A Ravel of Waters

by Geoffery Jenkins

  'Then what do you expect from Jetwind?' I asked.

  'To compete with powered vessels, she has to have a service speed of between ten and twelve knots on any voyage,' he replied. 'But make no mistake about her speed - potential speed, I should say. She can achieve twenty-two knots in a Force Nine gale. On any point of sailing she is at least sixty per cent faster than the great old-timers like the legendary German nitrate five-master Preussen. She is a flier, born and bred. That rig of hers develops no less than forty thousand horse-power in a Force Nine gale - about two-thirds of the thrust of a World War II light cruiser's turbines. Shaped alongside well-proven four-masted barques, Jetwind develops up to one hundred and eleven per cent more driving thrust. To evaluate Jetwind's design, we carried out hundreds of simulated crossings of the Atlantic, in both directions. We found she would average from ten to twelve knots eastward from America to Europe, and eight to nine knots in the opposite direction.'

  'What about calms, doldrums? Not even Weather Routing can stop the wind from not blowing.'

  'In a flat calm Jetwind has three small auxiliary dieseis of five hundred horse-power each. They will drive her at eight knots and can also be used to power the hydraulic mechanisms for the masts and sails and to supply electricity to the ship. She also has powered bow and stem thrusters for manoeuvring in port. Jetwind can spin on a dime, using them in conjunction with her own sails.

  Don asked, 'Doesn't the screw act as a drag when she is under sail?'

  'No,' answered Thomsen. 'It has a variable pitch and is housed in a nacelle which is retractable when not in use. It is as different a concept from the old auxiliary as her sails are from a clipper's.'

  I said, 'Jetwind sounds magnificent - as a computer print-out. Things that work in a wind-tunnel don't necessarily work in a Southern Ocean gale.'

  Chapter 4

  As an answer, Thomsen threw down a photograph in front of me. It was an aerial shot of Jetwind leaving harbour, taken from above her port bow. It was an exciting, novel sight, as beautiful in its own right as any classic clipper. There were six towering masts with gleaming light alloy yards. White dacron sails were snuggled to each other to form an unbroken quintuple aerofoil the full height of each mast with hardly any space showing between them. She had a lean hull painted dark green with a gold stripe. There was not a crew man to be seen.

  'Does that look like a paper ship?' Thomsen's voice was abrasive.

  'I've never seen a rig like that,' I said. 'I wonder, though, how she steers without jibs or staysails ...'

  'You don't seem able to get the image of old sailing ships out of your mind,' he snapped back. 'Can't you see, man, she is new, new as tomorrow? You're saying what a thousand sceptics said when I originally planned Jetwind. Every ship-owner I approached for financial backing said, "It's all very nice, but..." Hell, man, don't you feel what Jetwind represents? The new age of sail!' He went on, his voice rising. 'I've backed this hunch of mine to the time of twenty million dollars. I tell you this, Rainier, if Jetwind is a success I intend to build a fleet of Jetwinds. Five more. I'll show the doubters! Five more - that means I need financial backers - and backers have to be convinced.'

  Why, I asked myself, had Thomsen flown to Knysna to meet me? It wasn't as if I could offer him backing. My total assets were a few sea-damp clothes in Albatros*s locker.

  'What happened to Jetwind's attempt on the Montevideo-Cape record?' I asked. 'I last heard of her in Montevideo as Albatros staged down the South American coast for the Horn. Radio news has been out since I cleared the Falklands.'

  The muscles round Thomsen's mouth went taut. 'Get me another drink, will you, Don? I need it. So you haven't heard about Jetwind, Rainier?'

  'No.'

  'Then let me clear the decks, so to speak, before I answer your question. I built Jetwind as a commercial proposition. I built her in the firm belief that she can compete on near equal terms with steam or motor ships. Her maiden voyage was planned to be a shop-window promotion. I selected a route on which one can be pretty sure of the wind -Montevideo to Cape Town. Just right for bulk cargoes -wheat, maize, ore, coal. It is also short enough to hold the public's interest - three thousand, six hundred and twenty nautical miles. It used to take old-time windjammers twenty days. I gave orders that Jetwind was to do it in thirteen. An average of almost twelve knots.

