by Peter Tonkin
‘What is the point of adding more rubbish to an already littered waterway?’ wondered the Nippon News reporter. Her cameraman swung round to point his lens at the foaming torrent of the Arakawa’s surface just beneath the trembling bridge. The river’s slick brown back was littered with a range of flotsam whirling down towards Tokyo Bay at a dizzying velocity.
‘You will be aware, I am sure, that trash such as this, especially plastic trash, has been sucked out of rivers and off coastal landfills by a combination of wind and rain all around the Pacific Rim during the last decade and more – then swirled away into what has become known as the Great North Pacific Garbage Patch, where it has broken down into small pieces some of which have entered the food chain, with extremely disturbing results.’
‘That’s not new,’ persisted the young woman. ‘Everyone knows about the garbage patch twice the size of Texas . . .’
‘But you can’t see it,’ explained Tanaka. ‘It’s there, but it’s not visible on Google Earth . . . Perhaps, Captain Mariner, you would explain. You have been closer to the actuality of it than anyone else here . . .’
Richard looked down into the camera and started to explain. ‘The length of time the plastic takes to get from all round the North Pacific Rim into the middle of the ocean means that a combination of sun and saltwater can break down its structure. By the time the plastic reaches the relatively slow-moving circular swirl at the centre of the currents, beneath the light winds at the heart of the ocean, only a small percentage of it is recognizable as bottles, can-rings, bags and so forth. The rest has half dissolved into the water. It’s a weird kind of inedible soup – deadly to the creatures that try to eat it, and yet not thick enough to constitute a hazard to shipping. Not that there’s much shipping out there, in any case. My work with Mr Greenbaum aboard our co-funded deep-water explorer Poseidon has established that all the pollution is under the surface except for some particularly hard-wearing bottles, bags and crisp packets. Or has been until very recently.’
Richard’s ice-blue eyes narrowed as he stared unflinchingly down into the lens of the camera behind the young reporter’s shoulder. ‘Until the last few months at least, it hasn’t been visible from space at all – unlike the wreckage from the terrible tsunami of March 2011, for instance, that’s still apparently drifting across the Pacific from Japan to British Columbia in a kind of floating island. That is quite astonishing given the simple size of the area affected – some estimates suggest half a million square miles.’ His long, lean face folded into a frown. ‘But Doctor Tanaka’s work has proved that things are beginning to change. And not for the better.’
‘It is my basic contention,’ inserted the doctor, smoothly reclaiming the attention of the reporter and the millions of her audience, ‘that the unprecedented rise in precipitation around the Pacific Rim is beginning to accelerate the currents that swirl around the edges of the ocean. This rise in mean speed – if we can prove it exists and then measure it – might well explain the rise in sea level here, in Western America, Queensland and Indonesia that we have seen. It might also explain the fall in sea level in the middle of the Pacific. The physics are simple – and may be observed every time water flows out of a shower stall, bath or hand basin in a vortex that raises the outer edges and lowers the central area. But of course there is no plughole in the centre of the Pacific. Instead, what we have is a case of greatly accelerated speeds along major currents like the Kuroshio Current and the California Current – and these could well have disastrous side effects even beyond raising water levels at the edges of the gyre or vortex while lowering them at the centre. Such as sucking water out of the Arctic Ocean, for instance, as some of the work done by Mr Greenbaum and Captain Mariner might suggest. Also, moving plastic waste from Eastern Asia and Western America into the ‘Garbage Patch’ area swiftly enough to bypass the destructive action of sunlight and seawater which has broken down their structure in the past – and to create a solid island – a plastic Sargasso, if you will, substantial enough to become a genuine hazard to commercial shipping . . .’
‘As well as a fatal hazard to wild life of all sorts . . .’ added Richard, ‘as Mr Greenbaum and I have already proved beyond doubt. Though we’re just another couple among hundreds flagging up the danger . . .’
‘But not an average “couple”!’ said the young reporter. ‘You and Mr Greenbaum represent enormous power and influence. It is almost as though British Petroleum had joined forces with Microsoft to bring the world’s attention to the problem. After all, that is why we are here today, is it not? There is more to this than Doctor Tanaka and his plastic bottle!’
