They were heading toward Samos, sailing at 6 knots, heeling steadily 15º to Starboard and laying a gentle wake behind them.
Now Avri walked to the bow, to that ugly piece of hardware sticking out of her side like a harpoon.
It took him the better part of an hour to dislodge the antenna from the hull, being careful to minimize any further damage to the fiberglass. Once the antenna was out, he used one of the empty sail bags to cover the hole, tying it to the bow rails.
That should keep some of the water out, he thought as he took the antenna down to the cabin. He placed it on the table, poured another cup of coffee and stared at the damned thing.
* * * * *
Examining the antenna, he now noticed that it was a dual frequency unit, designed to operate at a very high range defined as millimeter wavelength. The assembly was an ingenious arrangement of two types of antennae resulting in a compact and precise unit.
The antenna system intrigued Avri. He turned it in his hands, inspecting it from all sides, analyzing its components, admiring the design. A rather conventional parabolic reflector housed the higher range inverse-cassagrain type in its center.
At times he admired its unknown designer, not without a bit of professional envy. He measured the opening of the waveguide sections at the horn with a micrometer he took out of the engine's toolbox. They measured 9.14X by 5.59 millimeters at the reflector feed and 4.57 by 3.30 millimeter at the inverse-cassagrain feed. He calculated from this that the antennas operated at 34 and 94 gigahertz. From the reflectors’ measurements he deduced the beam-width of each antenna: three degrees for the lower frequency beam and one degree for the 94 gigahertz one. The hardware behind the antennas was strictly low power type. No high power components - strictly receiving type equipment with no transmission capability.
Turning it around in his hands, he examined the exterior of the intricate structure. It was a tad slimy and well tight.
This would mean that it is a naval unit, he thought or that it has been in the water for a while.
He scratched the surface with a knife; it was made of brass. Not likely an airborne piece of hardware. Too heavy for that.
Since there is no civilian use for such high frequency systems it must be military in origin.
The mystery of its source intrigued him. Where on earth could it have come from? The ruptured sections at the base of the antenna looked fresh and clean. No corrosion. That means the damn thing was still attached to something when I hit it.
Some of the parts had markings on them in Cyrillic letters. It must be Russian. He recalled seeing similar markings back in Israel in 1967, and again after the 1973 war. It was on some Russian military equipment that was captured in the Sinai desert.
The obvious conclusion hit him like a tempest: I must have hit a submarine. A Russian submarine.
His pulse quickened with a mixture of exhilaration and fear, his mind spinning wildly. He had to think about it. This, he felt, would have some consequences. His head was still heavy from the blow and his reasoning sluggish. He stepped out of the cabin and sat on top of the cabin roof. Here, in the open air and the shade of the full mainsail he let the breeze, cool and clean breeze clear his mind. Here he tried to think again.
What on earth would a Russian sub be doing with a millimeter-wave antenna?
Well, she must have been snooping, eavesdropping on something. Since neither Turkey nor Greece is much of an electronic whiz country, and since there is no NATO activity in this region either, then what the hell were they listening to?
Avri could not find an answer to that. He only knew that the antennas were designed for the only two frequencies in the millimeter wavelength that, for some mysterious physical phenomena, were useable within the earth's atmosphere.
The Russian sub, he thought, they must have realized the antenna is gone. They know they didn't collide with a ship, or a big power boat - those vessels make a lot of noise. So they probably figured they hit a small boat.
"Holy shit!" - And this time he was shouting, up on his feet and extremely troubled. These Goddamn Russians must be looking for me by now. He slammed the mast with a flat hand, cussing again. I must get rid of the antenna and I must fix that hole in the bow.
And then he realized the urgency of it all. He must get out of here, and in a hurry. The Galatea was a fast sailing boat, but not nearly fast enough to race a submarine. He started moving fast. A clock started ticking in his mind, counting time with sharp thumps that mirrored his headache. Boom - got to find a hiding place. Bang – got to fix the hole. Boom - get rid of that darn antenna. Bang - and think, what else. Boom Bang… Boom – God!
Oh, what a way to ruin a vacation, he thought almost aloud as he raced down to his navigation table. Working out the charts, he plotted a new course to a tiny island named Agathonissi, the closest Greek island to his present position. He chose a Greek island because he didn't think it wise to land, with this kind of a problem on Turkish soil. Not that the Greeks may necessarily prove more helpful than the Turks, but it would be simpler to keep things quiet in a small Greek fishing village than under the watchful, omnipresent, eyes of the Turkish authorities.
Avri stepped out into the sun-filled cockpit and set a new course 255º - directly to Agathonissi - sailing almost dead-on West with the wind on his Port quarter. With the elegance that comes with experience, he trimmed the sails to the new course. He first let the mainsail all the way to Starboard. Then, with the help of a spinnaker pole, he set the Genoa far out to port. The Galatea was now running at six knots before the wind, rolling slowly from side to side as she must when spreading her sails in this wing-and-wing fashion. He then brought up one more sail from the forepeak. This one, the spinnaker, was very colorful and larger yet. He bent the sail to the halyard, hooked-up a second spinnaker pole with its topping lift, down haul and running guy, and sent it up into the wind. A Spinnaker plus a Genoa was a very unusual combination, not usually hoisted. Risking a deadly broach, Avri decided on using it on the spur of the moment, speed now preceding safety as he raced away from the area.