  ‘Jetwind made the run from the Channel to the Equator in fifteen days - as good a time as any accomplished under sail. She made another good run from the Line to the River Plate - as she bloody well should have done, with the wind and the currents all in her favour down the South American coast.

  'I had a first-rate skipper in Mortensen. If any skipper was capable of demonstrating Jetwind's mettle, it was him. I'd given him strict orders not to open her up until he got on the Montevideo-Cape leg. The ship was also in the process of shaking down, although she had only minor teething troubles - nothing to worry about. Mortensen said she handled sweetly, a real thoroughbred. He was happy with her.'

  'Was?' I asked.

  Thomsen could not control his agitation. 'Mortensen is dead. Everything has gone wrong since.' 'What happened?'

  Thomsen lit another Perilly, but threw it away before he had taken more than one deep gulp of smoke.

  'Jetwind's attempt on the record caught the public imagination - the media's likewise. Every pressman, radio commentator, TV camera eye, was upon her, I had arranged a grandstand finish here in Cape Town. In anticipation of it, I flew out a dozen of the world's top shipowners to meet the herald of the new age of sail. And now, here they are - waiting! One of them, Sir James Hathaway, is travelling with the ship. He is a sail enthusiast. If he backs me, the others will follow like sheep. Sir James wanted to see for himself how Jetwind handled at sea. Now...!'

  'I guess ship-owners are more conservative even than sailors when it comes to accepting innovations,' I said. 'I know how I felt when I was first confronted with the Venetian Rig.'

  'Mortensen got away to a flying start from Montevideo...' Thomsen went on.

  'I saw it on TV,' said Don. 'She looked splendid coming out of the River Plate.'

  'Looked!' exploded Thomsen. 'She could have looked any way she liked, so long as she had performed!'

  'What happened then?' I asked.

  'Mortensen was killed, that's what! He chose his wind carefully for the start and the expected ongoing weather for the Cape. Jetwind took off like a bomb. In three days she logged a thousand miles. Then he was killed.'

  'How?'

  'I couldn't - haven't - got any details from anyone about how it actually happened. Jetwind has one of the finest communications systems afloat. With Mortensen, all I had to do was to pick up a phone anywhere and I could speak to him. All I can make out is that Mortensen was killed in some kind of an accident involving the sail furling gear.'

  'But from what you've told us, any competent officer should have been able to press the right tit and sail her.'

  He spun round and glared at me, and I saw how really touchy he was.

  'I wasn't trying to be funny,' I added. 'You obviously had good back-up men under Mortensen. What was to prevent them taking over and bringing the ship on to the Cape?'

  He replied in a kind of snarl. 'I hand-picked every goddam one of them. Including the first officer, Anton Grohman.'

  'Grohman? His name rings a bell.'

  'He made the headlines during the last round the world yacht race. One of the boats was sinking off Brazil. He was nearby, and rescued the crew in his schooner.'

  'Now I remember. From what I recall, Grohman did a terrific job.'

  'He did. Then,' Thomsen added grimly. 'I met him in Germany while Jetwind was being built. He wanted a job. He had all the qualifications, and excellent references. I'd already hired Mortensen as captain but I had no doubts about Grohman's abilities. Until. . .' He threw back the last of his drink.

  'Until when?' I asked.

  'Until Grohman reported Mortensen's death, and I instructed him to take
command of Jetwind and carry on to the Cape. The next thing I heard was that Jetwind was heading for the Falklands.'

  'You must be joking!'

  'Captain Rainier, I wish to heaven I was!'

  'Any sailor worth his salt would know that such a diversion was plain mad.'. I found myself sharing Thomsen's anger. 'The Falklands!' I repeated in disbelief. 'If Jetwind was a thousand miles off the South American coast on course for the Cape, Grohman must have swung clean into the teeth of the prevailing winds and currents to head for the Falklands. He must have been crazy!'

  Thomsen said bitterly, 'That's what Grohman did.'

  'I would have given any skipper who did that the chop -pronto’ I said.