‘If the doctor is correct,’ Richard observed drily, ‘that will become the most famous plastic bottle on the planet.’
‘It already has a fan club,’ interjected the doctor, holding the clear two-litre Grape-flavour Cheerio container up under the camera lights. Beneath the tightly sealed silver-coloured cap and the solar-powered waterproof transmitter immediately underneath it, the bottle was packed tight with slips of paper. ‘My students and I have purchased tickets for the Jumbo Lottery and put them in here,’ he announced. ‘The bottle is packed with several hundred of them, in fact. At about the time I expect the bottle to arrive – unscathed and showing no signs of decomposition at all – in the middle of the North Pacific Gyre, in mid-August, the lottery will have been drawn. And the winning ticket will be worth in excess of one-hundred-million US dollars!’
There was a hiss of shock loud enough to overcome the drumming of the rain as the impact of his words ran through the crowd on the bridge.
‘But what happens if the winning ticket is in the bottle?’ demanded the reporter, horrified. ‘It could well be lost forever; even if you can track the bottle’s location, how would anyone ever reach it? Recover it?’
‘Then the first of the two vessels racing to pick it up will be able to bring it home,’ answered Richard.
Robin stepped forward then, apparently oblivious to the cascade that rolled like a mini Niagara off her umbrella and into her beloved husband’s handmade footwear. And, indeed, over the blue picture of a boat set into the sidewalk beneath the exclusive leather of their soles. ‘I will be captaining Heritage Mariner’s Fastnet-winning multihull Katapult,’ she announced brusquely as the beam of the camera lights gleamed on the riot of her golden curls and the still grey breadth of her eyes. ‘And Mr Greenbaum’s daughter, Liberty, who is already an America’s Cup winner with her team from Stanford University – where she is this year’s student commodore of the Graduate Business School’s sailing club and president of the MBA association – will be captaining Greenbaum International’s experimental vessel Flint, which is made entirely out of reclaimed polystyrene.’
Robin held their attention with the same calm, experienced authority that Richard had exercised. ‘Ms Greenbaum and I will be running a kind of twin Transpac. Flint will sail from Vancouver, British Columbia, and Katapult will sail from Tuvalu. We will set sail on the first of August, each racing flat out for the other’s point of departure, on reciprocal headings. And we are planning to meet in the middle of the North Pacific Gyre formed by the ocean currents ten days later, at about the same time as Doctor Tanaka’s bottle gets there. We will have satellite tracking equipment aboard which will let us observe its progress at all times.’
‘That sounds dangerous,’ observed the reporter roundly. ‘Two experimental yachts commanded by women, sailing into the middle of an oceanic desert the size of the Empty Quarter in the Sahara – where there are likely to be no currents, no winds, and the possibility of a sea of solid plastic flotsam the size of Texas.’
‘And there in the middle of it,’ added Robin cheerfully, ‘Doctor Tanaka’s bottle, which could well be worth one-hundred-million dollars. A risk worth taking in all sorts of ways, I’d say. And not just for the publicity.’
‘Talking of which,’ added the good doctor triumphantly, ‘it is Zero Hour! Time to get this show on the road. Wish the good ship
Cheerio luck!’ And with that, he crossed to the railing in three determined strides and dropped the bottle into the foaming water.
Under the pool of camera lights the bottle sank out of sight, and the crowd straining against the south-side railing held its breath until the silver cap bobbed up again surprisingly far downstream. The moment that it did so, there was a ragged, spontaneous cheer that grew and grew in confidence as the bottle whirled away.
‘Now that’s what I call publicity,’ said Richard an hour later as he came out of the en suite bathroom still steaming from his shower, and stepped into the master bedroom of the Mandarin Oriental’s Presidential Suite. Robin was sprawled across the king-sized bed, and in spite of the views that the suite commanded of Tokyo Bay, The Imperial Palace and Mount Fuji in the distance, she was looking at her laptop. On the wall above her was a thirty-seven-inch LCD TV, and through in the lounge beyond, between the doors into the private dining suite and the study, there was a fifty-two-inch big brother. Both were showing how wise Richard had been to refuse an umbrella. The TV lights illuminating him during the interview shone upward slightly, etching his angular face memorably against the stormy sky, emphasizing the hook of his nose, the lines of his cheekbones, the brutal line of the duelling scar, the wild blue dazzle of his eyes. The powerful authority of his words. The TVs’ sound was on mute, but Richard could read his own lips well enough.
