A Ravel of Waters

by Geoffery Jenkins

  'Where'd you get this from? Ship's bells are my hobby.'

  I was surprised that he admitted to having any weakness. I explained and he bent down and examined it.

  'Ambassador, you say? She was a Lund ship, wasn't she?'

  'It's generations since that line went out of business, Sir James.'

  'Ship-owning is an ongoing business,' he retorted saltily. 'Ships driven by fossil fuels such as oil are on their way out, in the same way that coal killed the windjammer. The next phase is the genuine sail-driven, aerodynamic cargo carrier. That's why I became interested in Jetwind.’ 'I hope you still are interested,'

  He seemed to dance up and down with excitement. 'Drive her, man! Show the world! Drive this bloody ship under! What's she logging at this moment?'

  'Twenty knots - but she can do better.'

  'Then why aren't you doing better? How much better?'

  'Three, maybe a maximum of four, if the gale rises above Force Ten. And if I'm given the opportunity to get on my own bridge.'

  For a second I thought he would explode, then he grinned. 'I don't like anyone brushing me off, but this once I'll take it.'

  I didn't leave immediately; I paused for a diplomatic minute or two to tell the irascible little so and so about the ship-owners' rendezvous Thomsen had arranged at Gough. He appeared wary of my softer approach. Perhaps he thought I was trying to con him.

  I added Weather Routing's warning about Trolltunga.

  He considered me shrewdly. 'Why don't you deviate to miss the ice?'

  'If I could sail Albatros that way by my own devices, then I can manage it with a ship full of electronic gadgetry.'

  'I really believe you mean what you say, Rainier. But that first officer of yours will let you down - Grohman.'

  'He won't. He's suspended.'

  'That's what I like to hear. If a man can't go along with your ideas, there's only thing.' He gave one hand a mini karate chop with his other. 'The axe.'

  He seemed a man of unpredictable switches of mood. Grohman having been disposed of, so to speak, his interest returned to the old bell.

  'Have it for yourself,' I offered. 'Anything aboard this ship which hasn't got a computer attached belongs to the Dark Ages.'

  'I'll keep it in my quarters for good luck,' he said. He hefted it up to go. I was surprised at his strength. He

  reminded me again of a Cock Robin boxer. 'One always needs the luck at sea, especially in a sailer.'

  I hurried up to the bridge. The sea was a wild scene. My instinct told me even before I consulted the anenometer that the wind speed was over fifty knots. It was shearing off the overhanging crests of the rollers - about ten metres high and throwing the foam and spray in streaks like a giant fireman's hose. The rollers themselves had a thudding, killer punch to them, each one a threat to the fleeing ship.

  In the bows there was enough water and spray over Jetwind's deck to match an anti-nuclear washdown system. The ship was steady, but lying over far - almost to her full count of nine degrees. If she were ambushed by a sudden gust she would go over on her beam-ends and never come up again.

  Kay was standing with Tideman at the control consoles. He had taken the royals off her; she was down to top gallants. Kay looked worried. As I joined them, Jetwind put her bows far down; hundreds of tons of sea came sweeping along the deserted decks.

  Kay gave me a brief smile of welcome and said, 'Peter, the slamming is slowing her down. The resistance component of the sea-way is getting bigger all the time. In spite of the wind she's not travelling faster.'

  Tideman added grimly, gesturing for'ard, 'Look at that!'

  The next blow against the ship's bow was like hitting a solid wall.

  Sweat poured down the helmsman's face. He wore only a shirt and jeans; they had big wet patches. He compensated heavily on the wheel as the bows tried to break away.

  'She's very hard to hold any more,' he panted. 'I can't keep her steady, sir. If any of the rudder controls go, the ship's had it.'

  Tideman gave me an inquiring look.

  'Kay,' I asked, 'what sort of thrust is there on the sails?'

  'I made the calculation about five minutes ago - roughly, about forty thousand horse-power.'

  'But she's not getting the full benefit of that?'

  'No, she's not. She's actually losing speed instead of picking it up. If we could stop the slamming it would raise the speed. I know theoretically what's happening, but I don't know what the practical answer is.'

  'What - in theory - is happening?' I questioned her with my eyes fixed on Jetwind's sails. 'A converter of solar energy into thrust,' Thomsen had termed them. Here then was that process - the sea white with fury, the tearing overcast black with rage, stooping so low at times that Jetwind's royal masts were lost to sight, the ocean itself raging uncontrollably.

  I formulated orders - radical, unheard-of orders.

  'Jetwind is plunging violently in a pitching plane,' she was explaining. 'That's the problem. The movement is playing havoc with the aerodynamics. As the bow falls into the trough of a wave, there is an upward component of span-wise flow on all her foresails. Then as the bow hits the solid water of the next wave, that flow, is ended abruptly and replaced by a sudden downward component as her bow rises to that wave. And so on. Jetwind could experience a stall like an aircraft - brought about by the span-wise flow if this continues.'

  I interrupted her, noting how the lower part of the fore-course was blanketed and went slack as Jetwind dived deep into the troughs.

