“Otto.”
“Yes?”
“Well, Otto’s grandfather said that he liked to go with this old shepherd up the mountain, because it was all so interesting. The old man knew where people had lived long ago. Indigenous people. He showed the boy where the huts stood and they dug out stone implements. He also knew every bush, flower and herb. He had an indigenous name for everything and he told Otto’s grandfather what they could be used for. Some you could eat, some were good for stomach ache, some for headache and so on and so on. There was a story about each little plant and according to Otto’s mum her father told them some of the amusing ones that he could remember. They actually dug up some roots and cooked them and ate them up there on the mountain. This old man only came in summer. In September he was there and then he disappeared again in March. Every year. Over this time he collected a whole number of bags with leaves and roots and things.”
“And that’s it?”
“I suppose so. Talking about leaf collection, though, there was one very special place where he always went to collect leaves. It was from a very old fire-scarred tree that grew at the entrance to a cave at the bottom of a steep cliff face. He told his young companion that he should never go there alone. The shepherd told him that the leaves from that old tree had more power than all other plants together. There was a secret way to extract the power and only he knew how to do it. The reason he came to the mountain every year was because of that tree. He also showed the boy loose rocks on the side of the mountain. These, he said, were graves and that they should not be disturbed. The shepherd spoke softly and told the boy to answer him softly. He said that people who disturbed the peace around these graves brought trouble on themselves. Never, he said, should he hunt and kill an animal on the mountain. Just then there was an aeroplane flying close by, making a noise. The old man pointed up at it and said that the pilot was risking his life. Otto’s grandfather never forgot that and always afterward felt uncomfortable in that part of the mountain.”
“Have you disturbed these graves?”
“No. I don’t even know what they look like or where they are.”
“You must have done something. Did she say anything else about the mountain?”
“Otto’s mother? Not really. Just that it was a bad idea to name my boat after it.”
“Why?”
“Because it was bad luck. Apparently an airline named a plane after it and it crashed mysteriously. She said it was not a good idea to name any vessel, sailing or flying, after the mountain but she refused to tell me why. Old wives tales, you know. The moment you ask for facts none are forthcoming.”
“Did any of the little planes that buzzed around the mountain ever crash?”
“Her father said so, yes. Apparently there was this plane one day that went around and around the mountain and all of a sudden the wings fell off. Nobody could ever figure out why the wings just fell off. It stayed a mystery. That is what he told his kids when they were small. I’m not even sure that it was true.”
“You must have done something up there, Grant. Think! Have you been hunting?”
“No. I’ve done nothing like that. I love the place. I like to walk around there, do a bit of rock climbing and a bit of paragliding to get off again. It’s a beautiful place. I fell under its spell.”
“So it has a spell?”
“Oh yes, it has. Unlike any other place I have ever been to.”
“Have those two old farm people said anything about the mountain?”
“Nothing, except to offer me the farm up there. Oh, my word!”
“You’ve forgotten the old lady’s birthday!”
“Exactly. It was yesterday. Let me get to that computer straight away so I can send an email.”
Grant was disrupted at the computer when another massive wall of water dropped onto them with its full weight, but eventually he finished the job.
“What did you say?” asked Madeleine, once Grant had returned to his pumping station.
I said ‘Happy Birthday. Sorry to miss it. Held up by hurricane. Speak later when it is over.’”
“Telegram style. Has it gone?”
“Yes, I saw it going. Listen Madeleine, I don’t know what more to tell you. I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry too. If this storm is here for you, somebody must hate you so very much.”
“But why?”
The question hung unanswered in the saloon. Life became a routine of holding on and pumping when they could. Since speaking to Grant, Madeleine redoubled her praying. She unashamedly uttered non-stop prayers to God and several saints and crossed herself with her free hand. Grant kept count of her saints at first and then lost it. She had many he had never heard of.
As for himself, as he registered blow upon blow he believed that he could feel it – the murderous intent, ruthless, merciless, aiming for him. He clung to the table post and harnessed all his mental resources in opposition to it. Every time they popped up on the surface, the undying drive to survive provided the energy for another stint at the pump, even though Grant’s arms were feeling as if they were falling off. And then the next wave announced itself.
***
Day five. The breaking sixty foot waves only gave up their relentless battering after dawn had broken grey though the skylights. It took a while before they noticed the lengthening amplitude. They measured the distance between the monsters individually without commenting on it, lest they were wrong. Gradually, tenuous hope grew stronger.
When he checked the time Grant was surprised to find that it was already mid-morning. The cloud cover was dense and kept them in semi-darkness. The rain never stopped and neither did the demented shrieks of the wind in the rigging. But the barometer was much higher. It showed nine hundred and ninety millibars, heading for a thousand. They were getting close to the edge of the hurricane. The wind was backing to the south. The rearing monster waves reverted to their forty foot and later thirty foot selves with loose tops that smashed into them rather than onto them. Only then did they allow themselves cautious optimism.
