Scend of the Sea

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Scend of the Sea Page 17

by Geoffrey Jenkins


  She whispered, as if afraid to arouse the spectres of the past. ‘Is this the place?'

  I nodded.

  The sea was empty.

  Our shadows dissipated when the sun rose for another fine day. It lulled us into going ashore when a friendly ski-boat came out from the land and offered us a ride. I left Jubela in charge of Touleier. We were rowed across the river near the mouth by an African ferry; there was a magnificent up-river view for miles. I think we were both glad to be on land and stretch our legs. We laughed at a ridiculous pleasure launch shaped like a giant swan in poor imitation of something Mediterranean; we speculated over the origin of a twelve-foot sailing ship anchor with gigantic flukes which stood near the old jetty; we saw an old cannon from the treasure ship Grosvenor, a mystery of Pondoland which rivals that of the Waratah.

  We walked along the river-side road after lunch, and she bought some African beadwork. She was excitedly showing me a tiny rectangle of exquisiteness — each pattern in the Transkei has its message, of love, rejection, birth, death, health-when a car with tourists drew up with its radio blaring.

  It was then that we heard the news of a gale warning. 'North-westerly to westerly winds in the vicinity of Cape Point will reach thirty to forty-five knots, spreading eastwards..'

  Eastwards! To us! Here was the classic storm pattern beginning.

  I caught her arm. The pleasure of the small purchase died in her.

  I looked at her, and she looked at me. I remember her now in her thin summer dress standing next to the roughly planked wooden stall by the edge of the chocolate river, the blue, white and gold beadwork held in her hand. It seemed impossible, in that soft semi-tropical setting, that ice, gales and rollers would start to hurl themselves at the Cape within hours. Was it one of those lethal secondary low pressure systems which hive off the main storm and send the oilmen hurrying to batten down everything to safety and shipmasters to keep anxious watches in the type of weather which has earned the Cape of Storms its terrible cognomen? Would it turn into …?

  'How bad is it, Ian?' she asked, handing back the bead-work to the disappointed African woman.

  'We might know more if there had been a Walvis Bay on station,' I replied. My mind raced over a mass of technicalities. 'It may be everything; it may be nothing.'

  Upon the outcome hung my career and our love..

  'God!' I burst out. 'If only I knew?’ If only I could phone the Bureau and ask.’

  'You could, Ian! It's worth the risk! — don't mention your name or Touleier or the fat will be in the fire. You must know more before sailing down the coast.'

  I punched my fist into my palm in frustration. The real significance; can only be judged when I know more about the upper air winds, temperatures, pressures, and the like.

  Imagine an ordinary yacht skipper asking for that sort of stuff!'

  'Somehow, you must'

  I looked at my watch. A quarter to two.

  'I've got it! By now the Bureau will have had plenty of time to study this morning's weather satellite picture. That'll give us some idea of what's coming. It isn't the whole answer, as you know, but it's worth trying.'

  In the old hotel's musty foyer near a glass case of sea relics — huge conch shells, a medieval ship's bottle, a sea-scarred snuffbox whose vignette had been obliterated by long immersion -1 took the telephone call which was to mean so much to us. Tafline stood looking out to the river, past the massive wooden balcony supports of old ships' beams as I heard the portents.

  'What is it, darling?' she asked, when I had finished.

  She had paled, and I kissed the bloodless lips. 'It's still too early to say. We must get away to sea. At dawn this morning, the Cape had strong wind and rain, and by ten o'clock it was blowing a gale; the pressure went down like a lift. I think the Bureau was delighted to have a mere yachtsman ask such intelligent questions — they were quite forthcoming. The storm's moving east, at a great rate, towards us. But it could sheer off southwards into the Southern Ocean. Then all we'd get off the Bashee would be some strong wind.'

  'Shall we know at all in advance?' She, like myself, knew we "had to go, yet we jibbed before putting the horse to that cataclysmic jump.

