The Triangle and The Mountain: A Bermuda Triangle Adventure

by Jake von Alpen

  He set the storm jib on an inner stay and furled the foresail. Grant was totally flabbergasted by the fact that none of his sails were torn. He had heard so many stories of shreds flying from the main mast or the forestay. Sail materials are just getting better and better, he reckoned. Paying a premium for the best was paying off. Also, the built-in popping mechanism that kicked in when the pressure on the sails become too much must have saved them. He had come across only a few yachts that had them, but he decided that in future he would recommend them wherever he went.

  Grant had been back in the doghouse for less than a minute before the wind returned and slammed them with incredible brutality, as if it had been gathering itself vengefully, just for this blow. The yacht heeled over and continued heeling as Madeleine turned it to starboard to ride the next onrushing wave. Grant resisted the temptation to grab the wheel as she corrected, bit by bit, like a surfer fighting for grip on a big curler. He marvelled at Madeleine and at the human spirit. Pander to its every whim and you had a being that appeared weak and helpless. Threaten its very existence and it could rear up and do battle with nature in all its naked fury.

  It was a long surf once more. “It’s not better,” shouted Madeleine, “the speed is less but I don’t have the same control.”

  “Let me get some mizzen sail up,” called Grant and stepped out to unfurl what he deemed prudent, which was not much.

  “How does it feel now?” he shouted through the open hatch.

  “Oh yeah, much better.”

  “It doesn’t seem a lot slower.”

  “No, I’m surprised by that, but I have more control.”

  “I think we got into the lee of these large waves before, which is why there is not much of a change. I will get a drogue out to drop our speed.”

  The air had been wet with rain and spray since the time that he came up on deck but the rain suddenly became a massive factor. It was as if they were being sprayed by a ten dozen fire hoses at full tilt.

  “I can’t see,” shouted Madeleine.

  “Must I take over?” asked Grant.

  “No, I can still feel.”

  Grant watched with Madeleine. He stood in the companionway looking backward and made suggestions while she peered ahead. When visibility was marginally better he went below. When he found their store of sea anchors and drogues he was momentarily stumped. He never had occasion to use one before. He knew that the sea anchor was a kind of parachute that had to be deployed from the bow when you faced the weather. He got it from the same dealer that provided the running rigging and the sails. It was in the bag on top. In another bag there was a long rode for it which was part nylon, part chain. It was not what they needed right now. They needed a drogue that could be deployed from the stern. The dealer told him that they needed two types. One was supposed to reduce speed to one knot and the other was intended to slow it down to six knots. He tried to remember exactly what the guy told him but it was a bit of a blur. What he shook out of the bags were little cups on a line. Then there was a single bottomless cup, but much bigger. Which one did what? He performed some mental arithmetic and calculated that the volume of the little cups exceeded that of the single bigger one by far. Which meant that the single bigger one with the hole was the right choice, because they did not want to stop. They wanted to slow down. He dragged it up to the doghouse and out into the madness on the deck. The mizzen mast provided a convenient anchoring point for his tether but the drogue almost flew away before he could thread its end through the quarter blocks. The boat was bucking like a bronco, intent on throwing him off.

  Then he stopped. He watched the curl of the wave that they were surfing and observed the broiling white mass of its crown as it passed under them. He realised that he was not at all sure that he was doing the right thing. The surfer in him started asking questions. If he was on his board and there was a line tugging at the end of the board all the time, how long would he stay on top? It just did not make sense. After a minute of reflection he tied the unused drogue tightly to the mizzen mast and crawled into the doghouse again.

  “I’m not sure about the drogue thing,” he said to Madeleine. “I’m a surfer and so are you. I think we just use our skills.”

  “I’m ok with that,” she said. “It is slightly easier now anyway. By the way, they’ve been looking for you on the radio all morning. Somebody called again while you were out back.”

  “Probably a router,” said Grant. “Are you still ok?”

  “I am but I would really, really like a cup of coffee.”

  “Let me see if the router is still there and then I will bring you one. He got below, placed himself at the navigation station and tried the SSB. Hank the router must have been waiting for his call because he responded immediately.

  As per the usual routine, Grant gave his position and a report of the conditions, all readily available on the Garmin screen in front of him. “Our current course,” he said, “is west-northwest, running before the wind. Speed is fourteen knots, going up to eighteen when we surf. We have seen a speed of twenty knots with more sail on. Currently we are under a storm jib and a bit of mizzen only. The wind comes from the northeast and wind speed is around two hundred and forty kilometres per hour, gusting up to two hundred and sixty. Waves are enormous with loose, breaking tops, thirty five to forty feet and I think I saw one or two of fifty feet. These are true hurricane conditions, or am I mistaken? We thought we were getting safely into a high and here we are battling seas that I have last seen on the Cape coast.”