  Thomsen went on. 'The day Mortensen was killed Jetwind was running with a fresh southwesterly abeam -one of her best points of sailing. She was logging a steady sixteen knots in a rising sea. Weather Routing reported a big low astern of her, with the promise of a big blow - enough wind to take Grohman fast to Gough, which is halfway to the Cape. I know what conditions were because I spoke to Mortensen a few hours before his death. The prospect of a sustained storm thrilled Mortensen; he was piling on sail. He hoped to achieve Jetwind's theoretical maximum of twenty-two knots before it was over. Then...'

  Thomsen collided with a table as he strode unseeingly about the room. What he went on to say made his face leaner, tougher, and he himself taller than he really was.

  'Grohman put the ship about, and beat into the gale for days. The Falklands! Of all places, why? That is where Jetwind is now. In Port Stanley. That's why I reacted the way I did when you told me you'd been close to Port Stanley when you cut through the Jasons in Albatros.’

  'Who was the next man in line after Grohman?'

  'Tideman. John Tideman. Royal Navy Adventure Training School. Sailed round the Horn three times. He would know how to handle a fast ship!'

  'Why didn't you appoint Tideman?'

  'I told you, after Mortensen's death, I could not communicate with Jetwind, or I would have. Besides, I didn't know - wasn't told - that Jetwind had altered course. The communications system seemed to go haywire.'

  'The radio, you mean?'

  'No. I know the radio was working, because I checked back with Weather Routing. The ship was still acknowledging weather advice. But all I got were some cryptic telex messages when he was finally approaching the Falklands. Something about formalities surrounding Mortensen's death... a lot of crap! But that isn't the end of the story. Once Grohman reached Port Stanley, the authorities held Jetwind’

  'You mean arrested?'

  'Held is all I know. Investigations. Inquest into Mortensen's death. I tried phoning for clarification. If you want to blow a gasket, just try phoning Port Stanley.'

  'It's absurd,' I replied. 'The British authorities in Port Stanley...'

  'It was not only the British who stalled,' he retorted. 'It was the Argentinians. They also put their damned dago fingers in my Jetwind operation.'

  'But the Falklands are British,' Don said.

  'Argentina doesn't give a damn,' Thomsen snapped back. 'They have claimed the islands for generations. They even have their own name for them - the Malvinas. I wish I knew what got into that fool Grohman to put his nose into that thorny nest of international politics. All he needed to do was to carry on to Cape Town.'

  'When did all this happen?' I asked.

  'A week ago. A week! A week ago Jetwind anchored in Port Stanley! She was originally due in Cape Town five days ago and now she's harbour-bound while a dozen of the world's top shipping tycoons snigger in derision!'

  'What does Sir James Hathaway say about this Falklands business? He's on the spot.'

  'He is in a spot,' Thomsen retorted. 'He is being held in a kind of protective custody aboard Jetwind. The Argentinian authorities have refused to allow him to return via the mainland - a matter of bureaucratic red tape involving his travel permit. He must be chewing the rudder pintles off Jetwind. Every extra day he is ship-bound in Port Stanley, my chances of obtaining his financial backing diminish.'

  'What about the other ship-owners?'

  'Polite, but increasingly sceptical about Jetwind. They bring up the old cliche, something always happens to a sailing ship. Something did. Twenty million dollars' worth of floating computerized gadgetry is tied up in an obscure port. But I'm not beaten yet,' he said in a steely voice.

  I said tersely, 'You didn't come here to cry on my shoulder.'

  'Jetwind is still viable. I've decided to send the shipowner party off on a cruise to Gough Island.'

  'To Gough? What the hell for? It's only halfway from South America to the Cape.'

  'That's why! I'll show 'em still!' he went on. 'Gough is fifteen hundred and fifty nautical miles from the Cape. It's two thousand, one hundred and fifty miles from the Falklands. Jetwind can cover that distance in a week if she's thrashed to the limit. My party will be travelling aboard the South African research ship Agulhas due to relieve the weather station on Gough. I'm planning to have Jetwind intercept the Agulhas, and give a demonstration of her - in full flight, so to speak. That'll get 'em! They'll buy my project yet, if they can see her like that! I'll convince Hathaway, too! Given the right skipper she can do it.'