  'From the signs we can, and the signs are at sea,' I answered. 'Here on the coast we should have a north-easterly wind today, and maybe even into tomorrow. You can tell if it's going to be a real buster because the pressure drops while the northeaster blows. Then suddenly the wind will die. Up goes the pressure. The wind shifts like lightning into the south-west, and before you know where you are it's a full gale.’

  ‘ A Waratah gale, Ian?' she asked in a small voice.

  'The right thing would be to signal Port Elizabeth as we go south. Yet one word of me being here in Touleier, in a gale, and they'd stick me landbound in a desert at the farthest spot away from the sea they could find, if they didn't sack me outright. We must get to sea — now. It might take us all night to reach our target area off the Bashee. We can hope for that freshening north-easter behind Touleier until it drops and gives way to what we're really looking for,'

  Our ski-boaters had left the village and gone fishing at Second Beach, an idyllic spot at the back of the huge cliff which is Cape Hermes. We hurriedly hired a car and found them on the rocks. They were surprised at our urgency to get to sea, and it was not until the middle of the afternoon that they put us alongside Touleier. They did not seem to grasp the significance of the yacht's famous name, and I did not enlighten them.

  'Get the mainsail and jib on her,' I ordered an equally surprised Jubela.

  As we headed away south-west, I explained the weather to him. We crammed on the big spinnaker to make time until dark. Later I intended to clear the decks of all loose gear and snug her down in earnest to meet the gale.

  The sun dropped behind the Gates of Port St John's, and the forests were silhouetted. Tafline had been below a long time, securing and stowing the galley things and double-checking all lockers.

  She had changed from her summer dress back into yachting sweater and slacks when she joined me. Cape Hermes was still visible astern, although the lighthouse itself was masked. She sat by me at the helm while Jubela worked forward.

  We continued to watch the disappearing headland. Then Tafline left her seat and dropped on her knees in front of me on the gratings, scrutinizing me as if we had been parted for years.

  'When I listened to you on the phone talking about the ins-and-outs of the weather I wondered, are we not dicing with the devil for our lives. Not the Flying Dutchman, but us? Deliberately, presumptuously — us?'

  The headland flared brighter, the sun using the river passage for its last rays.

  I tried to soothe her fears with more facile explanations of the safety of a small ship in a gale, and how tried and tested Touleier was, except for the new self-steering gear. I did not confess my misgivings about it, nor about the tall racing mast. I had watched Walvis Bay's short stubby foremast go half-overboard, and it had been steel, not light alloy, nor was it under a press of sail.

  She did not take her eyes from mine as I explained. Then, as I faltered to a finish, she made the most telling gesture in all my knowledge of our love. She put her cheeks between my hands, and said something to herself as if her heart would break. Then she spread her arms on my knees and buried her face, so that I saw the last sunlight between her short hair and the polo collar. Did she weep? Did she pray? All I know is that she knelt silent a long time. The yacht drove on.

  The day ran out, and the partridge sky became feathered with gold.

  We took the racing sails off her at sundown and brought up the tough gale trysail ready for use. Jubela and I worked on the self-steering gear and decided to disconnect it. Both of us had shared the wheel in Walvis Bay's ordeal, and we knew what to expect. Our judgment, in an engineless craft under sail, would have to be finer than any automatic device if the same thing happened again.

  When we had cleared the yacht, I sent Jubela below to rest. Tafline
stayed with me, waiting for the late-night shipping forecast. It would give us an idea of the direction of the storm. What I wanted, however, was more technical data which I could get only from Port Elizabeth, but I dared not signal the met. office there. I shelved my dilemma. The wind became fresher from the north-east; the stars were numberless over our heads, and the sea was sweet

  She tuned in.

  'There is a gale warning,' said the announcer. 'Strong north-westerly winds between Cape Town and Cape Agulhas will reach forty to fifty knots, spreading eastwards, with south-westerly forty-five to fifty-five knots later.'

  The signs are there, all right' I remarked. Tonight every oil rig will be battened down, waiting for the worst'

  'Why does the wind switch from northwest to southwest round the Cape coast?' she asked.

  'Because of the land mass,' I replied. 'That's why I'm so desperately keen to know what is happening at Port Elizabeth.'