It was a difficult job for a crew of two; it was almost impossible for a single sailor. It would be difficult to sail the boat, and to control the spinnaker simultaneously. Never before had he hoisted this sail single-handed. In fact, no one does. Kostas and Avri used to hoist the spinnaker when they were out by themselves racing dolphins across nameless bays.
"Well, this is a real race," he said to his Galatea as she gathered knots over the water. "It's you and me, girl, against the ugliest Red submarine you have ever seen. You better get our asses out of here, baby, because this one is for real".
With the spinnaker sheet wound tightly around the winch, he adjusted the other sails.
Surprisingly, it was looking fine, absolutely A-Okay, and he prayed it would keep that way. The Galatea was now racing before the wind at ten knots, spraying up water on both sides of her bow and laying a long and turbulent wake all the way to the Turkish coast. She was listing fifteen degrees to Starboard with no roll at all.
It was hard work. Flying a spinnaker is a rather tricky job. The colorful parachute-like sail has a constant tendency to either collapse out of air and flap like a rag in the wind, at times winding itself to oblivion around the forestay, or blowing off to lee, filling too much wind on one side of the boat and listing her so far that the sail itself dunks into the water. This unfortunate maneuver, a broach, usually ends up in a broken mast. It mostly occurs at high speed.
Avri Keren dared only short glances at the compass, a quick look around and back to the sail. It required his full concentration and fast reactions. At this pace it would be less than two hours before they reached Agathonissi, if he could only last that long at the helm, if they could last that long.
On the Southwestern corner of the island, there was a tiny fishing village of Horis. He intended for the solitude of the narrow bay that lay on the Eastern shore, its entrance open to the South. The bay blended smoothly with the lo
w landscape and was almost invisible from the sea. The water was shallow in and around the entrance - a subterranean topography that should prove impassable for the submarine. The bay was uninhabited and should afford him a shelter for a while to fix the hole in the bow.
Maybe the Russians will lose interest, he told himself with little conviction.
He could only guess at the time or distance that had passed; he couldn't afford to look at the instruments. He figured it had to have been at least twenty minutes since they started this race which would put him some three to four miles away and still about forty miles to the isle of Horis. It was quite a feat that they had lasted that long and he was proud of them both. His constant fear of broaching almost displaced his dread of the Russians. The tension and stress had started to wear him down. He shifted his weight to his left foot and changed his posture slightly to relieve his tense back muscles. His hand was sore from holding the spinnaker line, his eyes stinging from salt-water splashes. Yet, he did not allow himself to relax even for a moment.
The Galatea plunged forward steadily, galloping through the sea to the constant refrain of splashing water and pounding waves. Occasionally, sheets of green water would leap from under the bow and sweep the deck all the way to the cockpit, only to return to the sea in small streams through the scuppers.
The wind was steady and the boat barely rocked. Avri only hoped it would stay that way. He kept the wind slightly on Port. As long as it didn’t shift, he could manage to keep her from broaching.
At times the whole affair seemed to him like a surreal concert. The wind was whining in the rigging, the waves beating against the hull. From the stern came a constant background murmur of eddies and the hardware shrilled in and out of rhythm like the brass section. At times, the symphony made Avri feel like a conductor upon a podium but then reality would intrude, roughly jerking him away from his daydream. He surveyed the rigging, sweeping his look quickly across the sails and over the mast. It looked good. The strain was high, but the Galatea withstood it with powerful grace. He thought of her designer and the craftsmen who had built her, and thanked them with all his heart.
A sudden gust cut his thoughts short. He was a second too slow easing the spinnaker sheet. The sail twisted wildly to the right and down, pulling the boat with it. She listed further and further to lee, passing the twenty-five degree mark, and going on. Avri let go of the sheet completely and caught the railing - just in time to stay on-deck. The boat turned slowly into the wind dangerously increasing her list.
Both headsails were getting closer and closer to the water. The Galatea was about to broach in a few seconds. With the strength that a man gains only in distress, Avri pulled himself up and forward to the Starboard side of the cockpit. The boat had rolled over the forty degree mark by now. He let out a loud cry as he strained every muscle of his body to reach up front. It was close - but it didn't seem he’d make it.
By now the toe rail was cutting through the water. The edge of the deck was actually under racing water. The boat was sailing on her side. The spinnaker was loose and flying high but the jib was just skimming the water and about to dunk in, bringing the mast down with it.