  'Where is the main driving force centred?'

  Kay answered unhesitatingly. 'About fifteen to twenty metres above the deck.'

  Jetwind crashed into a bigger roller. It felt as unyielding as the Berlin Wall.

  'She can't take this sort of punishment very long,' Tideman cautioned. 'Something must go.'

  'Stand by,' I ordered. 'Stand by to slack off the fore-course.'

  Kay looked startled.

  'No way,' answered Tideman. 'You can't slack off Jetwind's type of sails. They're fitted to form a single aerodynamic unit from truck to deck.'

  'The thrust of the wind so high above the deck is ramming her bows down’ I said; 'Plus the fact that there's no lift for'ard.'

  'Plus no stay-sails,' added Tideman.

  'What's the size of the fore-course?' I asked Kay.

  'About two hundred square metres.'

  'That's a lot of sail,' I said. 'It's the sail for the job of lifting her bows if we can get the wind under it and balloon it out.'

  'You can't do anything with it...' began Tideman.

  'Raise the lower yard ten degrees port and starboard as for cargo loading,' I ordered. 'There's only one way then the sail can go - out like a balloon.'

  'My oath!' exclaimed Tideman. 'Whoever would have thought of that!'

  Kay grabbed my arm in protest. 'You can't do it, Peter! It'll wreck the effect of aerodynamic efficiency!'

  I looked into her eyes. 'There are times at sea when you have to do what the sea calls for, not the wind-tunnel,' I said gently.

  I turned away from her puzzled, resentful gaze. 'Carry on,' I told Tideman.

  His fingers manipulated the controls. The great yard folded upwards, halted. The heavy dacron billowed. The wind started to get underneath it.

  'Give it another five degrees,' I said.

  Up went the yard again. Out ballooned the great sail. The next wave rushed at Jetwind with the solidity of a concrete tank-trap. Her bows rose, shouldered aside the water. There was no sickening slam.

  Tideman exclaimed, 'You've lifted her bows two feet out of the water!'

  The quartermaster was grinning. 'That's done it, sir! She steers like an angel now!'

  Kay came close and took me impulsively by the upper arms. Her laugh had some tears in it. 'You're ... you're a magician, Peter! You're the best afloat since Woodget skippered the Cutty Sark!'

  I wanted to kiss her, but a ship's bridge isn't the place.

  I tried to laugh off h
er praise. 'It's just one of those things one learns at sea.'

  But she wouldn't have it and pointed to the speed reading. 'She's making twenty-one knots already!'

  Jetwind did better during the day. At times she nudged twenty-three knots, surfing, I suspect, a little on some of the biggest rollers. She remained dry and safe, tearing along as the wind reached Force 12, or nearly seventy knots. The earlier sickening cork-screwing was gone now that the fore-course held her bows high.

  There was no sun. The twilight greyness of the storm was illuminated in a curious unreal way by the sea's surface which the harrowing of the gale had seared white. If there was growler ice about, we would never have spotted it in that streaming whiteness before it ripped open Jetwind's hull. I didn't think about ice; I kept her going; and in the next twelve hours Jetwind had put 480 kilometres between herself and the last land.

  Ahead lay nothing but Gough. And Trolltunga.

  Chapter 20

  I knew I was in love with Kay when I saw her death-fall from the mainyard next day.

  That morning death struck three times aboard Jetwind.

  I was on watch; it was about seven bells, 7.30 a.m.

  Our speed had fallen slightly during the night, but she was still logging a splendid eighteen knots. The storm had eased but the ocean remained an awesome sight. In the grey first half light the crests seemed steeper than before. Jetwind was putting her shoulder into them and every time her bows went down mountains of water swamped her long, unbroken main-deck. It was the sort of situation I had foreseen when I had criticized the deck's lack of 'breakwaters' to Thomsen.

  I had just spoken to Jim Yell, the bo'sun, on the intercom. Jim's quarters were aft, under the poop. The bo'sun in a sailing ship occupies a-different status from a bo'sun aboard a steam ship. Jim had almost officer standing. Since Grohman's suspension and 'house arrest' a much greater burden had been put on him. I intended to use the half-hour before the relieving watch came on duty to inspect the after-peak which housed the auxiliary engine nacelle, the stern dropkeel, and the steering gear.

  I arranged to meet Jim in the crew's mess3 also aft near his own quarters. I passed Arno's office on my way and told him where I was going. He eased the head-phone clear of his blond hair and nodded. It was the last I saw him alive.

  Kay and I almost collided as I started down the companion-way from the bridge to the main-deck. She had watched her moment with the seas coming aboard and had sprinted along the deck from her cabin in the stern. The icy cold air - contrasting with the air-conditioned interior -had brought colour to her cheeks. She was wearing sneakers and a green and white tracksuit with a loose top. It did nothing for her figure; I was not to know then its importance in the forthcoming drama.

  'Isn't it enough to sprint a hundred and fifty metres along a deck without running up and down the mast as well?' I joked.

