At two o’clock they were hit by their first thunderstorm. Sam disconnected all his radio equipment in case of a strike; the yacht itself was perfectly safe, as the mast would act as a lightning conductor, allowing the electrical discharge to run down the steel shrouds and thence into the chainplates, from where it would plunge harmlessly over the side. But of course a strike in the vicinity of the aerials could blow all their electronic gear.
The first storm passed over quickly enough, but now the wind had freshened, the anemometer mounted at the masthead, some forty feet above deck level, showing a steady 35 knots with gusts of up to 60 knots, which was as high as the gauge would read. Even under shortened sail the yacht was racing along, soaring up the back of each swell and careering down the other side in a welter of foam streaking away from the bows. “Heck, if this keeps up, we could be in Boston for dinner,” Larry quipped.
“She’s going too fast,” Michael decided, as the bows nearly buried themselves in a shorter than usual swell. “Let’s have that mainsail down.”
They handed the mainsail, stuffing the wet canvas on to the boom and strapping it down with twice the normal number of sail ties.
“Okay,” Michael said. “Mark and I will take over now.”
Larry frowned at him. “Pete and I have only been on two hours.”
“Two-hour watches from here on. It’s going to be pretty damned exhausting. Now all of you get below and lie down. I don’t care if you sleep or not. Just get your heads down for a couple of hours.”
He connected both his harnesses, made Mark do the same, settled himself on the bench seat behind the wheel. With only her storm jib and mizen up the yacht was travelling much more slowly, but still handling perfectly well off the wind; the mizen staysail was acting as a secondary, airborne rudder. And while the wind was now blowing a steady 45 knots with gusts clearly far more than that, and the seas were building all the time, it was a slow process; Michael knew it took several hours for the sea state to approximate actual wind conditions. On the other hand he was now definitely steering more west than north which meant that he was closing the Gulf Stream. That had to be crossed at some stage, but he had no doubt it was going to be hard going; running at an average of four knots the Stream reacted to wind blowing across it almost like a tiderace, and could be the roughest water anywhere in the world.
He had been on the helm an hour, and was thoroughly enjoying himself, steering the boat up and down the ever-increasing swell, when Mark looked astern. “Oh, Christ!” he said.
Michael cast a hasty glance over his shoulder, although he had already heard the roaring from behind him. This was a big wave, all of 28 feet high, he estimated, and topped by another six feet of curling crest. “Brace yourself,” he snapped, tensing his muscles. “Close the hatch,” he shouted. For the hatch cover had been left open a few inches to allow some fresh air into the cabin, as the ventilators had all been sealed. Now it slammed shut, and Michael concentrated. His job was to keep the yacht before the sea; if he let her yaw away to either side she might broach — turn broadside to the waves — and be rolled over and over like a car falling down a steep slope.
The roaring became louder, and he hunched his shoulders. He glanced at Mark, white-faced as he looked astern, then he was in the middle of a foaming maelstrom of water, and the wheel was threatening to tear from his hands. The force threw him against the steel circlet and he gasped at a sharp pain, even as he realized that Mark had been hurled forward from his place beside him. But the harnesses held, and the boy came to rest just short of the hastily closed companion hatch, gasping and spluttering. The entire yacht was for a moment submerged as the water poured over the decks, only the masts sticking up out of the flailing sea. Then the bows came up again, and she surged back to the surface, wallowing for a few seconds. This was actually the moment of greatest danger, as she had completely lost way and could not be steered, and was thus entirely at the mercy of the sea. But the wave crests were sufficiently far apart, and the wind sufficiently strong, for the jib to fill and the ship to start moving through the water before the next wave came up to them.
“Holy smoke!” Mark pulled himself back to the helm. “Have you ever seen one as big as that before, skipper?”
“Yes,” Michael replied, truthfully enough. He did not add that the only previous occasion had been in that Force Ten storm of a few years before, and that had been at the very height of the gale — not with possibly double as much wind still to be expected.
Yet he was pleased with the way things were going, so far at least. The ship was handling perfectly, and the gear was standing the strain. Soon there were other waves as big as the first, but in time they became almost commonplace, as the yacht reacted to every one with perfect balance. The wind was now howling like every banshee in the world cutting loose at the same moment and the needle on the anemometer read out was pressed hard on the 60-knot mark. The sea was entirely covered in flying foam, and entering the troughs was like diving down to the center of the earth; there was no way they could have any idea what was happening within even a hundred yards of them down there. Not that there was much to be seen from the tops of the crests either. The rain teemed down like solid grey walls, and felt as solid, too, battering on the oilskins and pounding the decks. Yet it was totally exhilarating. They were fighting the elements, taking them on at their own game, and holding their own.
Just. A mammoth wave hit them and for a dreadful moment, as the stern was picked up high above the bow and Michael fought to maintain control, he thought they were going to pitch pole, go stern over bow, an incredible thought for a 48-foot yacht, but still a possibility in such seas.
“That’s it,” he bawled. “We have to get all sail off her. Get up the watch below.”
