A Ravel of Waters

by Geoffery Jenkins

  'Sometimes’ I echoed.

  'You'd never have made it in winter-time.'

  'It's still summer down there. The bergs drift continually in the general direction of Gough. The warmer the seas, the smaller they grow.'

  He pointed again at the chart. He was close to me; he was sweating. Even Navy rum doesn't act that quick. I froze when I saw the place he indicated. It was about 600 sea-miles southwest of Gough.

  'What took you here?'

  He was watching me closely. 'Wind’ I answered curtly. 'I went where the best winds blew.'

  'Did you choose this course yourself, or was it Weather Routed?'

  I resented his probing.

  'I sail by what I feel’1 replied offhandedly. 'Not by what some boffin halfway across the world tells me what the weather should be where I am.'

  'Are these exact day-to-day fixes marked on the chart?'

  'No. They were by guess and by God.' The relaxed air had gone out of our talk. 'At the point you're interested in I hadn't had a proper sight for a week.'

  'Ah!' The remark might have meant something. He followed it with a large gulp of rum-laced coffee.

  His next query was phrased carefully. 'The area where my magazine considers a story may lie is in your inner reaction to such a long voyage alone. A study in depth, so to say, of the mind of the lone sailor.'

  Did Brockton know - or suspect - anything of my secret that he should have pinpointed the place where it had happened? How could he, I asked myself. There had been no witnesses, not one for a thousand miles. I told myself I was becoming unnecessarily sensitive. Nevertheless, I decided to fob Brockton off.

  'Listen, Paul,I said. 'As far as I'm concerned there isn't a story in lone sailor soul-searching. If you're looking for a hard news story, the Jetwind record attempt is on again. I am her hew captain. Thomsen offered me the job tonight. Tomorrow I fly to Buenos. Aires from Cape Town, and then on to the Falklands.'

  My earlier inner questionings about Brockton were revived by his over-kill reaction to my news. He gave me an all-American grin and pump-handled me. 'Boy, what a scoop! This'll lick the ass off the other reporters sitting back in Cape Town playing crap games to pass the time of day!'

  'I thought you wrote for the Deep Sea Sailer?

  'Not only,' he replied. 'A small outfit like that couldn't afford to fly me out to the Cape.'

  He seemed to take a sudden hold on himself, as if aware of his over-reaction, and went on in his previous manner to which I had been attracted. 'Peter, I'm glad for your sake. If any man can make it, you will. Nevertheless, to reach Gough from the Falklands in a week is one hell of a tall order. But you're the man to put the Jetwind project back in orbit. I'd like to be able to tell the world about it as it takes place.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Take me along in Jetwind. From what I hear she's got plenty of spare passenger accommodation. A day-by-day write-up of her progress will put the public back on Thomsen's side. You're still riding the crest because of Albatros's run. The two go together, news-wise.' He slipped the question - it was only later that I remembered it. 'I guess you'll be taking the same route as in Albatros’

  I must have nodded agreement, but primarily I was considering whether Jetwind could afford'a supernumerary aboard like a reporter.

  I sensed his tenseness and attributed it to anxiety regarding my decision.

  'Right - you can come, if you can wangle a seat aboard the plane tomorrow night. If you can't, it's off. I won't wait.'

  He laughed and said enthusiastically, Tm damn sure you won't, Peter. You'll get that flier moving the moment you step aboard.'

  'I hope so.'

  'Meaning?'

  'This is off the record,' I said, and I gave a brief outline of Captain Mortensen's death, the so-called arrest of the ship, and Grohman's discussions on the mainland.

  Brockton stood abstracted until I reminded him, 'You've got a lot of hard talking to do on the phone tonight, Paul, if you're to tag along with me - first, for a connection to Cape Town in the morning and, more important, on Aerolineas Argentinas tomorrow night.'

  'Nothing is going to stop me being aboard those planes tomorrow - nothing,' he asserted. 'I'll be sitting waiting here on the jetty first thing with my bags.'

  He started to leave, then came back and said, with such undisguised sincerity and warmth that I was glad I had decided to take him on, 'Peter, you've given me a big, big break. Bigger than you can guess. Maybe I'll be able to tell you about it some day. It's more than I ever expected when I came aboard tonight. Remember that, will you?'

