Lifeboat!

by Margaret Dickinson

  Behind the car sat the sailing-dinghy, just as new and sparkling, looking as if she had yet to dip her bows into water.

  Macready climbed thoughtfully into his own car. There was certainly money behind this particular undergraduate—there must be well over forty-five thousand pounds all together sitting there on his driveway. And yet …

  It was a curiously peaceful morning at the station. Out across the putting-green the beach thronged with people. Macready could hear faintly the shouts and the noise, but here in the boathouse in spite of the shuffle of sandy feet and the muted voices of the visitors, there was a tranquility.

  Yet beneath that superficial calm there was always that hint of expectancy, an underlying alert readiness.

  The morning was sultry and to the southwest Macready could detect the faint rumble of thunder.

  Jack Hansard called in at the station and he and Macready climbed the ladder to the open-sided loft at the seaward end of the boathouse. Through their binoculars they viewed the holidaymakers; the sailing-dinghies; the speed-boat with its water-skier behind; the children and their airbeds playing in the shallows and their indolent parents lolling on the sands.

  ‘Never changes, does it?’ Jack Hansard remarked philosophically. ‘Whatever we try to do, they persist in taking no notice. Earlier on I caught three swimmers going into the water and the red warning flag was still flying! They’d walked right past the damn thing and never noticed it—or at least if they had they didn’t know what it meant.’

  ‘Aye,’ Macready agreed. He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I’ll be away for my dinner now. Though I’m not sure there’ll be any waiting.’

  ‘Oh? Where’s Julie then?’ Jack asked.

  ‘She’s a boyfriend down from college to see her.’

  There was a pause and then Jack remarked, ‘You don’t sound best pleased, Iain.’

  ‘Jack,’ Macready felt the need to confide in his friend of many years, ‘you know how I’ve missed my Mary these past years?’

  Jack Hansard nodded sympathetically as Macready continued, ‘And it’s not that I mind my girl growing up, y’ken, even growing away from me, only—I don’t know how to talk to her about—about this young man, not like I know Mary could have done.’

  ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘I canna put my finger on what’s bothering me really. It’s just this feeling I have. Och, I dunna know. Maybe I’m misjudging the laddie. It’s obvious he’s from a very wealthy family.’

  Jack cast a shrewd glance at Macready. ‘It’s not like you to judge someone by their wealth—one way or t’other.’

  ‘No—and I’m nay doing this time. It’s his attitude, Jack. He’s so—so superior. Makes out he knows it all. You know the type?’

  The coastguard nodded. ‘And really he knows nothing at all, you mean?’

  Macready sighed. ‘That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. He’s brought this brand-new sailing-dinghy with him and …’

  ‘Hello there!’ They heard the shout from below and Macready turned away to descend the ladder, the moment of a shared confidence lost.

  Tim Matthews’s face grinned up at him as Macready reached the bottom rung. ‘ Hello, Mr Macready. Anything I can do for you this morning?’

  ‘Well now, son,’ Macready greeted him. Despite the untimely interruption, he was always pleased to see young Tim. ‘I was just about to shut the shop and go and get a bite of dinner. Bert’s just away home. But …’

  ‘I’ll stay, Mr Macready. They’re still wanting to come in and take a look. It’d be a shame to close the door on their money, now wouldn’t it?’ Tim winked and grinned.

  Macready laughed. ‘All right. I’ll be away then. I’d better not be late seeing as we have company.’

  ‘Er—Mr Macready—er, about Julie. I mean this fella from the university. Is it—well, are they serious, do you reckon?’

  Macready could detect the underlying anxiety in the boy’s voice, even though he was trying to keep the question conversational, as if it didn’t really matter. But Macready knew it did. To Tim and to himself.

  He didn’t know how to answer the lad, but he was never one to evade the truth. ‘I honestly don’t know, Tim. But I hope not.’ He turned away. He didn’t want Tim to see the worry mirrored in his own eyes. ‘I’ll be back within the hour.’

