Brockton and I lagged behind the rest of the passengers and his Argentinian foursome were quickly cleared and disappeared. Brockton and I had few exchanges since our arrival. I had enough to think about without making polite conversation. Paul seemed to realize it. I liked the man for his silences as much as for his words. It appeared to me, however, that when we finally reached the immigration desk he subtly jockeyed himself to be first in line.
He handed over his passport. His bulk barred me from seeing the document. The official was about to frank it, then stopped.
'Just a moment, sir.'
He disappeared into an inner office. He was away about five minutes and came back looking slightly flustered.
'Will you come this way please, Mr Brockton?'
Paul went. I stood around for about ten minutes, becoming more and more impatient. Through the windows I saw the passengers being loaded into a closed Land Rover for transport to the town. I noted, too, that the sky had become slightly hazier.
Finally, the official emerged.
'What's the problem?' I asked.
He avoided my eyes. 'No problem. We don't get many Americans in this part of the world, that's all.'
I surrendered my own passport. The official examined the selection of Albatros port clearances, and then with added interest, that of South Africa.
'What is the purpose of your visit to Stanley, sir?'
I could just make out Jetwind from where I stood. I gestured.
'Jetwind - I'm her new skipper.'
He looked surprised. 'But - Mr Grohman is the captain. I've just checked him through.'
In my eagerness to be up and away, my fury needed all my control to keep it from exploding.
'I assure you he is not. ‘I am.'
The man clammed up at my tone. 'Sorry, sir. I cannot discuss anything outside a passenger's own personal affairs. Will you wait a moment?'
Same formula, same delay, same inscrutable politeness as for Brockton.
'What is wrong?' I demanded.
'There is nothing wrong,' he replied blandly. 'Not yet,'
Paul's ten minutes' delay was stretched to twenty in my case. The empty airport building felt as if Our Lady of Solitude had moved in.
Finally, I was asked into the Senior Immigration Officer's sanctum. (In the Falklands, the pecking order among colonial officials is as rigid as diplomatic protocol.)
He played the cards close to his chest. 'You say you are the new captain of Jetwind, Mr Rainier?'
'You'd think it was a crime, considering the reaction it has brought both here and on the mainland.'
'So? He was urbane. 'You had no problems with your "white card"?'
'A little more than you're giving me.'
He remained unruffled. 'I could make things impossible, you realize.'
'Why should you?'
I had not been asked to sit down. The SIO regarded me through a swirl of cigarette smoke.
'I don't think you understand what an . , , ah, embarrassment.. . your ship has been, and continued to be, to the authorities here, Captain.'
'If Grohman had carried on to the Cape, none of this would have arisen.'
'It is our duty to cope with the situation as it has arisen. I wonder if I may make a suggestion to you, Captain Rainier?'
'I'm listening.'
'Let me telephone Mr Ronald Dawson, who is Chief Magistrate. Perhaps we could arrange for you to meet in the course of the next few days.
I saw the double play, diplomatic heel-dragging. A few days, more delays - what were they all playing at?
'I shall be delighted. As soon as possible. Today, after lunch.'
He appeared nonplussed at my hurry. 'There is always plenty of time in the Falklands, Captain Rainier. You will learn that, I hope, to your advantage.'
Everything inside me was crying out against this verbal fencing. I kept my cool, however.
'With or without immigration clearance?'
He acted surprised. 'We have nothing against you, Captain. You are a British subject. You have a British passport. But Jetwind is a delicate political problem, I trust you realize. We want to guide you in making the correct decisions. In addition, of course, there is a legal aspect concerning the late Captain Mortensen.'
'What is that?'
'I would be exceeding my functions if I discussed Mr Dawson's duties with you,' he returned. He picked up the phone. 'Ronald? I have with me Captain Rainier, the new skipper of Jetwind...'
