He could feel the boat move. It was as if they were a piece of roadside rubbish being swept along by the blade of a giant snowplough. This was a knockdown of epic proportions. He crawled to companionway, now lying at a crazy angle, facing downwards instead of up and had a look. The doghouse had a foot of water in it. In it sat his crew. She seemed fascinated by the green world outside the windows. With morbid fascination he watched as the doghouse moved until it pointed straight down before angling up again. They were making a three sixty! It was going to be another good tale for sure! The boat righted itself and dumped him unceremoniously at the foot of the stairs. Immediately the screams in the rigging penetrated with a note of fresh hysteria, as if the elements were angry that they did not stay down. Grant scrambled to his feet and raced up the companionway.
“I’ve got it,” he said and grabbed the wheel.
Madeleine watched him passively, not getting up from where she had been deposited on the floor.
“It’s useless,” she said. “Something broke in the steering.”
To see for himself, he swung the wheel from side to side. The hydraulics operated but there was no effect. He looked outside and realised that his boat was headed into the weather. That was fortunate, but how long would it last? He had a long look into the saloon. Water was sloshing about on the floor, carrying plastic boxes, clothes and vacuum-packed bags of food that he could remember stowing not so long ago, even fruit. Obviously some locker lids had broken open but that did not interest him now. He focussed on the water level. Fortunately it did not seem to grow. Quickly he opened the door of the cockpit and tried the wheel. It provided no resistance either. He came back in, ran down the steps and into the spacious machine room under the cockpit.
“Please turn the wheel!” he shouted to Madeleine, after looking for the remote for the autopilot but not finding it. “Now get into the cockpit and try the wheel there.”
To his eye there was nothing wrong with the steering mechanism. A horrible suspicion made itself master of him, but this was not the time to confirm it.
“Please see if we have more water coming in,” he asked Madeleine when he passed her on his way to the deck and exited through the hatch of the doghouse. He adjusted the sheet of the mizzen sail until it pointed directly astern and winched it tight. Good old mizzen sail. People sometimes ragged him about having a mizzen sail. Showboats with their fast sloops. Now he was extra glad for it. With the mizzen correcting any sideways movement and pointing them into the weather there was less chance that the next large one could roll them again. Now for the jib, which had foiled around its stay and was flailing madly.
He made his way forward, from handgrip to handgrip along the coach roof, clipping, reaching and unclipping as before while the wind tried to pluck his eyes from their sockets. Salt was burning in his nose and penetrated into his mouth. A shroud was flying loose and he barely escaped being decapitated. He noticed several halyards lying over the side. A lot of cleaning up needed to be done. Then it was a loose jib sheet that made him duck and weave. He thought about stories he had heard of people who were so good with whips that they could take a bird’s head off in flight. He now knew what it felt like to be that bird.
He was in his final dash when he realised that they were going down. Not a millisecond too late he reached the inner forestay that was his target. He clipped on and wrapping himself around it, hung on with all his might. Green water tugged furiously, but only up to his middle. Then the bow rose several metres into the sky. Grant quickly started to undo the hanks and was about halfway done when they dipped again. This time the water reached over his head. He held his breath but kept his eyes open. He saw only green. After another dunking, also over his head, he was done and raced back, storm jib tugged under his arm.
With the yacht facing into the wind the hard dodger of the cockpit provided a welcome respite. As a precaution he clipped himself to the mizzen mast while he got his breath back. What was the next step? Ah, first a check on the water inside and then that parachute. The bilge pumps were cycling furiously. He wanted to start the big diesel but stopped his hand in mid-air when he noticed that the ignition was already on. Deciding not to take a chance he stepped through the doghouse and the companionway. Another quick survey told him the water levels had not increased.
“Was the engine running when we went over?” he asked Madeleine.
“I saw the battery levels going down, so I ran the engine,” she said. “Was that a mistake?”
“It was not a mistake but it could mean that the engine got seawater inside. If it is true, we are going to have a problem. This yacht uses a lot of power. We need that engine to operate three hours a day just to charge the batteries.”
“Next time I will cut the engine if I see that we are going to roll.”
“Good idea. And you’ve done the right thing by running it. The batteries are really, really low. It only means one thing and that is that we have to start saving on electricity. The bilge pumps will use up our remaining power in no time at all. I will have to disconnect them as soon as possible. When I’m back from putting the parachute out we will have to get rid of the water manually. We have manual pumps and hoses somewhere. You can look for them so long.”
A shower of solid rain hammered on the coach roof like bullets from a machine gun. There were new leaks and Grant shook his head in despair. They had enough of the stuff inside already.
“You are not going out in that, are you?” asked Madeleine as hailstones started coming down as well, pinging loudly against metal parts.
“There is no choice here,” said Grant.
