When he woke up, half an hour had passed. He was perfectly ok with that. Clearly he was going to be up all night and for now he had a lookout - of sorts. She was still sitting straight up, looking out over the port side and had not asked him to change course to deposit her on one of the islands that were still showing within her line of sight.
Just after four he refilled his coffee mug with the gourmet mix that was specially made up for him and grabbed another sandwich for good measure. Madeleine did not want anything but disappeared inside. “See you tomorrow,” Grant said under his breath. The sun was touching the horizon when, however, she reappeared.
“Why are there golden taps in the bathroom?”
“This yacht is top of the range. It’s supposed to have everything that opens and shuts.” At last she noticed something positive.
“Is it all yours?”
“Yes.”
“The letters on that big sail in the front, are they your initials?”
“On the spinnaker? Yes.”
“What does the ‘A’ stand for?”
“Anderson.”
“So it’s Grant Anderson?”
“That’s me.”
“I saw you sleep this afternoon. Why,” she asked with a voice that was still raw from throwing up, “do you have golden taps but no crew?”
“I told you I could not find any crew,” he said, irritated that she asked the one question that he would rather avoid. “I had a crew from Cape Town to St Martin. We arrived in May and I stayed on for the hurricane season. I cannot expect people to wait six months in one spot. Most of the guys were headed for the United States, so they flew on. Does it make sense?”
“I suppose. I’m just beginning to think it is strange that you could not find anybody else.”
“Well, that’s just the way it was. Maybe they were scared that the hurricane season is not over yet. It’s supposed to run to the end of this month.”
“We don’t usually get hurricanes in November,” she said.
“That’s why we are underway,” he said. “And now I have to take that spinnaker down. Don’t worry, I’ll manage.”
He was glad for the distraction, just in case she had more questions along the same line. What he had told Madeleine was not entirely true.
He had left Cape Town with five crew members, three of them paid, including the skipper. He recruited John the skipper from the Mediterranean where he had plied his trade for five years. In addition to the Mediterranean he had done several trans-Atlantic trips and knew the Caribbean quite well. He was qualified and experienced. Jimmy, who liked to refer to himself as an able seaman, was close to the point where he could take on the skipper role himself. Terence was another experienced crew who had served on an Atlantic crossing before. He offered more than the industry average and all three signed a year contract.
He flew John down to have a look at the boat while it was in its final stages of construction. He spent an hour looking it over and had a long discussions with the builder, who was also the designer.
“It’s amazing,” he said. “The last time I saw a glass yacht with such a thick hull it was one from the nineteen sixties. Why glass?”
“Because I like the luxurious way in which it finishes. In my opinion the most beautiful boats are all fibreglass.”
“Fine. It’s anyway probably as strong as you can build it. You’ve gone for the traditional design with a full keel and I tend to agree. It won’t be the easiest to move in a light wind but it will be a lot more stable in rough weather. It is a cruiser and not a racer. I see you are going for a quite a beamy design. It won’t really affect the speed and it means more space and stability. I don’t see a problem there either.”
“As you will see,” said Grant,” ”this is my floating office. I need a bit of room. As far as the weight is concerned, we double-rig her so we can push it if we have to. The main mast will be high and the mainsail a good size, almost nine hundred square feet. This is the strongest and safest boat this yard had ever produced. It will also be the most expensive but I have no problems with that, as long as I get what I want.”
“I hear what you say,” said John, “but just remember the sea is a hard mistress to please. Could I see what you have for non-return valves in the through-hulls? A little thing like that can be the end of you.”
John came back for the trials. Even he with all his experience was a little taken aback by the ostentatiousness of the final product, which showed in the plush finishes everywhere, the deep carpets that almost deadened the sound of the sea, the artfully recessed lights, the gourmet galley in stainless steel, the golden taps. The list went on and on. But he was pleased that Grant had not spared a dime in the electronics department either. They had the best and the latest in navigation equipment, integrated autopilot, radar, echo sounder, VHF and SSB radio, a permanent satellite communications uplink for the computers in Grant’s office as well as a separate satellite phone that sat on his desk. The office was a cross between a grand stateroom with a maritime feel, decorated in old-time luxury, with mahogany veneers on the walls and a solid cherry wood desk, rounded off with seascapes on the bulkheads – and ultra-modern functionality. The owner obviously did not want it to be topped by anything that could be found in the office blocks that towered over the yacht basin from the Cape Town foreshore.
During the trials John experimented with different combinations of sail. “I think she close-hauls rather nicely,” he said as they tacked back and forth against a stiff South-Easter. “Let’s see how she runs before the wind.” They entered into the channel between Robben Island and the mainland and put up the large spinnaker for the first time. The yacht logged ten to eleven knots after just a few minutes. Before long they had tried all the sail combinations for heavy weather, light airs and every conceivable situation in between. Their highest speed over the ground was a full twelve knots one day when the South Easter was gusting almost gale force.
