After I had woken her, she joined me at the radio in the main cabin. On the South American race it had given trouble. When Touleier had been hard pressed, there was a seepage somewhere which affected its performance. I am no radio expert, and all I could do then was to try and keep it as dry as possible. The experts who had overhauled it had reinstalled it in the same place, with some extra waterproofing. It still seemed vulnerable to me, however, being close to the overhead skylight. Nevertheless, it seemed to work well enough now.
1 probed the wavelengths. Nothing.
I handed over the tuning dial to her slender fingers. Previously, the instrument had seemed to respond better to her delicate touch than to mine.
She held up a warning hand.
Port Elizabeth Met. to Ocean Fuel.
'Supertanker!' I whispered.
0600 GMT. Pressure 1000 mb, falling. Wind, light northerly to north-westerly, freshening. Sea, moderate northeasterly.
She swung round to me, questioning. 'Yesl' I said. A Waratah gale was on the way. 'Listen!' she said.
Port Elizabeth came in again after the Ocean Fuel's acknowledgment.
South-westerly gale off southern Cape coast, fifty to fifty-five knots. All lined up here for gale. Advise you to make for nearest port.
She came up to the cockpit and stayed with me until ten o'clock. We were off the Bashee.
Jubela joined me and she went below. He and I unbent and stowed all sails, including the big mainsail, in the for'ard sail locker. We double-lashed all running gear on the lean, uncluttered deck in order to allow the seas free passage. We checked the self-draining cockpit and the buoyancy tanks. We also frapped the tall mast, Jubela agreeing with me that had it been jointed, we would have been well advised to send down the upper half.
We broke out the small heavy canvas jib in order to keep steerage way. We brought to the ready, as an emergency stand-by, a still smaller, tougher trysail. In the soft weather of the moment the larger storm sail was scarcely enough to make the yacht ghost along, but it was all we needed as we marked time.
When we had done, I found Tafline below. She had made packets of emergency sandwiches, and wrapped and labelled them individually as meals for the coming days. In a full blow, the galley stove could not be used. She had also filled big vacuum flasks with hot coffee and soup against the emergency.
It was not until later, however, that I found out that her main concern had been to go once again through all the Waratah documents, double-wrap them in waterproofing, and re-stow them out of reach of any possible flooding in the galley's special head-high, metal-lined locker.
She was finished by the time the lunch-hour shipping forecast came-thoughtful, tense, saying little.
There is a gale warning. Strong south-westerly winds between Port Elizabeth and East London will reach forty-five to fifty-five knots later. All shipping is advised to make for port. We repeat, there is a gale warning ...
'No order from the C-in-C this time,' she remarked.
'It'll come,' I replied grimly. ‘It's the final stage. They want to be quite sure, before putting out an order of such gravity.'
The sea still kept its face bland, but the wind became uneasy, gusting fitfully from the north-east. I let Tafline steer the gliding yacht in order to pass the time.
We said little, except once when she asked, 'Are we over the Waratah now, do you think, Ian?'
'We certainly are right in the area where she disappeared.'
She cut in quickly. 'What will you do when you find her?'
I was about to answer when my eye caught something on the far horizon.
'Look!'
The line between the blue of the sea and the purple of the storm was scarcely distinguishable. It merged, it fused, trying to conceal its evil in the water it was so soon to corrupt.
She gave a slight shiver, turned to me as if she intended to say something, and then started below.
'I'll bring up all the oilskins.'
The barometer started to rise. Soon the uneasy wind would settle into its true channel - the south-west.
The first punch the storm threw at Touleier unmasked its lethal intent.