Mark banged on the hatch cover and the others came out. They gasped at the conditions, but immediately understood what was required. Larry and Pete went forward, crawling, unclipping one harness and clipping it on again before releasing the next. Then they were on the foredeck and clawing down the sail. Again the yacht was pooped and awash, and Michael held his breath as he saw them being thrown about the deck like tin soldiers. Part of the grab rail snapped and Peter for a moment was over the side, but his harness held, and he scrambled back on board, and eventually the sail was handed and strapped to the deck. Meanwhile, Mark and Jon took down the mizen.
“Good work,” Michael said. “Get changed.”
“My turn on the helm, skipper,” Jon said. “Sam will keep me company.”
Michael handed over the wheel and considered the situation. Without sail at all the dangers of broaching were increased, although with all canvas gone the yacht was riding easier, and the wind was so strong that she retained ample steerage way. He had two other possible courses of action, apart from just abandoning any attempt at command and letting her lie ahull. Then she might well be rolled over — but he knew yachts had survived extreme conditions by merely behaving like pieces of jetsam. To retain command he could either put out a sea anchor or trail warps astern, both to slow her down to the extent where she would be overtaken by each wave rather than carried on with them, and to keep her stern on to the seas. Neither appealed, as putting an immense extra strain on both gear and crew. He decided to let her stand on for as long as humanly possible. “Just keep a look out behind you,” he suggested, and thankfully crawled through the hatch into the warmth and dryness of the cabin. Only as he stripped off his dripping oilskins and the sodden clothes beneath did he realize how his muscles were burning with exhaustion — or how much his ribs were hurting where they had been crushed against the wheel. He rolled into his bunk, flopped from the bulkhead against the canvas leeboard in perfect relaxed comfort, listened to the immense roaring from all about him, and fell asleep. To awake as the world turned upside down.
The Gulf Stream — 6.00 pm
“Help!” Mark was screaming. “We’re sinking! Help!”
Michael found himself lying on the cabin roof, while there see
med water everywhere, together with books and pots and pans and clothes and sail bags. Despite the utter darkness, he knew immediately that they had been capsized, and that it was probably a pitchpoling, ‘ass over tit’ as he would say in the bar of the yacht club at home. If he was ever going to stand in that bar again. But before he could even gather his thoughts Esmeralda was coming upright again, throwing him on to the cabin sole. He groped for the companion hatch, which had flown open, splashing through several inches of water, hearing the shouts and groans from behind him, standing on Sam’s priceless MF set, which for all its extra lashing had become dislodged and smashed on to the deck; from being a place of warm refuge, indeed, the cabin had turned in an instant into a trap threatening to drown them all.
Michael was more concerned with what had happened on deck, gave a gasp of horror as he saw the wheel spinning free. Before he could reach it, the next wave had reached them, and hurled the yacht on to her beam ends, that is, on her side so that the mast would have lain in the water, had there still been a mast, while tons of ocean poured over her. It seemed impossible that she would not fill and go to the bottom, but the yawl came up again, bobbing like a cork, the enormous amount of air in her hull giving her total buoyancy.
Michael dived aft and grabbed the helm, twisting it to bring the ship straight as she rose to the wind. He tried the engine starter, but this was dead, and he guessed that the batteries must also have come loose. But the yacht did respond, if sluggishly, and just in time to ride the next wave, which, although huge and breaking, he knew could be only a fraction of the size of the rogue that had sent them over. Once he had her under reasonable control, he could start thinking and looking for his crew. He spotted Jon, lying on the deck several feet forward of the cockpit. One of the steel harness hooks had opened straight as if made of plasticine, but the second had held, and the young man was at least still with the ship, although he appeared to be unconscious. But to Michael’s horror there was no sign of Sam Davenport.
“Deck!” he screamed at the hatch. “All hands on deck!”
Larry came up the companion ladder, fell into the cockpit with a splash; the well was self-draining, but there were still several inches of water in it. Mark followed a moment later. “We’re sinking,” he gasped again. “The water’s up to the bunks. Oh my God, we’re sinking!”
“Pete’s broken something,” Larry gasped, more coherently. “Maybe his shoulder. He’s groaning terribly.”
“He’s alive,” Michael snapped. “Get forward and find Sam.”
He himself looked aft. In addition to their safety harnesses, the men on watch each wore a lifejacket, and Sam would still be floating, although as Esmeralda was picked up by another huge wave and rushed forward he knew there was no hope of turning back for anyone. But he saw nothing astern save for the roaring seas, and now there came a reassuring shout from the foredeck. “Give me a hand,” Sam was calling.
Mark and Larry formed a human chain to drag him back into the cockpit. Both his harnesses had failed, but the second one had taken the force out of the enormous power which had hurled him forward, enabling him to wrap both arms around what remained of the mainmast; that had snapped off just below the lower crosstrees, or spreaders, some fifteen feet from the deck; at least it had gone cleanly and disappeared, taking most of its shrouds with it, ripping them out of the chainplates; had it remained linked to the yacht they would have been dead in the water. And amazingly, the mizen still stood.
“We’re sinking,” Mark gasped a third time. “She’ll be gone in a moment.” He reached past them in an attempt to free the six-man life raft, the canister containing which was still strapped to the deck on the transom.