I heard an exclamation at the other end of the line. My man laughed a little uneasily. 'No, of course not. There is no reason not to. He wants to see you - he has suggested this afternoon after lunch but I have told him ...'
There was an interrupting crackle. 'No, of course I didn't realize you would like it that way. Today, at two? Good. I'll inform Captain Rainier.'
His suavity was a trifle bent when he spoke to me. 'Mr Dawson agrees that the sooner you and he meet, the better.'
He got up stiffly and handed me my passport with the air of a diplomat handing an enemy-to-be an aide-memoire.
'Good luck, Captain Rainier. And, if I may give you a little off-the-record advice, don't attempt anything rash with that ship. You may get hurt.'
'I'll remember that.'
I joined Paul, who was waiting outside the airport building by a battered Land Rover truck which had been assigned to take us into town.
There Was the faintest stir of wind from the west.
Chapter 9
'Welcome aboard, sir.'
John Tideman's smile and Jetwind's big digital bridge clock illuminated simultaneously. It was one o'clock - two hours since I had landed. The time reminded me forcibly that I had wasted those hours navigating official channels silted with latent obstructionism. Finally, even the short boat journey from the public jetty to Jetwind’s mooring had assumed the length of a voyage.
Tideman might have said, welcome to wonderland. The sight of Jetwind's bridge, bisected by the gleaming steel pillar of No. 2 mast, overrode my chafing fret against time. I had never seen a bridge like it - a miracle of consoles, instruments, panels, dials, lights and switches. Inwardly I felt a pang of dismay. If I were to bulldoze through my escape plan that night, I had somehow to get the hang of the ship's complicated technology within the next few hours.
Brockton, who had accompanied me from the shore, said, 'I thought I'd seen everything in sophisticated instrumentation aboard America Cup Twelves - but this licks everything!'
I liked Tideman immediately for his modesty. He was about my own age, I guessed. He had long hair and a Viking beard fringing a lean jaw. I visualized his place rather at the wheel of a deep-sea racing yacht in oilskins and goggles against a Southern Ocean blow than in the custom-cut dark green uniform and white cap which were regulation rig for Jetwind's officers. He wore it with a certain insouciance.
'It looks like a space-age scenario, but basically it's relatively simple,' said Tideman. 'You don't want to let it overawe you. I was, at first.'
'I wouldn't even know where to start,' Brockton replied.
Tideman looked inquiringly at Brockton. He obviously did not understand Paul's position aboard. I explained briefly. Then I said, 'Give me a run-down on the main controls as quickly as you can. I want to know what I'm doing, soonest.'
'We're sailing soon, sir?' he asked eagerly.
I did not reply and he went on more formally. 'I don't want to intrude on Mr Grohman's position as first officer, sir. Perhaps I'd better call him. He came aboard about an hour ago. I am sure he's not aware that you're here.'
I had noted the white decks, the way the light alloy yards had been burnished, and the general shipshape condition and Bristol-fashion of Jetwind. And it was Tideman who had been in command for the days Grohman had been away messing about on the mainland.
'You've kept the ship in pretty good nick,' I answered. 'You do the explaining.'
He looked pleased and said, 'She's ready for sea.' I warmed to him further when he said, without
flattery, 'First, my congratulations on your record in Albatros, sir. I know what it implies.'
No mention of his own three trips round the Horn, no attempt to sell his own abilities. Yet his seamanship was apparent in Jetwind's splendid condition. Had he allowed the crew to become demoralized after their let-down from Grohman's back-tracking on the record, it would have been reflected in the state of the ship. In a remote port like Stanley, with no diversions, that meant not an iron fist but a combination of respect and discipline.
Tideman led Brockton and me to three walk-around consoles grouped about the big stainless steel wheel; the centre one was in the standard navigation position.
'This is the actual nerve-centre,' Tideman explained. He indicated six levers, all in the 'off position. 'These operate the hydraulic mechanisms for the six masts - you can swing 'em or trim 'em to any angle or any way you like, either in tandem or individually. Like this - look behind you, sir.'