I had put the yacht on the port tack, heading away from the land in the late afternoon. The wind was veering into its storm quarter, but still remained moderate. The sea began to rise, but I was unhappy about the Agulhas Current. It was so strong as to affect the steering: I was glad I had discarded the self-steering device. It required human brains and skill to offset what was starting to happen to the sea and wind. I was anxious, too, about Touleier's position. In theory, I knew that at first she would be driven southwards by the current, but once the gale got under way in earnest, she would be blown back upon her course. By tacking out to sea until it worsened, and then tacking landwards again, I reckoned she would be roughly in the Waratah target area when the storm reached its climax, which would probably be next morning.
I explained all this to her.
'There's a point beyond which one cannot go with a ship,' I said. 'Walvis Bay was on the limit. If it gets too bad I'll heave to.'
She smiled a little and said, 'Brinkmanship? A Fairlie judgement against a gale?'
I nodded, but inwardly I did not share her faith in myself. I carefully counter-checked every point I could think of. It would need everything Jubela and I could muster to keep her afloat. I went cold when I thought consciously about that giant wave which had hit Walvis Bay.
With a clap like a rifle-shot the storm jib exploded outwards in an iron-hard concave and blew to ribbons. In a second, it seemed, squares, rectangles and triangles of ripped sail insinuated themselves into the running blocks of the upper rigging. A ten-foot strip, still clinging by one tenuous cringle to an unyielding length of nylon rope, streamed out and flapped savagely against the mast. Then even the tough grommet could take the strain no longer, and the sail wrapped itself round the spreader and upper shrouds. The forestay thrummed like a double-bass.
i The squall had struck ahead of the main army of the storm, now ominous and purple-black to starboard. There had been no herald of its coming.
Touleier lay over on her side until the lee deck and cockpit were awash.
Pinned like that and with almost no way on her, anything could happen. And the storm itself was upon us.
'Jubela! Quick! That storm jib! Quick, man, quick!'
Urgently I thrust the helm into Tafline's hands. 'Just try and hold her steady until the jib draws. It'll take both Jubela and me to set v the other storm jib. One of us will be back as soon as we can.'
She was strained, doubtful about her ability to steer in such an emergency. Jubela and I crawled forward along the steeply-angled deck while patchworks of torn, blown trysail snapped and yapped against the mast. I was glad that we had had the foresight to unbend and stow the mainsail; with it, Touleier would have been on her beam ends by now. 'Got it!'
Jubela threw me a nod. The smaller, tougher sail was snugged home and began to draw. I slithered to the cockpit and took the wheel from Tafiine. The yacht came upright and shied like a startled horse under the drag of the small sail, even, Jubela threw himself flat up for'ard, watched anxiously for a moment or two, and then gave the thumbs-up sign. Water cascaded off the deck. Touleier picked up speed rapidly and shook herself clear.
I threw all my attention into watching the yacht, the sea, and the sky. That squall had made it clear, even in this early stage, that no quarter would be given. Touleier gave a quick, duck-like shake. The contempt in it for my fears broke our tension for a moment. We both grinned. But Waratah was never far from our minds.
She gestured at the sea. 'All those arguments by the experts seem so futile when you come face to face with the reality.'
'They went for the ship, I go for the sea,' I said, knowing well what was on her mind.
'And the gale,' she added.
I liked the feel of the tight little craft under me and the confident way she behaved. The wind began to increase with every gust.<
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Then - it roared into the south-west.
Its onslaught was different from my previous encounter, but again there was the clear distinction between the advancing storm and the darkening land. Touleier had the rising sea abeam and started to put her rail under regularly.
We found it hard to talk to each other because of the wind. But I leaned down to her ears, gesturing at the waves.
'Waratah wasn't heading into a beam sea like we are doing. She was meeting it head-on. That lessened her problems a great deal.'
She nodded, looked astern.
Bashee light.
Touleier's portents were identical to Walvis Bay's.
An hour later, the wind notched up gale force. I estimated its speed at between forty and fifty knots. Icy rain sluiced along the deck. It was pitch dark, and a tremendous cross-sea was building up against the main current. I was a little startled at the way Touleier lay over at the crests under the impact of each savage gust, and the rag of sail slatted and roared. But it held. Soon - if the manoeuvre were to be carried out at all -I must put her on the opposite tack. I sent Tafline below, using the weather forecast which was due as an excuse. Jubela and I roped ourselves tightly to the cockpit in case it was swamped. I watched my moment.