  She went on hesitantly, as she always did when she asked me about sailing matters. 'Phillips was dumbfounded when he saw that old-time ship sailing against the wind. Since Touleier has no engine, how do you intend pushing into the teeth of a south-westerly gale?'

  The impending storm still seemed very far away that clear, fresh night with her next to me.

  I held her hand tightly and explained. 'Safe tactics in a sailing ship and a steamer caught in this sort of gale are two different matters. Two windjammers — the Johanna and Indian Empire-were, in fact, caught on the same day by the Waratah's gale. Both "hauled out" some seventy miles to sea to get away from the tug of the southbound Agulhas Current. They both crossed the Waratah's course, but they saw nothing, and spent ten days in one position riding the storm. That's what the experts thought Captain Ilbery would have done in the Waratah — beat it out to sea as far as he could, to ride out the storm in safety there.'

  'You still haven't told me what you intend to do.'

  'If the wind freshens, as I think it will, we'll be off the Bashee by mid-morning. While the weather is fair, I’ll get Touleier as near to Waratah's last known position as I can. Then — we'll ride out the gale. See what happens. We can't do more, we simply don't know more. It's really trailing one's coat in a sailer. We'll have to play the game off the cuff, perhaps even heave to, if the weather becomes too bad.'

  Touleier drove for the Bashee.

  Jubela called me at first light and I went to wake Tafline to be with me at the radio. I still dared not make a signal. I decided that I would try and intercept what Port Elizabeth was saying to other shipping. If it was bad, the port met. office would be warning the coast. From there, too, had come the C-in-C's 'clear-out' order.

  I stood for a long while, simply looking down on her asleep in all her loveliness, not daring to bring her to the day of tight tensions which I knew must follow. For I had taken a look round from the cockpit, and the signs were in the sea and sky. The wind had backed northerly and freshened; the tiny fluffs of cirrus cloud seemed high enough to want to compete with the last fading stars. There was no ominous bank on the south-western horizon yet, the purple sky-bloom which wrote the death of Waratah, Gemsbok and the Buccaneer. I was uneasy, taut, yet eager for the encounter, but I am glad now that I waited that breathing-space of minutes while my breath fell into step with hers, which the creaking of the yacht failed to disturb.

  After I had woken her, she joined me at the radio in the main cabin. On the South American race it had given trouble. When Touleier had been hard pressed, there was a seepage somewhere which affected its performance. I am no radio expert, and all I could do then was to try and keep it as dry as possible. The experts who had overhauled it had reinstalled it in the same place, with some extra waterproofing. It still seemed vulnerable to me, however, being close to the overhead skylight. Nevertheless, it seemed to work well enough now.

  1 probed the wavelengths. Nothing.

  I handed over the tuning dial to her slender fingers. Previously, the instrument had seemed to respond better to her delicate touch than to mine.

  She held up a warning hand.

  Port Elizabeth Met. to Ocean Fuel.

  'Supertanker!' I whispered.

  0600 GMT. Pressure 1000 mb, falling. Wind, light northerly to north-westerly, freshening. Sea, moderate northeasterly.

  She swung round to me, questioning. 'Yesl' I said. A Waratah gale was on the way. 'Listen!' she said.

  Port Elizabeth came in again after the Ocean Fuel's acknowledgment.

  South-westerly gale off southern Cape coast, fifty to fifty-five knots. All lined up here for gale. Advise you to make for nearest port.

  She came up to the cockpit and stayed with me until ten o'clock. We were off the Bashee.

  Jubela joined me and she went below. He and I unbent and stowed all sails, including the big mainsail, in the for'ard sail locker. We double-lashed all running gear on the lean, uncluttered deck in order to allow the seas free passage. We checked the self-draining cockpit and the buoyancy tanks. We also frapped the tall mast, Jubela agreeing with me that had it been jointed, we would have been well advised to send down the upper half.

  We broke out the small heavy canvas jib in order to keep steerage way. We brought to the ready, as an emergency stand-by, a still smaller, tougher trysail. In the soft weather of the moment the larger storm sail was scarcely enough to make the yacht ghost along, but it was all we needed as we marked time.