The parachute anchor was easy to find, since he had identified it earlier in the day. He took all the parts out the bags and assembled it in the larger space of the saloon. It helped that he was a para-sailor, used to work an expanse of silk, because there was a lot of it. When he thought he had it all connected he bundled it back into the bags and tied them together and then tied the whole lot to himself. Before he made his way up, he grabbed his diving mask.
“This is for seeing the fishes when we dunk down,” he said to Madeleine. “And by the way. Do you see this thing here?” He pointed at a cylindrical object held in a bracket against a bulkhead next to the companionway.
“Yep.”
“It is the emergency beacon. It sends a message with our position via satellite once we have activated it. If, for some reason, I don’t come back, you must take it out of the bracket and then you press this button here.”
“All right, and what do I do then?”
“You just sit tight. If the boat fills up and you cannot bail anymore, use the life raft. There are instructions somewhere on how to get it going.”
It was a massive struggle to make progress forward, because the wind had so much more to grip on. The diving mask helped remarkably well against the rain and the pelting hail, although the wind nearly took it off as well. He tied his load down, pulled the chain section of the parachute rode out of its bag and fed it over the anchor roller. After tying the end to a Samson post he only had to wait for the next dunking to release the parachute part into the water. When the bow rose up again, it was with satisfaction that he saw the silk spreading four metres below him in the sea.
On the way back aft he got hold of the loose shroud and tied it to a lifeline. The last thing he wanted was for a rogue shroud to smash in a skylight. The rest of the clearing-up work would have to wait until later. He sighted up the spars. They were fortunate in that nothing major seemed to have sustained damage. Down on deck he could only count a single stainless steel stanchion that was bent out of shape by the force of the water. When he arrived back below it was time to do something about the water that sloshed around, covering their feet.
“Bucket parade,” he said to Madeleine and handed her one.
“I thought we are pumping?”
“There is too much for now. These rubber buckets were designed to squeeze into the corners. They will do a better job. We catc
h it when the boat tilts. Do you want to be down below or upstairs?”
“We can take turns,” she said generously, “but why don’t you do something about your nose. It’s bleeding.”
“Let’s first get make some progress here. You get up and empty the buckets into the cockpit. I will pass them on. Open the hatch to the cockpit but stay aware of the pitch of the boat. When the rear goes down, better slam it shut.”
“I get it. It’s an open-shut routine.”
The water continued sloshing to and fro as the boat pitched and rolled. Grant stood in one spot with outspread legs to balance himself but Madeleine got thrown several times against the sides of the doghouse and picked up bruises of her own.
“Got to get your sea-legs,” said Grant.
“No surfboard acts like this,” said Madeleine, “and the bumps have become worse.”
“You know what it is?” asked Grant. “The sea-anchor is taking. We are no longer sailing backward. The boat gives less, so we get slapped harder by the waves. Are you going to cook?”
“I will try to. We are in need of something warm since we are both soaked.”
“Just take care when you do. Better stand away from the cooker.”
“I’ll take care. Where are you going?”
“I’m getting a plug for my nose and I’m putting on some music. We have to do something about the noise from upstairs.”
“Who’s that?” Madeleine asked when the hidden but powerful speakers of the yacht came to life.
“Bryan Adams.”
“Very old fashioned. I know the name but I’ve never listened to him.”
“It’s good for the nerves. I need some soothing right now. Anyway, I think you can come down. Most of it is under the sole. It is time for the pump. ”
Grant did the pumping while Madeleine handled the hoses and Bryan Adams in full voice competed with the shrieks in the rigging. They were still far from finished when they both stood up. Grant stopped the music. They heard a rush of waves but the howling was gone.
“We’re inside the eye!” they said together.
“How many people can say that?” asked Grant.
“How many people have lived to be able to say that?” asked Madeleine.
“We’ve survived the right-hand quadrant!” said Grant, “And I think we’ve done well. I must say that I’m not too surprised. This boat was built for conditions such as these. My specs to the builders were that it must be able to withstand a full Cape storm, heavy waves and all.”
“I was wondering,” said Madeleine. “I was a bit surprised that the water did not come in more when we were knocked down.”
“To be honest, we’re getting a bit more inside than I bargained for but it’s not a train smash. Everything has been built in order to withstand a knockdown. This is the first time it is being tested though. We tried her out in near-gale force conditions in Table Bay but we never simulated an actual knockdown.”
“That would’ve been taking it a bit too far.”
“I think so, yes. Which means that there are some items that I will have to improve on but it is mostly small stuff. She’s the best. People sometimes mock me because I have extra shrouds and double stays in the rigging. They say I have too much windage but I know that it’s there for a reason. Today, she’s proven herself. When I looked up earlier, her masts were standing proud. How many boats can go through a thrashing like that without dismasting?”
“Good ship!”
“Good ship indeed.”
“If only it wasn’t for the engine.”
“Yes, the engine. I’m afraid we’ll be washing dishes by hand until we’ve got that fixed, but that’s not essential. The essential thing is the integrity of the hull. It must keep the water out and so far it has done that.”