He eased over a lever and the high tensile steel mast structure started to swivel. There was no noise, no sense of power. Yet the thing weighed a score of tons and was fifty-two metres high.
'That's Tuesday in action,' Tideman said. 'We can do the same for Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday.'
'Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday?' I echoed.
Tideman laughed. 'The names of the weekdays are just a gimmick, but it makes the masts more personal than merely Number One, Number Two and so on. I got the idea from the old Great Britain - her six masts were known by the days of the week.'
I had been aboard the Great Britain in a Bristol dry-dock during her restoration after one of the world's great salvage feats in 1970 when she was towed from the Falklands to Britain after lying as a hulk in Stanley for over eighty years. However, Tideman's information about the names of her masts was new to me.
Nevertheless, it was again Brockton who surprised me by the extent of his knowledge about this remote part of the world. He gestured beyond The Narrows.
'The inlet where the Great Britain lay beached isn't far beyond the gap - Sparrow Cove, it's called. We'll see it on our way out.'
I pulled the discussion back to the present. 'Show me how the yards operate,' I told Tideman.
'All yards on every mast can be moved in unison or individually,' he went on. 'Personally I like 'em best trimmed in a slight spiral on the weather side. My view is that it gives better results. Mr Grohman disagrees.'
'Go on telling me what you think,' I said.
He glanced at me keenly. 'You can set the yard trim either manually to the angle you decide, or you can hand over to the computer, which will do the job for you. Or you can - ' he indicated another switch ' - work on manual override while the computer is in use, just the same way as you drive a car on automatic. You really can't go wrong.'
The enclosed, air-conditioned bridge felt like a glasshouse to me. 'I have to feel the wind,' I told Tideman. 'All this remote control and mollycoddling...' I gestured at the big windows, several of which were strip-heated to remain clear in freezing weather.
'I had the same feeling at first,' agreed Tideman. 'It isn't what we Cape Homers are accustomed to. It is surprising, though, how soon one adapts to it.' He indicated another bank of push-buttons.
'These are to set or to shorten sail. The operation can be carried out on each mast separately, from mainsail to royal, or synchronized, as with the other controls.'
I remembered a remark of Thomsen's. 'It took twenty seconds to furl everything, I was told. It doesn't seem possible.'
'Say thirty seconds at the outside, not much more,' he replied. 'It's faster than the fastest crack yachting crew can achieve. The operation is so quick that it's almost impossible to catch the ship aback.'
Tideman moved on to a closer, smaller console. He was slightly disdainful. 'These are bridge commands to the diesels which operate the hydraulics, the screw and supply power to the ship-she consumes a lot’
The escape plan was uppermost in my mind. 'So no preliminary warming of the diesels is necessary then?'
'No.
'Driving the auxiliary engine to power the ship in times of calm is really their secondary purpose, he went on. 'The propeller nacelle complete can be raised into the hull when she's wind-driven. This is the switch. It's stowed that way now. Otherwise, it's mainly a question of pitch control over the screw.'
'Has power been used much?'
'Captain Mortensen disliked the auxiliary as much as I do,' he answered. 'If you're sailing a sailer, sail it, he said. However, these two powered gadgets here are pretty useful - there's a six-ton White-Gill thruster in the bows and a Pleuger four point seven-ton thruster at the stern. Using them, you can make Jetwind spin on a sixpence.'
'How long does it take to get Jetwind under way?'
'It depends where she's lying, of course. At an open mooring like this one, a few minutes.'
'A few minutes!'
That was better than the best I had hoped for in regard to my break-out plan.
'Yes. Figuratively speaking, the ship's speed of manoeuvre took me aback to start with. One doesn't have to take man-power into consideration. Everything is machine-driven. The officer on duty alone operates the sail plan from this central situation.' He added, with deliberate intention behind his words,
'I'd like the opportunity to show you.'