  Don obviously knew all about the Jetwind drama. He made a great fuss over Thomsen's empty glass. He was clearly deeply concerned over the whole affair. Turning to face Thomsen, he said, 'Axel, I think the time has come to tell our friend here the purpose of our meeting.'

  'Right,' said Thomsen in an authoritative manner. 'Let me come to the point. Rainier. I need a sailor, a man with guts, a man who's not afraid to take chances and pick up a challenge.' He came close to me with his fists clenched as if he meant to hit me. And flinging a fist in my direction, he said, 'I need YOU!'

  Chapter 5

  My state of exhaustion suddenly gave way to full alertness. Thomsen's offer triggered off in my mind's eye, like a slow-motion repeat TV run, some of the hazards I had survived in Albatros in the Southern Ocean. Beneath me again was a green and white monster wave down whose side Albatros had pitchpoled, out of control, with seventy-five knots of wind flattening its crest and searing the ocean's surface raw white, like an irradiated cancer exfoliating. Another mental picture followed: an ice-blue ocean in the vicinity of Gough and on every side a convoy of huge tabular icebergs stretching to the horizon, rearing and plunging like mobile casemates. Strangest of all, however, had been the swirling, steamy mist surrounding the bergs. It lent the scene an unreal, mystical quality, the quality of a dream. A final image was the dreaded Cape Horn itself - it had unveiled itself for an unprecedented half-hour of calm at the outset of Albatros's voyage. I had lived out these sights - alone.

  'The answer is no,' I said.

  Thomsen had been leaning towards me in that peculiar aggressive attitude; now at my refusal he drew back.

  'Don,' he said calmly. 'Would you go and get my briefcase from the car?'

  Sheila appeared at the door at that moment; Don had sense enough to sweep her away with him.

  Thomsen eyed me. I saw him for what he was - tough, prepared to fight for what he wanted. His fancy diamond pin and dolphin lighter weren't part of the real man.

  'So you're going to chicken out?' he said contemptuously.

  'I haven't chickened in,' I retorted. 'Now look here* Mr Thomsen, I've been twenty-six days alone at sea across the wildest ocean in the world. I'm dead on my feet. I need a rest’

  'Don't give me that stuff, Rainier. Sure, you've done a great job with Albatros. Now there's an even greater job awaiting you with Jetwind’

  Don and Sheila reappeared. Don dumped Thomsen's brief-case and they beat a hurried retreat when they heard the drift of our discussion.

  'Jetwind has lost so much time that it's hopeless . . I began.

  Thomsen did not seem to be listening. He pulled a plan from his brief-case and threw it in front of me.

  'Look! Jetwind! There has never been a ship like this before! One hundred
and twenty-five metres long, twenty-one in the beam, nine deep. Look at her proportions! Six masts! Neither you nor anyone else has ever seen masts like those! Stream-lined, aerodynamic, hydraulically trimmed - perfect. High tensile steel for the lower, light alloy for the upper sections. The masts are designed to offer minimum wind resistance. She's beautiful, she's fast - by all that's holy, man, can't you feel what this ship is?'

  I could, and I did. But my appreciation was at a distance, the distance of a drawing-board plan. I had not experienced the real thing.

  'I thought her yards would be wider,' I remarked.

  I was aware of Thomsen's keen scrutiny of me as my interest grew. 'They have been criticized by comparison with those of the famous clippers. They are as deep as the fastest, but not as wide. Still, that counts for nothing. As I've said, those old fliers are dead. What matters here is the shape of the aerofoil - that has been evolved by means of the wind-tunnel.'

  I studied the plan further. 'I see she's got accommodation for passengers.'

  'Aye, for twelve, in the stern. Well out of your way on the bridge.'

  'What do you mean, "out of my way"? I said No, didn't I?'

  'I was just generalizing.'

  Noting the design closely, I continued, 'I don't care for all the clutter of bridge structure so far for'ard - the position of it seems to be thought out in terms of a steamship. The captain of a sailing ship must be able to see his sails in front. I would have sited the bridge much further aft, abaft the mainmast.'

  iJetwind’s bridge is not so much a bridge in the accepted sense as a control centre,' replied Thomsen. An imperceptible change had crept into his voice. His former aggressiveness had disappeared. Perhaps he was playing his fish far more skilfully than I gave him credit for.