“What about the rudder.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Grant. “I’d better go check again. Why don’t you continue pumping so long?”
He engaged the useless autopilot and studied all visible parts of the steering carefully as they moved. When he came back he had a frown on his face. “We are in a spot of bother,” he said, after lowering the volume of the music, which Madeleine had turned up more, once he had disappeared aft. “It can only be one thing. The rudder stock has given in.”
“Which means what?”
“It means that I cannot fix it. That is plan B out of the way. Neither will the emergency tiller work. That is plan C also out of the way. Which leaves plan D.”
“Do we have a plan D?”
“Oh yes, we have. I have redundancy plans for everything that I could think of. We have to put on another rudder.”
“Don’t tell me you have one.”
“Yes, I have one. It’ smaller and we put on from the outside, but it will get us into harbour. I need about a day of really calm weather to hang it and then we will be right as rain.”
“So I don’t need to be pessimistic about our chances?”
“Not at all,” said Grant. “In fact, we should make it now with ease. It’s just a matter of sitting it out. The big danger was the right shoulder and that is now a thing of the past. I have a good feeling about this. Nobody puts Grant Anderson down that easily and I mean nobody.”
***
In a centuries old farmhouse in which there were many dark corners there was one that was visited on a daily basis. The wall had a covering of cork. On it, stuck there with pins, were an assortment of items, mostly pictures and even newspaper clippings. The pins were long and had large, gaily coloured bubbles of plastic at their ends, which allowed for easy handling. The extra length of the pins also allowed for thicker objects to be pinned, of course. A table was pushed tight against the wall. On it were even more items, a truly nonsensical collection that included contents of a medicine cabinet. There were plastic pill bottles all over. Most of them were filled with pills but some had locks of hair or even a single hair or a nail clipping in it. There were other rather odd things on the table, such as a sock without a mate, a single shoe, a hat and an unwashed handkerchief, amongst other bric-a-brac that looked as if it was looted from a rubbish bin. The casual passer-by would easily dismiss it as the intimate, chaotic nest of a deteriorating mind and miss the element of careful choreography that determined the layout. Such a person, if he or she were allowed into this corner, would, however, not miss the extra-large full-colour print of a sailing yacht that took pride of place amongst the photos on the wall. The beautiful lines of its snowy white body were rounded off by stylish fittings of stainless steel, smoked Plexiglass and Mahogany. The whole was rather pleasing to the eye.
A finger, dry with age but without a tremor, traced the lines of the yacht along the deck structure. First the foredeck, then the coach house, the slight, flared rise for the doghouse and then another flared rise for the hard dodger of the cockpit. They were in there, he and his mates, the people whose company he preferred. How were they feeling right now?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Grant and Madeleine had a change of clothes and then danced madly in the galley while the boat pitched, rocked and rolled equally as madly, but to a rhythm of its own, which included a surprise lurch every now and then. The noise of the wind was gone, but the wave action was as violent as ever. They decided to cook together, taking great care not to get burned. Their music choices were playing loudly and no new water came into the cabin, other than a trickle from the leaking ports in the hull. Madeleine served up a goulash and vegetable stew in high-sided Tupperware lunch boxes. Knives and forks were dangerous missiles under current conditions and so she emulated Grant for the first time and ate with a spoon only. They took their meal standing, with spring in their knees, pausing when the yacht heeled sharply and continuing when it recovered. The hot food made them feel better.
After dinner Grant started checking on the status of their equipment. The first item on his agenda was the engine.
In the engine room he took out the dipstick to see if there was any water in the oil. It seemed to
be in order. Once he managed to get the dipstick back into its little hole he bled the fuel lines. Immediately, he realised from the milky colour that the diesel had water in it. He kept on pumping diesel from the tanks and the results stayed the same. The tanks were contaminated with seawater. It meant that they could no longer use the engine.
The solar panels and the wind charger were still working but they could not give them the power that they needed. For solar panels you needed sun but soon they would have none once more. That left it to the wind charger, which, however, provided only a small percentage of their needs. There was only one other source of power. Grant rummaged in the bilges until he had found the meter and a half long cylinder that he was looking for – a turbine. He slipped it out its plastic sleeve and spun the rotor. It seemed to be in good order. He took it up in the cockpit, ran the line over a block and attached it to a socket before he threw it overboard.
Next, he made a note of the battery levels at the navigation station, which meanwhile showed a slight improvement. He switched on the bilge pumps and then started on a tour of the whole boat, carefully marking all the places where water came in. When he was finished, half an hour had passed and he monitored the battery levels again. The levels had gone down. He realised that the turbine was of almost no use and he knew why. The waves passing them by did not actually take the water with them. They consisted of travelling pulses of energy, transforming the water surface as they went but leaving most of it behind. The turbine required them to be sailing, and preferably as fast as possible.
The Triangle and The Mountain: A Bermuda Triangle Adventure Page 23