With the last ounce of power in him, he reached the halyards on top of the cabin, pulling himself up on the lines, and, with his last effort, yanked the halyards out of their cleats. The lines, now released, wound out with a long whine, snapping out of his hand. The sails flew out and collapsed into the water as the boat stopped to a halt. The heavy list stopped too and the world leveled fast to an even keel. Avri wasn't ready for this sudden jar and found himself soaring toward the Port wall of the cockpit. He had no strength left in him to stop the plunge, and he crushed on the hard fiberglass structure. His right ribs hit the hard seat coming knocking the wind out of his lungs completely. He was gasping for air and tormented with pain as he heard a loud racket from above. It sounded like huge bird, an albatross flapping it huge wings. Above him he could feel rather than see the main sail sweeping across in a terrible jibe. As the boat turned toward the north, the main had caught the wind on its back side, causing the sail to fly with all its force across the boat. He closed his eyes awaiting the boom’s abrupt stop at the other side. With such a force it was likely to bring the mast down in two pieces, or at least fly the heavy boom off the boat, wrecking the mainsail or tearing up the control sheet.
* * * * *
He struggled with all his might to get any air into his winded chest. It was as if the world had turned airless. Avri opened and closed his mouth like a stranded fish, grasping for air in little swallows.
He was still struggling for breath when the boom completed its swoop above his head, stopping harshly on the other end of its swing.
The noise was loud and ugly. Ropes snapped, shackles and blocks were flying like bullets. The vang snapped, breaking itself loose from its guide groove on the bottom of the boom. The mast vibrated loudly at a very low frequency, the sound amplified by the cabin, the whole boat playing a giant cello in Neptune's infuriated orchestra.
The jarring noise expired almost instantly. The whole commotion was over in less than ten seconds. The Galatea was floating stagnant in the water, not going anywhere. Both headsails hung loosely at her sides and into the water like a weary boxer at the end of a ten round match, out of breath with his arms hanging limply at his sides.
As he started breathing again, taking in small, painful gasps of air, Avri vowed he could hear the Galatea's heart pounding wildly as she halted there, bolt-upright and motionless. It appeared to take them both a good quarter of an hour to catch their breath and bring their heartbeats back to normal levels.
With his hand supporting his aching left side, Avri rose to survey the damage. The boat, the sails, the mast and the boom, they all seemed alright. He fished the spinnaker out of the water and laid it along the foredeck. His rib cage was aching terribly but he knew the pain would be unlikely to dissipate soon, so there was no use waiting here. He also pulled the jib out of the water, cursing loudly.
He realized his best bet would now be to proceed using the motor. Neither he nor the boat were in a shape for sailing right now.
The engine, like most equipment on the Galatea, was well chosen to suit the boat and her skipper - an, orange colored Volvo Penta Diesel, twenty horsepower, two-cylinder engine. When he bought her, he selected a diesel for safety and dependability. He chose a Volvo for quality and service, and a twenty horsepower - strong enough to move the Galatea at five knots, yet small enough to be hand-cranked should the batteries fail.
The engine started at the touch of the button. The boat gathered speed as he pushed the throttle a quarter forward. A few minutes later, as the gauge settled on two knots and the engine warmed up a bit, he pushed the throttle up to 2200 RPM. Soon they were sailing at five knots, heading for the small island of Agathonissi. Avri stared anxiously at the compass and the horizon, alternatively, eagerly waiting for the island to appear on the skyline. Five knots was full speed for the boat while motoring. She was capable of up to twelve knots when on sails.
Agathonissi Island emerged low on the distant horizon. It appeared like a low mist, a bit dark and hard to discern amongst the low clouds. It was still some two or three hours away.
He was aiming at the long, deserted and nameless bay at the south of the island, planning to repair that nasty gash in the bow for besides being odious, it would surely raise a lot of questions to which he was not prepared to answer.
The entrance, and the bay itself, fused seamlessly into the landscape, making it impossible to distinguish from the sea. The chart exhibited three pointed hills nestling in the back of the bay. The entrance laid about a half a mile to the west.
It couldn't be more than an hour, he thought, timing the ordeal.
A few minutes before noon, they were close enough to the shore to navigate solely by the coast. The land was flat and empty. He sailed closer to the shore and then northwest, parallel to the coastline, searching for the bay.
He turned on the depth sounder and, as he turned slowly into the bay, pulled back the throttle to 800 RPM. The chart showed a narrow channel running along the left bank, with a depth of three fathoms and a sandy bottom. Although there would be no real danger to the boat in running aground, it was definitely not a suitable time for it to happen.
He passed the entrance dead slow, keeping a wary eye on the depth sounder. After a hundred yards, the water widened and he sailed into large, almost circular, cove, with an old stone quay at the far eastern side. He turned right and docked alongside its western edge.
The quay was as ancient as the surrounding landscape. He tied at the old stone bollards and stepped happily over to the smooth dock. By 1520 that afternoon the Galatea was safely secured. Two anchors on her Starboard side, one fore and one aft, , ensuring they could take to sea in any wind or tide condition.
The Chase: One Courageous Skipper Battling The Perilous Evil Out To Destroy Him. (Sea Action & Adventure) Page 3