‘Then the first of the two vessels racing to pick it up will be able to bring it home,’ he was saying.
The camera lights swung round on to Robin and at once she seemed smaller in comparison. Her face at first invisible behind a wall of silver raindrops cascading like a waterfall in front of her. Then constricted, somehow diminished by the makeshift shelter of the Oriental’s canvas umbrella – a green tent above the guinea gold of her hair. Her wide grey eyes seemingly reflecting the stormy sky she was sheltering from as she looked earnestly out of the twin TV pictures. Her silent lips moved. ‘I will be captaining Heritage Mariner’s Fastnet-winning multihull Katapult.’
Richard sat down beside her, still towelling the black waves of his hair, wondering what could be distracting her from the breathtaking views, from her own TV interview. The laptop’s seventeen-inch screen was filled with a Google Earth picture of Tokyo. And there, superimposed upon it, was the readout from the GPS locator system showing the Cheerio bottle’s current location. ‘My God!’ he breathed, suddenly understanding – sharing – her fascination. The red dot that showed the bottle’s location was out in the bay already, some vagrant current of the regimented river’s outflow swirling it eastwards along the city coastline as though it was eager to join the mighty Kuroshio Current immediately – or perhaps it just wanted to catch a glimpse of Tokyo Disneyland before it set out on its long, lonely voyage.
‘That’s a Le Mans start if ever I saw one!’ he joked, patting the snow-white terry-towelling hillock of her bottom. ‘Maybe you’d be better in Marilyn than in Katapult . . .’ Marilyn, his bright red cigarette go-faster launch could reach speeds approaching seventy-five miles per hour. Katapult could only sail at forty-five – and that on a good, breezy day.
‘Very funny,’ she answered, her voice preoccupied. ‘You know Liberty would never talk to either of us ever again if we pulled a stunt like that. And the gorgeous Miss Greenbaum is your godchild, after all.’
‘But still and all,’ he said, ‘Doctor Tanaka’s bottle is moving at one hell of a speed.’
‘I Skyped Liberty while you were in the shower,’ said Robin. ‘She’s offline at the moment but she sends her love. And we’ve agreed to upgrade the bottle. She is now a ship. The good ship Cheerio, in fact. And yes. She is moving at quite a lick. She’ll bear some close watching during the next couple of months.’
‘But it’s far too soon to get fixated on her now,’ Richard decided. ‘We’ve far more important things to consider in the meantime.’
‘Like what?’ asked Robin innocently.
‘Like are you feeling hungry?’ he asked by way of answer. ‘They’ve set out a cold buffet. Or I can order up something hot. Even the room-service menu has more Michelin stars than there are chairs in our private dining room.’
She closed the laptop and slid it on the bedside table. ‘Maybe later,’ she said, squirming sensuously over on to her side. Like Richard, she had warmed herself up since their return, but she had been in the Jacuzzi and her skin was glowing pink, hot to the touch. Like him, she was wearing nothing more than a huge white towel and the Chanel perfume another Marilyn entirely famously wore to bed. The towel opened conveniently beneath his hand. The fragrance of No. 5 filled the massive master suite so powerfully that even the air conditioning was powerless against it.
‘Maybe later,’ he agreed. ‘In the meantime, it occurs to me that we haven’t christened this bed yet. And, now I come to think of it,’ he added, loosening the towel round his own slim waist, ‘there are beds in two other rooms in this suite alone. So we’d better get busy, my love . . .’
Liberty
Liberty Greenbaum paused for a moment in her progress across Jericho Park, Vancouver, and swept the weight of her hair back as she squinted across the dull grey chop of English Bay trying to catch a glimpse of Flint. Like her godfather Richard Mariner on the road bridge in Tokyo three months earlier, she wasn’t letting the weather worry her. Even though she had simply shrugged a navy Helly Hansen three-quarter-length rigging coat over her Carven trouser suit and strode out on to the six hundred metres of park-front shoreline separating the yacht club from the sailing centre, thus ruining several thousand dollars’ worth of grand couture and a pair of Jimmy Choos almost as expensive as Richard’s handmade Lobb Oxfords. But there had been a bunch of students out here waiting to walk with her and she wasn’t the kind of woman to ignore her friends – or her fans.