  Chapter 7

  I dreamed that Jetwind was tearing out of control towards a monster iceberg. Her masts were without sails: a great wind was hurling her along by thrust on the stream-lined yards alone. Inside the bridge a computer was flashing and chattering insanely, 'wind-tunnel negative, wind-tunnel negative'. Then the dial would clear itself and begin all over again in a kind of frenetic repeat print-out. The monster berg, steaming and ill-defined, filled the entire horizon - it had the evil menace of a nightmare. I heard the pitch of the gale change; Jetwind accelerated; I awoke in a sweat.

  The air-brakes of the Boeing 747 of Aerolineas Argentinas were on; it was their sound that had penetrated my eight-hour sleep across the South Atlantic from Cape Town to Buenos Aires. Now, to find myself descending towards the great estuary of the River Plate in broad sunlight - we had taken off from Cape Town after midnight, in a blustery southeaster - had in itself the quality of a waking dream. Beyond the plane's window on my right I spotted the luxury resort of Ciudad de Punta del Este where I had tied up in Albatros when staging south to Cape Horn: the lighthouse with its tall, round, white masonry tower was unmistakable. The sight of it again, with sleep still fogging my senses, made me wonder whether the intervening six weeks' events had indeed taken place - Albatros, the record, Jetwind.

  However, it was all real enough on landing. So was the obstructionism of Argentinian officialdom once they learned that Brockton and I were bound for the Falklands. Brockton had been as good as his promise in securing a seat - next to me - on the full aircraft. I think it owed much to his command of Spanish. His fluency was certainly the key factor in smoothing the way for me to obtain a travel permit called a 'white card' which all British subjects entering the Falklands by air via the southern Argentinian town of Comodoro Rivadavia are required to carry. Despite the fact that the Falklands are British, the Argentinian authorities insist that they are rightfully Argentinian territory, and the 'white cards' are a way of asserting this claim by bureaucratic harassment of British travellers.

  At the mention of the Falklands, officials started the 'work to rule' routine on Brockton and me which left us well behind the other passengers. Further, the name Jetwind and the fact that I was her skipper turned obstructionism into thinly concealed hostility. I was still suffering from sleep dosage withdrawal symptoms - either I needed more, or none at all. It was only Brockton's patience and his Spanish which saved me from exploding.

  After innumerable questions and much note-taking, our 'white cards' were finally issued. We made our connecting plane by a whisker.

  Late that afternoon, after a wearisome flight southwards, when I finally came out of my heart-of-darkness sleeping jag we arrived at the oil-field town of Comodoro Rivadavia, jumping-off point for the final leg, next day, to Port Stanley.

  Later Brockton and I were drinking a glass of wine in the creeper-covered patio of the Spanish colonial Austral Hotel, which contrasted nostalgically with the upstart modernism of the town itself, centre of one of Argentina's most important oil-fields. The town's streets had a superfluity of raw concrete walls, most of which seemed to be graffitied with the same slogan in big red letters - 'Las Malvinas son nuestras'.

  I was relaxed, warm and comfortable in the secluded twilight. The vino rosado was good, if a trifle sweet for my palate. I liked having Brockton around; our acquaintance was turning to friendship, especially after the 'white card' unpleas
antness. I was gratified that my first impressions of the man had proved correct.

  Robbie Lund, proprietor of the Austral, came to our table. He was an amiable, big-boned Scot whose grandfather, in common with hundreds of others of Hebridean descent, had settled southern Patagonia towards the turn of the last century. Originally they had been 'kelpers' in the Falklands and later were responsible for the famous Patagonian wool boom.

  'So you're the new skipper of Jetwind? he asked.

  'Yes. It surprises me how many people in Argentina seem to know about the ship.'

  'You wouldn't know why, would you?'

  'No. A record attempt of that nature doesn't seem to be the sort of thing to create much popular feeling.'

  Two kids appeared suddenly, and Lund said something to them in Spanish, indicating the entrance bell. They shot off excitedly.

  Lund excused himself for the interruption, and continued the conversation.

  'And you wouldn't know either, Mr Brockton, in spite of the fact that you speak Spanish so well?'