  When we had done, I found Tafline below. She had made packets of emergency sandwiches, and wrapped and labelled them individually as meals for the coming days. In a full blow, the galley stove could not be used. She had also filled big vacuum flasks with hot coffee and soup against the emergency.

  It was not until later, however, that I found out that her main concern had been to go once again through all the Waratah documents, double-wrap them in waterproofing, and re-stow them out of reach of any possible flooding in the galley's special head-high, metal-lined locker.

  She was finished by the time the lunch-hour shipping forecast came-thoughtful, tense, saying little.

  There is a gale warning. Strong south-westerly winds between Port Elizabeth and East London will reach forty-five to fifty-five knots later. All shipping is advised to make for port. We repeat, there is a gale warning …

  'No order from the C-in-C this time,' she remarked.

  'It'll come,' I replied grimly. ‘It's the final stage. They want to be quite sure, before putting out an order of such gravity.'

  The sea still kept its face bland, but the wind became uneasy, gusting fitfully from the north-east. I let Tafline steer the gliding yacht in order to pass the time.

  We said little, except once when she asked, 'Are we over the Waratah now, do you think, Ian?'

  'We certainly are right in the area where she disappeared.'

  She cut in quickly. 'What will you do when you find her?'

  I was about to answer when my eye caught something on the far horizon.

  'Look!'

  The line between the blue of the sea and the purple of the storm was scarcely distinguishable. It merged, it fused, trying to conceal its evil in the water it was so soon to corrupt.

  She gave a slight shiver, turned to me as if she intended to say something, and then started below.

  'I'll bring up all the oilskins.'

  The barometer started to rise. Soon the uneasy wind would settle into its true channel — the south-west.

  The first punch the storm threw at Touleier unmasked its lethal intent.

  I had put the yacht on the port tack, heading away from the land in the late afternoon. The wind was veering into its storm quarter, but still remained moderate. The sea began to rise, but I was unhappy about the Agulhas Current. It was so strong as to affect the steering: I was glad I had discarded the self-steering device. It required human brains and skill to offset what was starting to happen to the sea and wind. I was anxious, too, about Touleier's position. In theory, I knew that at first she would be driven southwards by the current, b
ut once the gale got under way in earnest, she would be blown back upon her course. By tacking out to sea until it worsened, and then tacking landwards again, I reckoned she would be roughly in the Waratah target area when the storm reached its climax, which would probably be next morning.

  I explained all this to her.

  'There's a point beyond which one cannot go with a ship,' I said. 'Walvis Bay was on the limit. If it gets too bad I'll heave to.'

  She smiled a little and said, 'Brinkmanship? A Fairlie judgement against a gale?'

  I nodded, but inwardly I did not share her faith in myself. I carefully counter-checked every point I could think of. It would need everything Jubela and I could muster to keep her afloat. I went cold when I thought consciously about that giant wave which had hit Walvis Bay.

  With a clap like a rifle-shot the storm jib exploded outwards in an iron-hard concave and blew to ribbons. In a second, it seemed, squares, rectangles and triangles of ripped sail insinuated themselves into the running blocks of the upper rigging. A ten-foot strip, still clinging by one tenuous cringle to an unyielding length of nylon rope, streamed out and flapped savagely against the mast. Then even the tough grommet could take the strain no longer, and the sail wrapped itself round the spreader and upper shrouds. The forestay thrummed like a double-bass.

  i The squall had struck ahead of the main army of the storm, now ominous and purple-black to starboard. There had been no herald of its coming.

  Touleier lay over on her side until the lee deck and cockpit were awash.

  Pinned like that and with almost no way on her, anything could happen. And the storm itself was upon us.

  'Jubela! Quick! That storm jib! Quick, man, quick!'

  Urgently I thrust the helm into Tafline's hands. 'Just try and hold her steady until the jib draws. It'll take both Jubela and me to set v the other storm jib. One of us will be back as soon as we can.'

 

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