The crowd of University of British Columbia students behind her paused also, straining, like her, to catch a glimpse of her vessel Flint, as she sailed across from the Royal Vancouver Yacht Club to the Jericho Sailing Centre ready for ‘the off’. It was the first of August and coming up to high water. Liberty had a lot to do and not much time left, as anyone watching her recent broadcast from the grand reception at the Royal Yacht Club would have been very well aware. But Flint was hidden beyond the grey veils of torrential rain. This despite Liberty’s command being more than thirty-five metres of bright white Styrofoam from stem to stern with a beam of fifteen metres and a foremast as tall as the hull was long, and with a triangular mainsail the shape and colour of a snow-covered Alp 210 metres square.
Liberty was frustrated that her mate Maya MacArthur was at the helm while she had been trapped into lunching in comfort and giving TV interviews instead of sailing her baby across the bay. But she had known for all of her twenty-five years that these little frustrations just came with the territory. And this race against Robin in Katapult was, after all, all about publicity.
Although, at twenty-five, Liberty was a graduate student now, she still fitted in well with the UBC undergrads who had waited like fans after a rock concert outside the Royal Yacht Club while she did lunch and interviews. Except that she was taller, wiser and far more experienced than any of them. Together with her still-youthful potential, Liberty was blessed with an aristocratic beauty. Coupled with smoky-blue eyes and an extravagance of honey-coloured hair, this made it all too easy for her to get her face on the front of magazines as widely separated as Vanity Fair and Forbes in the States, Elle and The Economist in the UK – and Yachting Monthly all over the world. Not that Liberty ever stopped for long enough to think about herself as a celebrity, let alone a pin-up. To think much about herself at all, in fact. She was usually far too wrapped up in whatever she was doing. And in her time she seemed to have done quite a lot. Under normal circumstances, she hardly ever thought about her past, but the speeches she had just sat through had brought half-forgotten details into unusually sharp focus.
Liberty’s earliest memories were a footloose mixture of maids an
d nannies, hotels and houses all over the world as she had followed her parents while they took over the reins of Greenbaum Oil, expanding it into Greenbaum Petrochemical and then Greenbaum International. An itinerant childhood centred on her grandparents’ rambling old mansion in Hyannis Port, because it was here that Grandpa Greenbaum had taught her to sail in the long, lazy summer vacations she had enjoyed with him. At the ripe age of five she had skippered her first vessel – a tiny skiff – out on the seeming vastness of Nantucket Sound.
By the age of seven, the reed-thin, iron-willed Liberty was at Amberley, an exclusive little private school in the south of England. England, because her parents were now settled in Mayfair, where they oversaw the rapid expansion of the Greenbaum International into Europe and all points east. At Amberley she first met William and Mary, the Mariner twins, immediate friends though some years her junior. And, through William and Mary, she gained access to the Heritage Mariner facilities in Southampton where, over the years on the Solent, her grandfather’s lessons in distant Nantucket had been expanded exponentially as first Doc Weary then his daughter Florence had taken her up from dinghies through Lasers to keelboats and yachts. Single, double and multihull. From simple little inshore sloops to ocean-going schooners.
By the time Liberty left Amberley for Hunter College High on E94th Street, New York, aged thirteen, she had crewed Katapult on her Fastnet trials around the Isle of Wight and risen from a pampered mascot to a valued team member. And she had sprouted from five feet in her socks to five foot eight with muscles as unyielding as her determination. Her progress had brought the Mariner and Greenbaum families and business empires together. She had also captained the school hockey team, the fencing team and the debating team during their most successful year in Amberley’s history. But she had had enough of pampered private school life. She wanted to try a new mix of academic excellence and broad-based acquaintance. Her mother had been unhappy, but her father talked her round. Something he could not have managed with Liberty herself.