  ‘That’s all right, Mr Macready. I’ll be here.’

  Macready was thoughtful as he went home. He would miss young Tim, and knowing of the lad’s keenness to get into the crew, he regretted that he had not been able to give him a trip before he left Saltershaven. Of course the lad had been on practice launches, but that could never be quite the same as a genuine service.

  He opened the back door to the smell of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Julie was alone in the kitchen.

  ‘Where’s …’ he was about to say ‘ his lordship’ but thinking better of it said instead, ‘Howard?’

  Julie banged the saucepan she was holding on to the cooker top with such vehemence, so totally uncharacteristic of his gentle daughter, that Macready winced.

  ‘Gone to play golf. He always plays golf on a Sunday morning,’ she told him shortly.

  Mildly Macready said, ‘Didn’t you tell him what time dinner was?’

  ‘He said he’d be back for dinner.’

  Macready glanced at the electric wall clock. ‘But,’ Julie went on, stressing each word, ‘dinner to him is six-thirty in the evening, not one o’clock.’

  ‘You should have said, Julie hen. I’d not have minded having it tonight instead of now,’ Macready said. ‘You should have gone with him …’

  ‘I—wasn’t—asked!’ she said pointedly.

  ‘Oh,’ he said and then again, ‘Oh, I see.’ He glanced at the window. ‘Well, I reckon he could get rained off any time. It’s very black over to the southwest and I heard a rumble of thunder as I came home.’

  Macready applied himself to the meal Julie had placed before him. He was sorry to see her upset and yet he could not help but feel a stab of relief that although the Ferrari was gone from the drive, the sailing-dinghy was still safely on its trailer outside Macready’s front door.

  When Macready went back to the boathouse that afternoon Howard had still not returned.

  Chapter Ten

  Mike felt a punch of excitement in his stomach. He had been flying for about one and three-quarter hours using thermals but staying below cloud with just the one exception.

  Approaching from the southwest and at a rapid pace was a beautiful sight—a massive cumulo-nimbus, black and ballooning out into the shape of a gigantic anvil.

  Mike noted down the time—a little after one o’clock—he would need this information for dead reckoning navigation for inside the thundercloud he would be flying blind. Then he set his stop-watch going. The forecast had said windspeed would be twelve to fifteen knots but in the storm it could be more. He would estimate on say twenty to thirty knots and that would give him approximately ten minutes in the cloud with a drift of between five and six miles northeastwards. He was now about twenty miles south of the airfield and about eight or nine miles from the coast. He didn’t want to drift too near to the coast—there were no thermals over the sea and he would begin to lose height instead of gaining.

  Adjusting his oxygen mask in readiness, Mike entered the thundercloud at about five thousand feet and at first his rate of climb was a smooth five knots.

  Rain spattered the perspex cockpit cover and then changed to hail which drummed loudly against the canopy. It was like being in a thick fog but as he circled round and round he passed from areas of dark grey to light as the sun pierced the cloud, streaking it with shafts of opaque pale yellow. But the presence of the misty sunlight belied the actual temperature inside the thundercloud and at this height. Now delicate lacy patterns of frosting began to build on the perspex hood and glancing out of the side windows, Mike could just see that ice was beginning to form on the leading edges of the wings. He pumped vigorously at the ai
rbrakes every few minutes to prevent the surfaces icing over.

  The hail still hammered against the cockpit and the noise of the wind became a high-pitched whistle, and now he could see very little for the canopy was almost completely frosted over. Worse still, the ice was creeping into the cockpit and the faces of the instruments began to haze. Mike scratched away the frost on the artificial horizon and the altimeter. If necessary, he could fly with just these and the electric variometer which still whined comfortingly above the noise of the wind and the hail.

  Mike tried to call Toby on the radio but the interference was so bad he could hear no reply and could not be sure whether his back-up team on the ground had even heard him.

  At ten thousand feet Mike pulled on his oxygen mask and switched on to medium flow.