  “The storm has caught everybody out,” said Hank. “It looked as if the hurricane was quieting down into a tropical storm. Then the entire system started speeding up toward Bermuda at sixty miles an hour and collided with the remnants of a strong cold front that had just swept in from the northwest. Overnight the two systems meshed into one single superstorm and when day broke this morning the eye of the hurricane was back. We see an even smaller eye than before, which corresponds with the extra high wind speeds that you are experiencing now. All the weather guys thought it was going to go on northward and pass Bermuda to the east, but not so. The entire storm swung due west, following the tracks of your boat. You must have a magnet in it. That high you are talking about has simply disappeared. It is as if it was swallowed up. What we now see is a trough of low pressure running east-west and you are right in it. What is your barometric pressure, by the way? You have not given it to me.”

  “I’m reading nine hundred and fifty five millibars,” said Grant. “How low is that?”

  “It’s low. Very low. You must be close to the inner wall. I will pass it on to the Hurricane Centre along with your other information. We were talking category three but it really sounds like a category four. How is your boat keeping up?”

  “The boat is doing fine so far. Just a little shaken up. How long will this last?”

  “You are currently experiencing the right shoulder of the hurricane, so it can hardly get worse. If you survive it you should survive the rest, but take care. If the course of the hurricane shifts to the north, as we expect, the eye will pass directly over you. Expect contrary winds on the other side. It could be another twelve to twenty four hours before you are out of it. Let us know how you are doing. We are all keeping a watch for you. Currently you are the only yacht caught up in the centre.”

  There was ongoing clamour in the gourmet kitchen but Grant ignored it and made two mugs of coffee.

  “It’s a first,” he said as he handed Madeleine her mug.

  “It’s very welcome,” she said. “What do we do now? Do we simply continue?”

  “There is nothing else that we can do. We’ve caught the full blast of it. My man Hank called it a superstorm. It’s a hurricane plus.”

  “I can see it is a hurricane but I was so sure that it was going to die. What happened?”

  “It has combined with another storm, that cold front that I told you about, the one that came in from the north. It is a category three going into four
now and we got the right shoulder. I told him it is as bad as the worst I’ve seen at the Cape.”

  “But we can handle it?”

  “I reckon there’s nothing two surfer dudes cannot manage out here.” He lifted his hand and Madeleine slapped him a high five in return. Somewhere he read that the first duty of a captain is to hold up the morale of his crew, which was the reason for the high five. Under the circumstances they were doing incredibly well, not least because his crew came through at the right moment.

  “All right,” he continued. “You must be tired. I’ll take her for four hours and then you can come back.”

  ***

  Braam Malan and his wife made all the usual arrangements that retired couples feel were required. How far were the shops? A regional shopping centre was only ten minutes away, and as it fortuitously happened, on the way to the beach. They got into the habit of having an ice cream on the raised outdoors section of a street café from where they had a first-hand view of the bodies lying about and the windsurfers taking advantage of the fresh south-easter. Yes the wind took some getting used to but with time they managed, to the point where they noticed it only for its absence or when it blew really hard. On their way back there was always a stop at the shopping mall. They filled up the brand-new Range Rover with purchases and it was a good homecoming to their dogs after half a day out.

  Braam had a set of golf clubs standing in his office for years, without actually touching them for more than two or three occasions, mostly for events that the business sponsored. Things were just too hectic. Next weekend became the weekend after that and so it went on. He just never got around to it. Now he dusted off the bag, checked that he had balls and tees in the pockets and dropped the set in the Range Rover’s ample luggage compartment. He enquired at two clubs and chose the one that was in between the shopping mall and the beach. It was nice to have everything close together. He paid his annual fees but headed for the driving range instead of going to the first T-off. Having frustrated himself completely, he accepted the services of the local pro, who was lingering in the background, having correctly identified a business opportunity. In no time at all, albeit at a cost that made him take notice, Braam’s golf swing was beginning to look like something presentable.

  Another place where he started hanging about was at the small harbour for pleasure craft. He booked a trip on a boat that went hunting for yellow-fin tuna and managed to bag one, decent enough to impress his wife with. Having his own boat would of course be ideal and he started making enquiries about appropriate size, for boat and engine or engines. At home he perused the internet for used boats but eventually he settled for a brand new one, with GPS, fish finder, VHF radio and a comfortable little cabin where one could take a rest, should the fishing get too much. He involved the wife in the purchase and she said she liked the idea of the cabin. It would have been nice of course to have a few mates with him out there on the blue but that would have to wait until they actually knew people in their new town.

  Then there were the more serious matters. There was the hospital. On their first reconnaissance trip, before they bought the house, they stopped by a modern clinic, a private health care facility, and took a brochure. Neither of them was in need of any acute treatment at the moment, but there was chronic high blood pressure on Braam’s side and they were gratified when they found that there was a highly recommended cardiac care facility incorporated into the clinic. There were ambulances and nice looking nurses, all the things you needed to prolong life.

  Regarding prolonging life, they even considered what would happen in that event. An upmarket frail care facility was available not too far away, in a retirement village. Braam, with foresight that left nothing to chance, paid a deposit on an apartment in the village. They considered themselves far too young to live in it for the next fifteen years but it was insurance against the future.