“It’s actually very good for such a heavy cruiser,” was the skipper’s opinion, “and she shows she’s got balance. Didn’t ship much more than a cupful.”
After every trip John manually inspected the water collected in the bilges for which he kept the pumps disconnected. “It may look stupid to do this on a new boat,” he said, “but it is the most important test. It does not matter how grand the boat is. It’s got to keep the water out.” He eventually declared her ready for the Atlantic.
Grant hung on grimly through all of John’s shakedowns in Table Bay, being seasick on more occasions than he cared for. “Do you have to go so hard?” he asked more than once.
“Yes,” John said every time, “for your peace of mind and mine.” Grant worked as hard as everybody else as a common deckhand. He was working on his skipper’s license and he needed the exposure. It all changed once they had set out on their cross-Atlantic trip. The two unpaid hands, Greg and Darren, covered all the gaps that existed in the skipper’s roster. With all the state-of-the-art equipment that Grant had had installed on deck, nobody was overworked anyway. The crew settled down to the understanding that John was the skipper but that there was also a boss and that their job was to keep his mobile office afloat and generally headed toward Brazil and eventually to the Caribbean. When the boss felt like fun and took a watch or helped work the sails on occasion it was fully accepted and contributed to the relaxed atmosphere on board. They all got on well with each other and the jokes flowed freely, including the occasional practical ones.
Once they had arrived at St Martin the two unpaid deckhands packed their bags and flew on to the United States. The paid ones stayed and amused themselves with whatever both the Dutch and French halves of the island offered.
Then they resigned. First John the skipper, who took a plane back to Marseilles the very next day. A few days later Jimmy the Able Seaman and Terence the Atlantic Veteran informed him that they were leaving as well.
“Are you going to the Mediterranean too?” he asked, suddenly suspicious.
“No,” they said, “We found positions on another yacht here on the island.”
“Which one?” He was rather annoyed, be honest.
“We’d rather not say.”
Buggers. How was that for neighbourliness? There were yacht owners on this island who were shooting the breeze with him and slapped his back at the barbeques but all the time they were using the opportunity to look over his experienced crew.
The story took a different course, however, several months later. He was sitting in a restaurant for lunch slash breakfast with the lovely of the day. The smartly dressed and perfectly groomed waiter who attended to them turned out to be none other than Terence the Atlantic Specialist.
“Hi Grant,” he greeted rather formally.
“Hey Terence,” said Grant, once he had recovered from the double-take. “What are you doing here? I thought you were full-time on another deep-water cruiser.”
“It did not quite work out that way,” said Terence, still with the waiter’s formality. “Can I get you guys some drinks so long?”
When he returned with the drinks Grant was ready for him. “If you are here,” he said, “What happened to Jimmy?”
“Oh he’s here as well. He works the evening shift today.”
“I’m totally surprised,” said Grant. “For how long?”
“Jimmy is talking to somebody for both of us. We’ll get a boat in a month.”
“Well, why don’t you come back to me? I don’t have replacements yet.”
“No thank you, Grant. Are you ready to order yet?”
It was after the main course that Terence spoke to him. “Ahem, Grant, I am in two minds here, please understand me well, but there is something that I think I should tell you.” He looked over at the girl, who got the hint.
“Will you excuse me?” she asked and disappeared in the direction of the bathrooms.
“It is about time,” said Grant, addressing Terence, not the girl.
“The story is this,” said Terence. “Us three guys were just walking all over the island looking at stuff when we came across this shop that sells all kinds of things that have to do with voodoo, you know, for the tourists. We walked in to see what they’ve got and in the corner we saw this room where you could go for a consultation. We thought what the heck, let’s have some fun. The woman in there did not throw bones or anything. She just told us straight that there were four of us and that the one who was not there was the owner of the boat on which we worked. She told us he was from Africa and that he was bringing back the curse to the Triangle. Anybody who sailed with him into the Triangle was going to drown. Just like that. We did not say a word. We paid her and walked out. Two days later we saw John leave. Jimmy and I said that without John it’s just not the same, so we resigned as well.”
“Drat! You were actually considering what this woman had said to you!”
“Listen, I don’t believe in that stuff either, ok. Nobody wants to believe in that stuff. Jimmy and I never talk about it.”
“Then why are you talking to me now about the stuff?”
“I just thought you should know, that’s all. Perhaps. Perhaps it was better not to tell you. Your lady is coming back. I’ll get the dessert menu.”
Grant thought it over and when Terence returned he laughed. “Listen Terence, this is a good one. You were always the practical joker but this one had me going there for a while. I bear no grudges my man. I’ll give you an extra tip for the fun.”
He repeated the story when he met with the boys over the barbeque fire, Heineken in hand. Everybody thought it was hilarious. It was apparently so funny that it spread like wildfire through the entire and rather large yachting community on the island. As a result his enquiries for crew came to nothing. People came, realised who he was and politely declined the offer of employment.