  Locked in a temperamental thundercloud, virtually blind and with only instruments to aid him, he was still climbing. His stop-watch told him he had been in the thundercloud for twelve minutes and had climbed seven thousand feet giving an average rate of climb of just under five knots. Blue splinters of static bounced from the metal fittings and prickled his hands and knees. Again he scratched away the frost on the altimeter and saw that he was at sixteen thousand five hundred feet and still climbing. He turned his oxygen supply to full and began clearing the layer of ice away from the compass.

  Lightning suddenly illuminated the cockpit and the compass needle spun recklessly and then settled pointing due east. Mike swore under his breath. If his compass were permanently damaged by the lightning, he would have no means of knowing in which direction he was flying. But he was climbing still. Once again he cleared the ice from the altimeter and saw that it registered nineteen thousand feet.

  Another shaft of lightning split the sky and the compass went berserk once more. Now Mike could smell the burning from the discharge in the lightning and the thunder was crashing all around. The cockpit of the Blanik was at the centre of a maelstrom of roaring wind, searing light and ear-splitting noise. Half a minute later, the sailplane hit the rapid downcurrent at the rear of the storm and Mike sensed himself hurtling downwards, losing height at an alarming rate. Still the compass needle pointed due east, but Mike assumed that it was irreparably broken and decided to ignore it.

  Now the glider began to spin and he fought to control the downward spiral. According to the artificial horizon, the Blanik was spinning as if pivoting on its port wing. Tossed and blown like a feather amid the whirlpool of the thundercloud, Mike knew he should not trust his own judgements, his own feelings; sensations in cloud-flying were misleading. Immediately he applied the opposite rudder fully and moved the stick forward steadily. The spinning slowed gradually and the airspeed indicator needle began to rise again. But the sailplane was now diving steeply. Mike now eased the glider out of the dive and levelled the wings by means of the ailerons.

  The rapid descent and the resulting spin had left Mike feeling light-headed and more than a little queasy. His stop-watch had been thrown to the floor of the cockpit and appeared to have stopped. His lack of trust in the reliability of the compass robbed him of some of his confidence and, momentarily, he was about to abandon the whole project when, remarkably, the variometer began to whine again, indicating lift. The cockpit had become lighter although he still could not see out because the canopy was covered with ice. The lift was weak now—only about three knots, but it gave Mike time to pull himself together. He flicked his radio switch and repeated his call-sign to Toby.

  ‘Golden Eagle Base, this is Great Awk. Are you receiving me? Over.’

  Three times he repeated the message but each time the only reply was the dreadful crackling of interference which filled the cockpit.

  ‘Nev, Nev,’ Toby shouted across the stretch of grass between the ‘box’ and where Nev stood holding the wing tip of a Slingsby Skylark IV awaiting launch. ‘ Can you come and look at this darned radio? I can hardly hear Mike now,’

  ‘Okay—in a minute when I’ve finished here,’ Nev’s voice drifted across the field. Directly above the airfield the sky remained comparatively clear with fluffy cumulus tempting the pilots into the air. To the south the sky darkened and sunlit streaks of rain streamed from cloud base to the ground.

  ‘Reckon we’re in for a thunderstorm?’ Nev remarked as he came over to where Toby was still fiddling with the radio receiver. Nev turned and watched the glider he had just helped to launch release the winch cable and turn northwards away from the threatening black cloud.

  ‘I dunno what’s up with this thing,’ Toby muttered, impatience for once evident in his tone. ‘Can you do anything with it, Nev? All I can seem to get is a roaring sound.’

  ‘I reckon that storm might by-pass us. It’s going out to sea,’ Nev answered his own question and then squatted on his haunches in front of the radio. With gentle fingers he eased the dials slowly first one way and then the other. ‘ I’ve heard that sort of noise before …’ Nev stood up slowly and his gaze went skywards above their heads. He nodded towards the thickening cloud to the south.

  ‘That’s the noise of hail drumming on the cockpit. I reckon the damned fool is in that lot!’

  Toby’s mouth dropped open as he too gaped at the thundercloud.