  'I guess not, except that everyone's hackles seemed to rise when Jetwind was mentioned.'

  Lund chose his words. 'Jetwind has kind of split public opinion down the middle in Argentina.' He dropped his voice. 'A hotelier has to be careful. Split, left and right.'

  Something of the bien aise went out of the evening. 'You mean, politically left and right?'

  'Aye, I do.'

  'Who dragged politics into a neutral subject like a record-breaking attempt?'

  'You may well ask. Captain Rainier. You see, Jetwind is tied up in the Falklands.'

  'Don't I know it!'

  'The ship has become a kind of symbol, if I may put it that way.'

  'A symbol of what?'

  Lund glanced about uneasily, tfien replied. 'Hasn't your friend translated the slogans on the walls of the town? They've shot up like mushrooms ever since Jetwind was known to be in Port Stanley.'

  Brockton repeated the Spanish. '"Las Malvinas son nuestras" - the Malvinas are ours. As good nationalists, they don't tolerate the name Falklands. The question of ownership of the Falklands has been a point of friction for generations. Now the whole controversy has flared up again - because Jetwind was forced to make for Port Stanley.'

  'Forced? Who says forced?' I asked. 'The ship was en route from Montevideo to the Cape when her captain was killed in an accident. Her first mate, Anton Grohman, turned and like a frightened rabbit made for Port Stanley.'

  Lund sat down and stared. 'That isn't the story that has been circulated in Argentina.'

  'Now I see,' I replied. 'Grohman is an Argentinian. The Falklands are a delicate political issue, and Grohman thought it would make good political capital.'

  Brockton blew in the mouth of the wine bottle as if underscoring my remark. It emitted an odd, menacing, horn-like sound.

  'Whose side is he really on, Mr Lund?' he asked.

  Lund replied thoughtfully. 'Captain Grohman stopped over here a few days back on his way from the Falklands...'

  'Grohman isn't Jetwind's captain any longer,' I corrected him. 'He was temporarily in charge after Mortensen's death.'

  Lund contemplated me shrewdly. 'It was a clever thing to call himself captain in the papers - politically, I mean. A storm is being stirred up round Jetwind.’

  'A political captain makes a half-assed sailing captain,' said Brockton.

  'If Grohman is not aboard Jetwind when I arrive tomorrow,,I sail without him,' I said. 'The more I hear of him, his intrigues and his political involvements, the less I like him.'

  'I wouldn't say Grohman isn't a good sailor,' answered Lund. 'But he's a true-blue Argentinian - half-Spanish, half-Scots. In addition, there's wild, dangerous blood in him, probably Indian. The mixture could produce strange characteristics.'

  'Thanks for the tip,' I replied. 'But I think I know how to handle him.'

  Lund flashed a grin at Brockton. 'I reckon you would.'

  The two youngsters suddenly appeared carrying a bell. Lund gave them some coins and handed the bell to me.

  'This ship's bell comes from the wreck of an old barque which has lain beached in the Straits of Magellan for donkey's years. Her name was the Ambassador; the man who built her also happened to be named Lund. No relation that I know of. I salvaged her bell a long time ago, just for the hell of it. Now I'd like you to have it for Jetwind. I said Jetwind has divided public opinion. Down here in the south we're mostly of Scots and British descent - we're on your side, Captain Rainier. The bell's sort of to wish you good luck. You manage to get that ship out of Port Stanley and you'll have every mother's son in these parts doing a Highland Fling for you.'

  'I'll manage all right,' I said. 'Who's going to stop me?'

  Lund was looking over my shoulder. He made a quick silencing gesture and stood up. I pivoted round. A man was striding on to the patio. He was carrying a silver-handled riding crop, a rebenque the Argentinians call it, as I learned later. The whiteness of his officer's cap accentuated his swarthiness and dark, over-large, penetrating eyes. Deep lines from nostril to chin might have been tooled into his lean cheeks by riding the pampas or standing sea watch. He was young - about my age. But his ancient Indian blood had made the handsome Spaniard in him prematurely mature.

  'Senor Grohman,' said Lund. 'May I introduce Captain Peter Rainier, who, I believe, is taking over command of Jetwind?’