In the end he was forced to find Jimmy and Terence and pleaded with them to tell the truth – to the South Africans on the lagoon in the first place. Instead, they took him to the place where they found the woman. When he walked in she knew who he was without introduction.
“You must go back,” she said. “Go now, today, to Princess Juliana airport and fly back to your country. Leave and get somebody to sell your yacht.”
Her words gave him an idea. “I know what is happening here,” he said. “Somebody wants to buy my yacht and he knows it is not for sale. I’ll pay double what this person had paid you. Just tell me who it is.”
“Nobody paid me,” she said. “You have the curse, the Curse of the Mountain.”
“What mountain?” he asked.
She found a piece of paper and drew the outline of a mountain. Onto the side of the biggest peak she drew the face of something that looked like a snake, or was it a skull? Whatever it was, it was ugly.
She refused to take his offer of more money and even declined to take the fee for the session. Something was going on and somebody was behind it all. Whoever it was, he was getting fed-up with the intrigue, the mystery and the superstitious minds of the people he had to deal with. It was time to leave the island – on his yacht.
CHAPTER TWO
Toward the end of the year, early in the eighteenth century, in high summer but on the cool side of a mountain, two men crouched by a little stream that ran down a steep gulley. The gulley was filled with ancient hardwood trees that hid a secret, which was that this was the only place on the entire mountain where there was water in summer so high up. They were enjoying the water and the shade and neither of them was in a hurry. In fact, they had all the time in the world. Slowly they filled several gourds with the clear running liquid. And they talked in the language of their forefathers, which to the European ear sounded like the breeze blowing through a stand of reeds, full of clicks and hisses and low on vowels.
For the most part the old man, who could have been the grandfather of the younger, did the talking. His audience of one listened respectfully. Although the old one tended to ramble like all teachers of a certain age, it was far from a casual conversation. The ancient ritual of the master and the apprentice was playing itself out. In this secret place where nobody could overhear them, what was being transferred were also secrets, deadly secrets. The KhoiKhoi nation to which they belonged had an array of people who operated in the interface of the temporary and the eternal, the dividing line between life and death, the limited and the unlimited. There were shamans who dreamed for them as well as for their San cousins, there were mediums, there were people who told stories of Heitsi-Ebib the most eminent of their forefathers, there were medicine men who could unlock the secrets of the plant world and save your life and then, right at the bottom, there were them, feared and despised in equal measure. Because they were the sorcerers. Their magic was the most powerful but they did not derive their potions from plants. They got it from human body parts.
The grey-haired elder hung the filled gourds on the sinewy body of his companion, who clearly expected this because he patiently allowed himself to be loaded up. His older partner kept one gourd for himself, which he slung across his shoulders by its thongs of goat’s leather. Then they gingerly made their way out of the gulley, first along a rocky ledge and then up a steep incline. They exited the gully some distance below a windswept col that connected two peaks and climbed up to it. A south-easterly wind was blowing hard up here and flattened the coarse grass. They did not cross the col but turned to the left and picked their way over the rocks along a footpath only barely visible, taking care not to step into the thorny green shrubbery that covered the ground between the rocks. They progressed along the flank of the mountain, in the face of the wind, until they reached the cave where they lived.
Their home was nothing more than a large slab of rock that had fallen on its side but was stopped on its downward slide by another. Under its flat bottom was a hollow with an opening that faced away from the prevailing south-easterly wind and did not let the rain in either. It had enough space for the master to sleep in the deepest end and for
the apprentice to stretch out at the door. They were not uncomfortable here. For bedding they used twigs from a bush which had leaves softer than a baby’s touch and to cover them they used skins tenderised by a process which the Dutch so far did not come close to imitate. They performed their cooking in the lee of the rock right in front of their cave home and this is where they put down their load of water containers.
Water they now had in abundance but food supplies were running low. For tonight they had the hare that they bagged with a throwing stick the day before but they would have to start thinking about tomorrow. What complicated matters was that they never hunted on the mountain. They had to go down into the valleys and find food amongst the scarce game there. Alternatively they had to eat bulbs – or beg.
“Down there,” said the master, whose eyes were still good enough to see in the distance. “What do I see there on that open patch by the stream?”
The young one squinted his eyes.
“Yes I see them now,” he said. “Maybe four or five. Reedbuck for sure. They’ve gone down there for the green grass and the water.
“That is where we will take one of them,” said the master. “Before they turn to come up the mountain. We will have to start now.”
They took up their spears. The old man was an acknowledged expert at throwing the spear when he was younger and he could still do it on occasion. The apprentice often missed but he was improving. They also had poison tipped arrows in their quivers but they did not want to take the chance of an animal running up the mountain and dying there.
The Triangle and The Mountain: A Bermuda Triangle Adventure Page 2