  Right across the road from the retirement village was a church, also very handy. Church was not really Braam’s thing. He was a hard man in a hard world. No sentiment for him. He grew up that way and lived that way. The ministers in Kimberley found him to be a man who kept his thoughts and his faith to himself. Not that they saw a lot of him. If it was not for his wife, who attended with their daughters, they would not have known of his existence. This was different, though. Apart from the obvious reason of insurance, this time for eternity itself, there was the social aspect. The church was filled with people of their own age. They attended and immediately felt welcome. Going home after the first service they agreed that these were ‘our people’.

  Bit by bit they got to know them. Braam’s wife Katarina gladly attended a few of the women’s meetings. There were several of them during the week where women were doing something or other for charitable causes. Katarina introduced Braam to the husbands. They were invited for a dinner or a braai and slowly they integrated. After only a few weeks Braam had a golf buddy, several fishing buddies and Katarina several shopping companions to choose from. Things were looking up. They were set for the long haul.

  Amongst the people that they met were Auntie Juliana and her husband Uncle Henry. The ladies spoke about them in hushed, reverential tones. Katarina told her husband. It nevertheless caused quite a stir with the newcomers from dusty Kimberley when they met the farming couple in the flesh. Days afterward they still shook their heads in wonder.

  “I do not believe that they are for real,” said Braam. “Your lady friends must by misinformed. That man looks no older than me by five years and Juliana is definitely no older than me. Older than you, yes, but not older than me.”

  “They have been members of this church for many, many years,” said Katarina. “There is just no way that they are deceiving the community. They are really that old. Uncle Henry is a hundred and nine and Auntie Juliana has already celebrated her hundred and fourth birthday.”

  “But how is it possible?”

  “The ladies say it is their lifestyle. They are both so devout and so spiritual and they live in a simple manner, eating everything fresh and drinking unpasteurised milk.”

  “So it’s in the milk.”

  “That’s what they say. Both Margie and Aleta, as well as others actually go there twice a week to get some of the milk for themselves. I already asked Auntie Juliana if she could fit us in.”

  “So we join the queue?”

  “It will do you good to get onto a farm again. We are rural people ourselves, comparatively speaking.”

  The couple from Kimberley now really had it all together. They were busy, getting known in the community and there was magic milk to crown it all off.

  Then disaster struck. Braam had a rather unwelcome call from Jimmy du Plessis, the former accountant of AB Malan & Son, Transporters. It was an intrusion into his new life, which was now beginning to take such good shape.

  “We are being audited by SARS,” said Jimmy.

  “Well, don’t you have it all under control? Why phone me with the news?”

  “I just thought you should know, that is all.”

  “I’m sure there is nothing you cannot handle, Jimmy,” said Braam, hoping that he was right. But that night he did not sleep well. Damn Jimmy, why could not keep such things to himself?

  Jimmy did not phone again for quite some time. For a full month, in fact. Braam had forgotten all about the tax issue when Jimmy phoned again. Again Braam spent the whole night awake. He had a choice, either to go the SARS offices in Cape Town or to travel all the way to Kimberley. The choice of venue was not the issue that worried him. It was what Jimmy had said. They were asking questions about the VAT, the VAT that he withheld because of the damage to his tyres. They wanted to interrogate him, Braam, in person.

  “When do they want to see me?” asked Braam.

  “In a ten days’ time.”

  “Let it be in Cape Town,” he said, “but you and I must have a meeting beforehand.” He was a fool, he mused, to have thought that he could simply give it all up and retire. It never
ended.

  He flew to Kimberley because he reckoned he could think better in his old haunts. They were having the meeting in Jimmy’s offices. On the way from the small airport they talked about the old times, which were, mind you, not that long ago. Still, it was a previous life. He told Jimmy about the boat and the fish he caught. Jimmy was impressed but not as impressed as he should have been. That put Braam on his guard. He was a good judge of people. He needed to be, all his life. Now, as they got down to business, he noticed with increasing alarm that Jimmy was indeed a changed man. He was always the cocky one, the magician who could make any scheme work. The Jimmy who sat behind the desk was unsure of himself, humble.

  “So,” said Braam, “What do you have to show me?”

  “Nothing,” said Jimmy. “They took it all.”

  “All of it?”

  “Every scrap of paper that we’ve accumulated over the last five years.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two days after I phoned you the first time. You know how they usually audit you, right? You give them summaries of this and summaries of that. If it looks ok on the surface, no problem. They ask for this invoice or that on and then slap you with a ten thousand rand fine just for the fun of it, without actually being able to show what it is for but that is the end of it. You pay up because you don’t want them to dig deeper. Not this time, though. As I said, they took everything. Then they came back with questions, lots and lots of questions. That’s why I phoned you.”

  “And you let them take everything?”

  “It’s the law. They have a right to do it. They brought a bunch of clerks and packed it all in boxes, all your records and then asked me if there was anything else. I said no and they reminded me that I will go to jail if I lied. I still figured they would find all of it too much to handle, but here we are. They want to ask you about the VAT.”