  The lift continued steadily for a time and then without warning the visibility darkened again and suddenly Mike felt the glider being sucked up again at a rate of about eight to nine knots. He was confused. Had he turned into the storm again? His eyes felt as if they were bulging and his ears began to hurt and he felt a strange, giddy light-headedness. His thinking was slow and confused. Why did he feel so strange? He made a conscious effort to check his oxygen supply but that seemed to be working okay and there was plenty left.

  Up and up he was drawn. A loud crack above his head made him jump violently and look up. It was the canopy contracting in the high altitude. Somewhere inside his head a voice said ‘ get down, get down’. He must be very high to be feeling like this.

  Get down, get down!

  He reached forward to scratch away the ice on the altimeter. Had he made it? Had he got his diamond? He ought to be over twenty thousand feet to be absolutely sure.

  Suddenly the sailplane lurched and the whine of the variometer stopped. He was plunging, spiralling down, down, down, seemingly out of control in a vicious down-draught. Mike opened the airbrakes to limit his speed to avoid structural damage.

  The cloud and the greyness seemed to go on for ever.

  He was on the point of throwing open the cockpit and jumping out, hoping desperately that the altimeter, now hazy with frost again, was correct. According to it, he still had some ten thousand feet. The parachute was a comforting lump behind him. Much, much lower now he could hear the ice begin to chip away from the canopy and the wings. Still the glider bucketed downwards.

  Suddenly, the sailplane broke out of the cloud. Gently he eased back on the stick and opened the tiny side window to look out.

  ‘Oh my God! The sea. I’m over the bloody sea!’ He must have miscalculated very badly. The windspeed must have been far greater inside the storm and he had lost track of the time he had spent inside the cloud. Desperately he craned this way and that. Was there land in sight? Could he make it back to the land. But all he could see was the undulating softness of the water below and to one side the thundercloud he had just come out of.

  He flicked the radio switch and his voice was hoarse as he shouted, ‘Toby—Toby. Are you there?’

  There was no reply, but desperately he continued to broadcast just in case someone—anyone—could hear him. Forgetting all official radio procedure, he just shouted for help. ‘Toby—the sea—I’m over the sea. I’ll have to jump. No—wait. I can see land to my left. But miles away.’

  The only reply was a continuous crackle of interference.

  He became aware that he was gripping the stick tightly with both hands. Sheer panic surged up inside him and threatened to engulf him, blotting out all reasoned thought and calculation.

  Wait—wait! Mike t
ook two deep breaths and then tore off his oxygen mask. Get a hold of yourself, he commanded himself sharply. What he should do was to try to glide westerly into the wind and towards the coastline. Above him the thundercloud drifted out to sea, leaving Mike, tossed and buffeted, to try and make land before the height ran out.

  He tried to swallow the fear rising in his gullet, tried to concentrate on easing the swooping sailplane in a westerly direction, straining his eyes through the now rapidly clearing windscreen. He was conscious of the fact that the icing still left on the wings was having a drastic adverse effect on the performance of the glider, but as the sailplane passed into warmer air, the ice fell away completely.

  Something jogged at his brain. If he was over the sea then he had come east—just like the compass had shown him. The storm had blown him off course and instead of trusting his instruments he had preferred to believe them damaged by the lightning.

  The hazy outline of the coast was coming nearer, but he was dropping lower and lower towards the water. Again he flicked the radio switch and repeated his mayday message to Toby, but there was still no response.

  One thousand feet and now he knew that he could not make land.

  ‘Well, the nearer I can get the better,’ he muttered aloud and thought, maybe someone will see me. He tried to concentrate on how to bring the glider down smoothly on to the water, whilst part of his mind tried to estimate how long he would have before the glider sank and how he could get rid of some of his bulky clothing. With his free hand he unfastened his parachute and unzipped his anorak. He groaned aloud as he remembered the extra layers of clothing he had on to combat the high-altitude cold. He’d be a dead weight as soon as that lot became water-logged.