Suddenly Touleier took a deep lee lurch and at the same time she was struck by one of those hilly, sharp-topped pyramids of sea, unlike anything I have ever seen before or since. In a moment she was half-way on her side. I felt the wheel start to lose its positiveness. Water poured over us until I was knee-deep. Jubela was hurled against me, but he clawed himself away in order to give me freedom with the wheel. I tried it to starboard, hoping to bring her head more into the wind. Then I felt the storm jib bite as she rose to the crest, and tons of water were thrown along the unobstructed decks. Seizing the moment, I put the wheel hard over and Jubela, following my actions, let fly the sheet and then trimmed it for the new tack.
Touleier was round!
Sea surged and gurgled from the self-draining cockpit. Tafline came up from the cabin and looked about her, startled. It was impossible to see her eyes in the dim compass light. Her voice was strained.
'The radio, Ian, it started all right, then something happened ... she seemed to go right under! ‘
I cupped my hands against her ears. 'She's all right now. If it becomes much worse, I'll heave to.'
The lee deck was completely under water, but Touleier was lively and handling magnificently.
'I'll bring you something hot,' she called back.
The wind whipped back her sou'wester over her shoulders as she turned to go below. Ballooning out behind, for a moment it made her unsteady on her feet, the thrust was so powerful. Then she ducked out of sight.
I kept Touleier under the rag of sail for the next couple of hours. By ten o'clock the wind had risen to a whole gale-sixty knots! Its roar was appalling and it was locked in violent combat with the Agulhas Current. It threw up sharp, deadly pyramids of water which spent themselves by falling bodily on the yacht's deck. Tafline reported the skylight over the radio broken, and Jubela crawled forward and secured a square of tarpaulin over it. If they had warned shipping away from the coast, we certainly had no chance of hearing it. I was soaked. She brought us relays of hot soup and coffee. At times the clash of the current and gale under her rudder made the yacht almost unmanageable. I had not the slightest idea of her position. While the wind had still been usable Touleier had, I knew, beaten some miles to the south of the Bashee, but it was certain that she had been driven back since. I decided to heave to.
I went below to tell her of my decision, leaving the wheel to Jubela.
On deck, my ears had been numbed by the thunder of the gale and the cold; here, in the confined space of the cabin, the waves added their drum-like crash against the hull to the general uproar. It was impossible to move across the place -streaming wet from rain and seawater jetting in through the tarpaulin-lashed skylight - without using the grab-handles. The motion was jerky, uncertain, unpredictable, violent; a sudden pitch or staggering roll could easily break a limb if one did not hang on.
Tafline was very pale. 'Darling - is this the end? Are we sinking?'
I wanted to hold her, comfort her, chase the shadows from those lovely eyes. All I could do was hang on against the wild, erratic motion.
'Far from it,' I answered. I did not say, it will be worse before the night is over.
She shuddered, looking at the untidy mess swilling about under the yellow oil lights. We had disconnected the battery supply and drained the acid from the cells, in preparation for the storm.
'Was it worse - in Walvis Bay?'
'Yes, but different,' I reassured her. 'Touleier's like a cork, she's under sail. Walvis Bay plugged into it, nose-down. In the whaler, I was able to hold the Waratah's course, but any set direction now is out of the question.'
'No wonder they pray, "for those in peril on the sea".'
'I'm heaving her to,' I explained. 'There's nothing to be gained by trying to sail. It will make the motion easier, perhaps.'
She stared hard at me, and then asked in a small voice, 'This doesn't mean you're abandoning the Waratah, does it? I'd rather go on, come what may. If it's for my sake.. .’