  Brockton and I were sitting next to one another - Lun,d's half-turned introductory gesture included us both.

  Grohman stopped short and slapped his leg with the whip.

  'Which of you is Rainier?'

  I remained still and regarded the angry face. I said emphatically, 'Mister Grohman, let's get this straight. I am Captain Rainier - understand?'

  I heard Brockton gasp; Robbie Lund moved out of the line of possible cross-fire.

  'On whose authority are you taking over?'

  I kept my cool despite his provocative air and tapping whip.

  'Just pick up the nearest phone and call Axel Thomsen in Cape Town. I have his number right here. I was with him only last night. He'll be more than delighted to establish contact with the man who blew Jetwind's chances. He's been trying to get hold of you ever since you inexplicably put into Port Stanley.'

  That stopped his tap-tapping and his hectoring air.

  I added, 'If you want on-the-spot proof, I have a letter of appointment signed by Axel Thomsen. However, I don't have to parade my credentials to you or anyone else. I am captain of Jetwind, and I stay that way.'

  Grohman shifted his ground at my tone. He indicated Brockton. 'Who's this man?'

  'I could be anyone.' There was a strange note in Brockton's voice which I was to recall later. For the moment, though, I was fully preoccupied with Grohman. 'But I happen to be an American newspaper-man.'

  'Sit down, Grohman,' I continued. 'We have a lot to talk about.'

  Lund seemed quite anxious to leave the battle-field, and moved away.

  Grohman threw the ornate whip on the table like a gauntlet of defiance and sat down.

  'First,' I said to him, 'get this absolutely clear. Mr Thomsen didn't specifically ask me to fire you but he gave me blanket authority to do what I wished in the best interests of Jetwind. I'll beach you here and now if you don't behave more like a ship's officer than a Mafia strongarm boy. I don't like that whip. Get rid of it before anything else.'

  Our eyes locked. They seemed to stay that way for minutes. Watch out for that Indian blood, a bell rang at the back of my brain, or he'll come at you with a knife.

  But he didn't, although I was ready to hit him - hard. Instead, he pulled in his breath like a deep sigh as if he'd reached some inner decision which hurt him but which was expedient. He thrust the whip out of sight under the table.

  His truculence had not wholly disappeared, however,, He said, 'If this man's a reporters I don't want him listening to a private conversation.'

  Brockton half-rose. 'Hold it, Paul.' I told Grohman, 'He stays.' I i
ndicated the bottle, 'Paul,' I added. 'See if you can find us some Scotch. I can't stand more of that sweet stuff’

  Grohman seemed willing to take me up on any issues even Argentinian wine. 'It is the best wine we have,'

  'That may be, but it still doesn't make me like it. It's sweet and jammy. Ask Robbie Lund for Scotch.'

  'It'll be a pleasure,' grinned Brockton.

  'Now then, Grohman,' I said when he had gone. Tor the moment we'll skip the motivation - or lack of it - which landed you in Port Stanley. Once there, however, your duty was to stick with the ship, not to flip-flap round South America where no one could contact you. What in hell's name made you leave?'

  His lean body started to surge forward in anger; it cost him an effort to hold himself in check. There was a kind of suppressed fire about the man. I thought he could be dangerous with a little provocation. Nevertheless, I had no intention of soft-soaping him.

  He chose his words. 'I had an obligation to inform the Argentinian authorities.'

  'Are you crazy? An obligation to inform foreign authorities about Jetwind's activities in a British port! What the devil has Jetwind got to do with Argentina? Your authorities were difficult enough about granting my "white card" when they heard I was Jetwind's new skipper.'

  'That police officer will lose his job for granting it.'

  That jolted me. 'How would you know? It only happened this morning.'

  The slightest sneer tugged at the left-hand corner of his mouth. 'I have friends.'

  'It seems so, Grohman. They seem more important than sticking to your job. What is behind all this coming and going?'

  My tone needled him into replying just as Paul arrived with the Scotch. Grohman stuck to the wine. He banged down his glass angrily.

  'I was doing what was right. You do not understand - or you do not even want to understand - how delicate the political situation is over the question of the Falklands.'