Michael released the helm with one hand long enough to slap the boy hard across the face. Mark gave a shriek and tumbled to the cockpit sole.
“Get him below,” Michael snapped. “Take Jon down as well. Give me a report on him and Pete. And on damage. And start the pumps. All the pumps. Get with it.”
They hurried below, and he fought with the helm. It was still daylight, although the clouds were so low and the rain so continuous it was difficult to see more than the ship’s length — which was no bad thing, he reckoned: every few minutes the evening would be cut open by a jagged lightning flash, and then the immensity of the seas all around them was horrifying.
It seemed an eternity, but could only have been a few minutes later that Sam reappeared. “Pete has broken his shoulder,” he said. “We’ve strapped him up and I’ve given him a sedative, and we’ve tied him to his bunk. Jon is still out. I don’t like the look of him at all.”
“Is he breathing?”
“Yes. But skipper…” His voice trembled.
“Pumps?”
“No good. All the batteries have broken loose. They’re all over the place. It must’ve been one of them falling that hit Pete. The radios are both out, and the instruments. Michael, maybe Mark is right, and we should abandon ship.”
“For the life raft? For Christ’s sake, do you suppose a life raft could survive those seas? Esmeralda is not sinking,” Michael said, his voice harsh. “Yachts don’t sink unless they are holed or catch fire. You know that as well as I do. The water in the cabin came in through the hatch when we were rolled over and then knocked down. So we’ve no electrics. Man the hand pump and get Larry and Mark bailing. But first, bring me up my harnesses.”
Sam blinked, for the first time appearing to notice that his skipper was wearing not even a lifejacket, indeed, nothing at all save a gold Rolex wristwatch. He dived below for the gear, and helped Michael strap himself to the boat and the helm. “Skipper…”
“Get to work,” Michael told him. “Get bailing. All of you.”
Sam disappeared, and a moment later a thin stream of water began to empty over the side. Another wave roared up with such force that Michael lost control, and the following one knocked them down again; he sat on the transom with water round his neck. But the hatch had been bolted tight shut again, and the ship came upright. Michael laughed aloud. He remembered Byron’s ‘Manfred’ where the hero shouted his defiance of God and the elements as he stood on his mountaintop. Well, here on the edge of the Gulf Stream was the biggest mountaintop he had ever experienced. “You won’t beat me, you bastards,” he shouted at the clouds and the lightning and the rain and the waves and the wind.
As if in reply he heard a noise. It was a noise with which he was thoroughly familiar, that of a rogue wave coming up astern. “Oh, Christ,” he muttered and turned his head, and felt exactly as if a mule had kicked him in the belly. Behind him the entire ocean seemed to be rising in awesome fury. The white streaked green wall went up and up and up, perhaps to 80 feet, and was topped by 10 feet of curling white foam. It reared above the yacht, a wall of water as high as a house, and now it was toppling over and falling.
Park Avenue — 8.00 pm
After Richard had returned to the studio, Jo began making her preparations. There was a lot to do. First of all she telephoned Bognor.
“Have you seen the forecasts?” she asked Big Mike.
“Yeah. Would you believe that fucking storm seems to be following us about? Thank God we’re here.”
“I thank God, too. Listen, Dad, I thought the kids and I might come up to you for the weekend. If everyone is right it’s going to be a little unpleasant in town.”
“Sure, do that, honey. What time tomorrow were you thinking of coming?”
“Well…” She hesitated. She had given Richard her word to leave that evening. But it would be most inconvenient — quite apart from Big Mike’s pointed suggestion — and somewhat of an unpleasant drive in the darkness and the rain: she certainly didn’t want to upset Mike and Babs all over again by suggesting there was any danger. Besides, even if Richard did manage to talk the Mayor and the police into ordering an evacuation of the city, they were extremely unlikely to get anything moving before dawn tomorrow. “How about first thing in the morning. We’ll be there for breakfast?”
/> “Breakfast? Holy shit! That’ll mean leaving the city before dawn.”
“We’re early risers,” Jo assured him.
“Okay. We’ll expect you. Any word from Michael?”
“Not as yet. He’s out of radio contact right now. I’m going to try him again later tonight. Do you reckon he’s all right?”
“Sure I do. Especially if the storm is turning west and he’s making north. He’ll run out of it.”
“I worry about the Gulf Stream. From what he’s told me those waves can be horrendous.”
“They can,” Big Mike agreed. “I’ve seen them. But Michael can handle that.” He seemed to have entirely recovered his ebullience.
“How are Babs and Belle?” she asked.
“Well… Belle is taking things easy right now.” Which Jo guessed meant she was under sedation, probably the reason Big Mike didn’t want noisy kids around before tomorrow. “Babs is doing well. She’ll be the better for seeing you and the young ’uns. Breakfast, eh? See you then.”
“The weekend in Bognor? Neat,” Owen Michael said.
“Well, that means an early night, because I want to get started at the crack of dawn. Now, give me a hand with the packing.”
Her Name Will Be Faith Page 27