The question of speed worried me greatly, but I don't think it is a factor. You see, the Waratah was steering at thirteen knots, Gemsbok was flying at over 300, and Alistair over 600.1 can't see any connection. I feel sure that Touleier's being hove-to won't make any difference. If it-whatever it is-is to come, it will come, whether we are under way or not. From the way the yacht is behaving, I think the storm centre must be close. The entire storm moves strangely fast. In twenty-four hours one of these blows could have spent its main force.'
'Over!' she echoed. I saw how near breaking-point she was.
I said gently, 'If the gale sticks true to form, it will reach its peak sometime tomorrow morning.'
'Morning!' she gasped. 'Will the yacht-can we-take much more?'
'She's in good shape,' I replied. "There's not much damage so far.'
She held my gaze. 'While she goes, I go - please remember that.'
I remember that now, too.
Before we put the helm up, I inched forward along the streaming deck on the lifelines and placed oil bags on each side of the bow. While I took the wheel, Jubela did the same over the counter. Immediately there was relief from her labouring, and she began to ride more comfortably. I got in the jib, and we hove her to on the port tack, streaming a sea anchor. The yacht shipped huge quantities of water; the lee rail and deck were constantly awash. Meanwhile the dollops started to come over the stern, too. I attributed this to the head-on clash of the gale and the current. I was very anxious lest the self-steering gear should be damaged and tangle with the rudder, so we put another oil bag in an old fish basket and ran it out on a deep-sea lead, which was the only spare cordage we could find. The lines were stowed in the sail locker, but we could not risk flooding her forward by opening it. The makeshift bag served its purpose. Now the yacht rode more confidently, although I could visualize how terrifying in daylight the seas would look from wave-level in the cockpit.
By midnight the gale was still increasing and a massive cross-sea threw the yacht about like flotsam. We double-lashed our minute storm jib to save it; high in the rigging the remnants of the first storm sail unravelled themselves, strand by strand. Touleier's head held well into the wind.
As the violence and the din grew, I debated whether I should attempt bending a tiny trysail high up aloft, but I discarded the idea because of the danger of climbing the arching, jerking mast. There was the danger, too, of getting her long mainboom in the water. If she broached to and were pooped, nothing could save us.
Through the rest of the night, Jubela and I alternately stood short helm watches until we could bear the breaking seas, the rain, and the icy wind no longer. Frozen, we came below, and Tafline fed us hot coffee and soup and her emergency sandwiches. Rest was impossible and the
bunks were soaking. It was safest to wedge oneself on the floor gratings between foam rubber cushions off the lockers and cling on when a more violent shudder shook the hull in every plank.
When it was light, the sea presented an awesome sight. Tafline came into the cockpit when it was my turn to relieve Jubela. The roar of the gale made speech impossible. I saw her give the same quick intake of breath, half-sigh and smothered exclamation, she had done when she first saw the wrecked deck of the Walvis Bay.
The forward strike of the south-westerly gale, with its savage accompanying run of sea against the great current, had created an ocean of pointed hills which boiled and leaped high on either side of Touleier and fell over both the yacht's rails at once. Rain swirled in solid, icy sheets. The demented wind whipped off the summits of the wave-hills and bore them bodily aloft, higher than the mast, in a white shower of salt. The mast spreader, stays and blocks were white - not with salt but with threads of canvas stripped from the sail we had lost in the initial stages of the battle. Despite the oil bags, Touleier was swept fore and aft continually. The cockpit drainage could not keep pace with the inflow, so that there were never less than a couple of feet of water round one's knees. Touleier was still full of fight, although the lurches to lee that she gave as she reared to the crest of the waves were even more frightening on deck than they seemed below. There was no question of steering her among this watery valley of a thousand hills. She cavorted, swung, pitched, rolled and dipped all in one motion, it seemed. The oil bags were working well; we had renewed them an hour or two before. Without them, it appeared impossible that Touleier could have survived the storm.
Scend of the Sea Page 18
