The going was not as hard as I might have expected, and a few minutes later we were on the narrow ledge with the stunted palms on the northern side. Again Bill passed a bowline around the two most suitable palms.

  “Not ideal, but it’s the best we can do.” He glanced at his watch. “There’s time to scramble up to the top for a look. Mitch, grab that bit of driftwood, tie on the end of this line, and heave it out into the drink. We’ll pick that up on the way back.”

  The highest part of the ridge towered above us, but like our scramble around the rim, the climb to the top was not too bad. There were several rainwater-eroded ledges in the pumice, one or two quite big, and many small ones that afforded sufficient handholds.

  From the top we stared down. Already the lagoon was in complete shadow. Mayfly looked like a small toy boat in a water butt, but our main interest was in the scene outside.

  The rim of the older, larger crater to the north was indeed a perfect circle, marked by the sea, smashing white against the reefs, roaring ceaselessly, spray flying. The sun was well down. Little more than half an hour to go, if that. Bill had his breath back, and mechanically got his pipe out. “Well, Mitch, six hours back, I wouldn’t have dared hope for anything half as good as this! That reef is a godsend, bound to act as a bursting platform for the waves.” He sounded calm enough, but I noticed that he knocked out his pipe, which he had barely lit. He glanced at the sinking sun, a blazing orange ball, then gave a final look at the reef, the white surf brilliant pink in the glow. “Yes, mate; we’ve got a sporting chance. Come on.”