“I think we could make it,” pronounced Grant, talking for both of them.
Still, they pumped. It was mainly the incessant rain that found a way through many secret and not so secret means, some old and some new, but it was less than before and they managed to keep the water below floor level. Everything in the yacht was soaked. The idea of dry clothes belonged to another universe. The gas cooker was still working and they were able to make instant coffee and prepare some food, just cereal with warmed-up long-life milk, nothing elaborate. Neither of them dared to sleep, though, even after the sparse light disappeared and night came once more. The wind slowed in velocity to lower hurricane speeds, a hundred and fifty to a hundred and twenty kilometres per hour. The waves were lower but still violent. They continued to toss the yacht about as if it was a toy. Picking yourself up from the floor was simply routine. Falling down seemed to happen more frequently as fatigue brought with it loss of concentration and coordination. The days melded into one another. At last, having been at it for thirty six hours, they figured that they had won the decisive battles in the war. They collapsed in their clothes and slept.
***
The eighth day showed grey through the Plexiglass. They pumped the boat dry, showered and ate. Even though they were at action stations they were required to pump less and less frequently. Gradually the ride became less jarring.
Toward the end of the day Madeleine caught Grant stroking a bulkhead with a tender expression on his face.
“Yes, she held up,” she said.
“I don’t know of another yacht that could do this,” said Grant.
“Perhaps it was God as well,” said Madeleine.
“And God as well,” said Grant. “Let’s play some music. Bar the odd rogue wave we have made it. This time we have made it.”
“The rogues will always be there.”
“The rogues will always be there but I don’t think a rogue will do us
in now. We’ve seen the worst of them.”
Madeleine found a flute concerto from JS Bach. Grant did not even know that he had something like that on his computer. It was time to take stock.
He climbed up into the doghouse. Both masts were still standing, but that was about all. The deck was surrounded by twisted stainless steel stanchions pointing in crazy directions. As for the rest of the items on deck, things were even worse. What bothered him most, with a view to the critically low battery levels, was that the solar panels were sheared off cleanly from their brackets, as if with an angle grinder. That was not the only item that had disappeared. He stepped down into the saloon to tell Madeleine.
“You can re-stow the emergency supplies you got in those bags,” he said.
“Sure,” she said.
“And you don’t have to worry about them again until we get to port. We don’t have a dinghy or life raft left to use them in. The sea took them both.”
“Is that what it is? I noticed that there was something different about the deck,” she said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Over several days the heavens cleared and the seas gradually calmed down. Grant found the space to update the ship’s log with exact data on the hurricane and recorded the recovery.
The parachute sea-anchor kept them facing into the waves and Grant put the mizzen sail up again to help point them into the wind - should any of substance appear. All they had was a faint breeze that seemingly came from all directions. Grant downloaded a variety of weather maps and faxes and spoke to the routers, just to make quite sure that there was no follow-up hurricane. Neither of them had capacity left for more violence from the sea.
He need not have worried. On day eleven it was clear that the high-pressure cell that was supposed to be their refuge a few days ago, had finally settled around them. The next threat was not going to come from the weather, but he could not know that at the time.
Meanwhile there was a lot to be done. Some halyards had disappeared up the main mast and there were a few stays that had parted as well. He got out the climbing harness to recover the halyards and busied himself with fixing and sorting out the rest of the rigging. Fixing a few stays took up an entire day. To maintain a boat properly you needed to be adept in a number of hand skills and he did not know too many of them. A lot of the specialised tools in the box under the work bench were strange to him.
Madeleine had the simpler task of reorganising the living areas. She opened up all the hatches for fresh air and stowed things in their logical places until the yacht felt dry and welcoming once more.
“We really need to use the washing machine and the tumble dryer,” she said. “We have a mountain of wet clothing.”
“Sorry, but I can’t let you do that,” said Grant. “The little power we have left is getting lower by the minute and there is nothing that is recharging the batteries. Hang the clothing up here on the stays.” He took a spare halyard and fitted a clothes line.
“You also need to get better lids for your lockers,” said Madeleine. “Some that don’t open up so easily.”
“I know that,” said Grant.
It was time to fix the rudder. First, he put the diving mask to use again, but this time for its more conventional purpose and inspected the defective rudder under the boat. It was as he expected. The stainless-steel shaft was still there but somehow the connections between shaft and blade have broken off. Was it because of corrosion? Had seawater somehow gotten underneath the fibreglass and eaten away the inner metal structure? He guiltily remembered that the anodes on the boat were overdue for replacement. What else was being eaten by electrical currents in unseen places? He could not think of any and decided to rather focus on the job at hand. He unearthed the auxiliary rudder kit and laid the pieces out in the saloon while he tried to figure out which part went with which. He had an instruction manual with pictures and sketches and visualised what he had to do. Some of steps he could complete by himself and for some of them he needed Madeleine to assist him. He went into the machine room, got his electrical drill from the toolbox and tried it. It still had good power. He was ready.
