A Ravel of Waters

by Geoffrey Jenkins

  ‘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.'
r />   '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.

  'Data is fed into the controls and consoles in the wheel-house from sensors, computers, and all the rest of the electronic gadgetry located in various parts of the ship and masts,' he explained. 'Sailing Jetwind is not an operation like in an old windjammer where the skipper relied on his senses and experience. His nerve-ends in Jetwind are electronic. They are twice as quick and ten times more accurate than human intuition.'

  'I'd back my own senses against electronic sensors when it comes to a Southern Ocean squall,' I replied. 'They come at you suddenly from any point of the compass. They jump about like a hipped-up bird in a disco.'

  'It would be very difficult to catch Jetwind aback,' Thomsen countered. 'Her entire sailplan can be furled in twenty seconds flat. It would take some squall to do better.' 'Did Mortensen establish that at sea — or is it just another wind-tunnel print-out?' 'Wind-tunnel.'

  'How much free-board will Jetwind have when she's fully laden?' I asked.

  'What do you have in mind? Anything to do with the bridge?' 'Yes and no.' 'Free-board will be almost four metres.'

  'That's precious little when it comes to beating close-hauled in the Roaring Forties,' I answered. 'She'll be taking it green over her rails, especially if she's being hard pushed. That means a hell of a lot of sea will be coming over her lee rail — it's going to be worst at the spot where the bridge is located. That's exactly where she'll put her rail under. Any man on that long uncluttered deck will stand a pretty fair chance of being swept overboard. If the bridge were further aft, it would serve as a breakwater.'

  The exchange of technicalities was establishing a closer link between us. I found myself being carried away.

  Thomsen laughed. ‘I can't get you away from thinking Jn old-fashioned terms. Rainier. You're visualizing a deckful of men pulley-hauling at a spider's web of ropes. Jetwind doesn't have any men on deck in a blow. The crew mans stations either on the bridge or below-decks. Forget the word windjammer. That's what the old-timers really were — jammers into the wind. Jetwind is different.' 'In a wind-tunnel.'

  'You keep saying that, and it underlines my point. That is why I built Jetwind. To prove the space-age rig by trial at sea.'

  'You talk as though there were only one revolutionary rig — yours, Jetwind's. What about the Venetian Rig?'

  'I know, I know,' he answered broodingly. 'It was a major decision I faced. In fact there are two splendid space-age sail systems which are exactly opposite. Both are based on sound observation and scientific theory. You can't fault either. There is the contrast between a highly efficient wind flow in conditions of flow stability…' 'Rarefied aerodynamics are beyond me,' I interrupted.

  'They should not be and must not be,' he replied impatiently. 'The new age of sail is a young person's world. Everyone — men and women — involved in Jetwind is young. The scientists, the aerodynamicists, t
he engineers, are all young. You, Rainier, are young. Wake up and go along with it.'

  'Right now I feel about a hundred,' I replied. 'I'm clapped out, as I said, dead on my feet. All this is aircraft talk…'

  'Pull yourself together’ went on Thomsen in the same tone. 'Aerodynamics, flow, stability — yes, but aircraft, no. I grant you that when Jetwind is beating upwind, her sails are experiencing flow which is in some ways similar to air flow across an aircraft wing. Running downward is another story. The comparison is much closer to a parachute than a wing. You know the type of special multi-slotted ribbon parachute used to slow down jet fighters on landing? That's where the similarity comes in.'

  'All this balancing of pros and cons must have given you ulcers — especially at the price of twenty million dollars.'

  'The final and twenty-million dollar question was, how much efficiency could be sacrificed to improve efficiency? The aerofoil rig finally beat the Venetian Rig by a short head.' 'Then hard luck stepped in and messed it all up.'

  'Hard luck, hell!' he snapped. 'It was a sonofabitch named Grohman. I can still make it. But I need your help, Rainier. You are my man. I am offering you the captaincy of Jetwind — here and now.' 'I couldn't do justice to the job in my present state.'

  'Rubbish! You're a sailor. The old China clipper skippers went without sleep for three months racing home! Three months, with only a cat-nap now and then in a deck-chair lashed to the weather rail! And you've been without proper sleep for only twenty-six days! It's less than a ten-hour flight from Cape Town to Buenos Aires. You can sleep all the way, recharge your batteries. You'll be as right as rain after that. You can have a further night's sleep on the journey to the Falklands. That's more than enough for a sailor like you!'

  Still I stalled. 'Fair enough. However, I've never even set eyes on your space-age marvel. By your own admission, Jetwind is a highly complex machine, all push-buttons and computers. I'm a practical sailor. I haven't a clue how to operate her. I'll probably dismast her first time out.'