'Not yet. Anyway, you couldn't with the wind as it is.'
Tideman, however, seemed to want to press the point Jetwind is lying ideally at this moment. There's a slight rim of water coming in through The Narrows - maybe half a knot. Her head is pointing right for the exit. We could be up and away in minutes, as I said.'
How long, I asked myself, would Jetwind take to cover approximately one and a half kilometres to The Narrows? What speed would she have worked up to in that distance? Would it be sufficient - have enough power, in other words - to carry out my design against the Almirante Storni If the wind failed me when the time came, I could make a criminal fool of myself and the ship.
'Depending on the wind, as I said,' I replied.
'Aye - depending on the wind, he echoed. 'But you know yourself, sir, that We're close enough to the gale pattern of the Horn for the weather to break from one of three directions only - the northwest, the west or the southwest.'
In other words, from the quarter which suited Jetwind's sailing qualities best.
'What do you make of the prospects at present?' I asked.
Tideman hid his real opinion behind a smoke-screen of technicalities.
'Jetwind was being Weather Routed from Bracknell via Portishead radio when we left Montevideo for the Cape,' he answered. 'Once we became harbour-bound in Stanley, the service was discontinued.' He indicated a Japan Radio Co. facsimile weather chart recorder mounted forward on the bridge. 'Metbrack was supplying us with interpretation of satellite pictures of the weather ahead and astern of the ship. That's also come to an end. Consequently, I don't know what's now working up from the direction of the Horn.'
'Where did you learn all your expertise?' I asked, a trifle ironically.
'The Royal Navy has several highly specialized technical and communication courses.'
'Fine,' I replied. 'But when you were skippering yachts round the Horn you didn't have all this scientific crap at your disposal. You and your weather instinct had to be one jump ahead of the next squall or you wouldn't be here today. That's the sort of opinion I value.'
'Sorry,' he apologized self-consciously. 'But the same applies to you - as it did in Albatros'
I began to like Tideman in the same way as I had Brockton. He gestured landwards. Sapper's Hill backed Stanley and a long defile, called Moody Valley, entered the port on its western side.
'From that haze, I'd say we were in for a blow. I reckon further that it's blowing like the clappers at this moment over Drake Passage and the Horn.'
'When do you think it could start here?'
'Any time. Weather works up very suddenly. A matter of hours.'
I had tent
atively set midnight as the break-out deadline. I might even have to wait until dawn - my actions would be governed by the Almirante Storni's. With the logistics of my escape plan in mind, I switched suddenly from weather to what must have seemed an irrelevant subject to Tideman.
'All the lower yard-arms on all six masts are hinged, aren't they?'
'Yes, for loading. They're swung up out of the way of dockside cranes.'
I wasn't considering loading. The genius who had thought up Jetwind's hinged yards never dreamed of the purpose to which I intended to put them.
'Demonstrate,' I ordered.
He fingered a switch. With uncanny silence again, the big streamlined yard above us folded flush against the mast in a matter of seconds.
Tideman followed me with interest.
'On a time check, I reckon I would need just over one minute to furl all sail and stow the lower yards in place afterwards,' I said.
'Correct,' he answered. 'I don't follow, though. In dock the sails would be furled already.'
'In dock, yes.'
'There would be no purpose in the operation while the ship was travelling under sail.'
Except to knock out the Almirante Storni.
The test of lifting the lower yards completed the tactical plan in my mind. It would require steel nerves and razoredged timing - and, above all, good wind. I must have lapsed into an abstracted silence because Brockton began to talk to Tideman about America Cup trials.
'The America Cup triallists use a computer which gives a read-out on the downwind leg for optimum speed made good,' he was saying. 'The computer's memory has been previously programmed with the best speed for each wind speed...'
'No computer ever sails a ship,' interrupted Tideman. 'The final decision is a man's, and that man is the skipper.'
A Ravel of Waters Page 7