He decided to postpone assembly for a day, just to let things quieten down even more.
***
The appointed day for hanging the new rudder broke hot and clear with a mild swell, with no wind worth mentioning, a nightmare for a sailor in a hurry, but not for them. It was perfect for what they needed to do.
The first step was to mark out all the positions. Armed with a permanent marker and a measuring tape Grant spent a lot of time hanging upside down from the deck onto the transom. It was a precision job and he did not hurry it. When his head started pounding he asked Madeleine re-check all his measurements, which he ticked off on his drawing as she called them out.
“Don’t drop me,” said Madeleine, who got her spirits back. “I see a shark down here.”
“Just swipe him on the snout with the tape,” said Grant, not believing.
“If you look two metres down you’ll see it. It’s got a white mark on its dorsal fin.”
Grant looked and saw nothing but he got ready to snatch his only crew from the jaws of the predator.
“It’s ok,” said Madeleine. “I’m just kidding.”
“Just kidding got some people stuck in a tight spot before,” said Grant. “Next time I might not believe you at all.”
“Isn’t this thing going to interfere with the mizzen boom?” asked Madeleine when Grant took the assembled rudder and held it onto the markings.
“You mean the wind vane? There is a way to let the boom swing when we need to have it swing. We unscrew it like this and then the boom can swing over it. The only thing we need to remember is to keep a preventer attached all the time, in case the wind changes unexpectedly and we gybe. We don’t want to lose the wind vane. It’s our new autopilot.”
“How long before this one breaks?”
“It’s not as sturdy as the one we have below. Which means we’d rather avoid bad weather and we don’t put as much pressure on this rudder as we put on the other one. See here,” he said and handed her the instruction manual.
“Do not continue to race or to carry a heavy press of sail,” she read. “No surfing?”
“We try not to get into positions where we have to surf, sail closely to the wind or heave to for long periods of time. And we cannot operate this rudder from the doghouse. When we steer manually we operate this thing, which, for your information, is called a tiller, from outside in the open cockpit.”
“Which means that we are now fair weather people.”
“I know you like the rough stuff but that is the way it’s going to be until the main rudder has been fixed.”
A bit later Grant was lying face-down over the transom again, held only by the tether attached to his harness, drilling holes in his precious boat, when Madeleine asked a question that was altogether more serious.
“Grant,” she asked, “When that Vodun priestess spoke to your crew to warn them off sailing with you, did she use the word ‘drown’? They were going to drown, weren’t they?”
“That was the word Terence used. But we haven’t drowned. The storm has passed after trying its best but we are still here, so I don’t think it applies anymore. I think you are safe.”
“OK, so Terence used the word ‘drown’. You have not actually heard her use it?
“No. Why are you asking me about this? It’s all over.”
“I’m just wondering,” said Madeleine. “I’m wondering if she might have used another word, not actually ‘drown’.”
“Like what?”
“Like ‘perish’.”
“Like a vegetable going off?”
“Exactly.”
“Where are you going with this?”
“I am asking you these questions because I’m right now looking at the compass.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s acting very strangely.”
“Doing
what?”
“Going round and round.”
“It’s just the drill affecting it. Look at it now.” He pressed the button and continued with his work.
“The compass shows no change,” said Madeleine. “It’s still going around in the same way."
“Just a moment,” said Grant. “I’ll be with you now. I need to concentrate here. The drill’s battery is going flat. Strange, because I thought it still had enough power. Just another two holes to go.”
A minute later he was finished with the second last hole, with the drill just about dead. “Fibreglass should not be that hard,” he said. “Come on, my little drill, just a teeny bit more.” All the coaxing did not help because the drill slowly whined to a complete stop before the hole was through.
Garth expressed his frustration in a language commonly understood by seamen of all ages and all tongues. “Sorry,” he said to Madeleine. “Let me go get another tool to finish off the hole.”
“Before you do that just have a look around you,” she said.
“What? All I see is mist. There must be a hand drill somewhere. Or perhaps a little round file to do the job with.” Grant scratched around in the toolbox. He found a small file.
“Just the thing,” he said.
“Isn’t it strange that we suddenly have mist?” asked Madeleine.
“Why would it be strange? The air has cooled down after the hurricane and we are probably drifting on an offshoot of the Gulf current, which is warmer. It is perfectly normal to see mist under these conditions. Even as thick as this. When did it come over?”
“About ten minutes ago. Come and look at the compass,” said Madeleine, beckoning him from inside the cockpit.
“That’s strange,” said Grant, once he had stooped over the instrument and studied it. “There must be some magnetic disturbance in the area. Perhaps we are drifting over a big concentration of iron or something.”
“Like an underwater mountain?” asked Madeleine.
“Exactly.”
“Well, they why don’t you check the depth sounder and see. You do have one, don’t you?”
The Triangle and The Mountain: A Bermuda Triangle Adventure Page 25