  She held on to the handrail and looked up at me. I should never have let her go.

  'Exercise is a sacred cow with me,' she smiled. 'If it's not milked every day, it becomes sloppy.'

  'There seems to be a strictly feminine undertone to this conversation.'

  She laughed and was about to reply but then exclaimed urgently, 'Watch out, Peter! Here it comes!'

  The water did not reach the top of the companion-way where we were but swirled along the deck. It was cold, green, hostile. The big deck ports clanged as it flooded overboard.

  'This is my moment,' I said, and started down.

  I managed the deck without the life-lines. An additional precaution was safety nets. I barely had time to dodge up the quarter-deck companion-way before the next roller swept the decks. I glanced aloft before making my way inside. There was ice on the burnished yards above.

  Jim's cabin was the fourth down the passage. As I passed, his phone rang. I answered in his absence.

  The scream of terror was Arno's. The shot was someone else's.

  'Arno! Arno!'

  I dropped the silent instrument and ran for Jim Yell. He was standing smoking and talking to a seaman eating breakfast.

  'Jim!'

  He spun round as I burst in. I jerked my thumb in the direction of the bridge. We both erupted on to the main-deck.

  The nearest companion-way to our objective was on the starboard side of the bridge. But that was the weather side, the side which was shipping hundreds of tons of water. It created a waist-deep, freezing barrier. We hung on to the life-lines. There was an interminable delay while we waited for the sea to drain

  'It's Arno!' I explained hastily to Jim. 'He gave a scream. There was a shot...'.

  'Now - run!' shouted Jim.

  We had reached No. 3 mast when Jim grabbed me and pointed aloft.

  Kay was standing on the mainyard of the next mast for'ard, No. 2 mast, the one which bisected the bridge. This was her daily run. She was far out along the yard, hanging on with one hand to a loading cable. She spotted us, gesticulated urgently forward seawards. From our level nothing could be seen but the next wall of water waiting for Jetwind’s bows.

  'Hang on, sir!'

  I made an uncompromising gesture in response to Kay. I grabbed the life-line and braced myself.

  To my horror, Kay let go the cable and cupped her hands like a megaphone to her mouth.

  'Ice! A growler! Right ahead! Port! Hard-a-port!'

  The wave dealt a right cross to Jetwind’s jaw. She gave a wicked lurch, like a boxer absorbing a hay-maker. Kay grabbed frantically for her support. The yard was coated with ice. I saw her feet slip. She tried to regain her balance by tottering out along the yard. Her plan might have worked had there been no ice and no second lurch from the ship.

  Kay staggered a few steps beyond the line of the ship's side, then pitched overboard.

  Had she fallen from her original position, nothing could have stopped her being smashed to pieces on the deck. As it was, she catapulted clear of the ship. But a sea's surface from a height of twenty metres is as hard as a deck. She turned a complete circle in the air. It was not a quick kill fall. Even as my mind went numb, I sensed that she was falling more slowly than she should have. The wind had got under her loose track-suit top, ballooning into the loose-fitting pants as well.

  It took a little less than five seconds for her to hit the water.

  I followed her fall into the sea. A human body is a puny thing. It left no tell-tale splash where it hit the foam-torn surface. As Jetwind lifted again I caught a glimpse of a terror-struck face with staring eyes only a few metres from the ship's side.

  I have no conscious memory of my actions during those brief seconds of her fall. All I know is that I had ripped a life-belt from the rail and was poised to throw it when her face showed again momentarily against the grey-white sea. Even as my mind registered the fact that she was still alive, another thought supervened: no human could live long in that icy ocean.

  I hurled the life-belt. I could only pray that it would land near her. I didn't pause to think about the next flood of water sweeping along the deck. I took it up to the armpits. How I reached the starboard bridge wing within seconds, I shall never know. I threw open the door.

  The bridge watch - Tideman was there now - stood frozen at my frenzied entry.

  'Back the tops'ls - Numbers One and Two masts! Man overboard!'

  No skipper gives an order like that in that sort of gale and sea unless he is mad or drunk. It is a life-or-death manoeuvre for a sailing ship - like pulling a Grand National steeplechaser up short while hell bent over Beecher's Brook. The ship, running off before the wind, would crash into the troughs of waves as big as hillocks. That meant she would roll - roll herself full of water, roll the masts clean off her. Even if she survived, she faced the same dangers a second time as she came round to pick up the rescue boat.

  I was already shouting for a boat. 'Number Four boat - clear away! Volunteers!'

  It was a small, four-man harbour runabout which was secured on the port, or lee, side of the quarter-deck.

  I found
Jim Yell at my elbow with two other of Tideman's men he had conjured up from somewhere.

  Tideman held my eyes before obeying. He was silently asking the unaskable question - was it worth risking the ship and the lives of all aboard for the sake of one person who would already be starting to stiffen in the cold? Would it not be better rather to let her go? One life for the sake of twenty-eight? One life for the sake of twenty million dollars' worth of ship?

  I never admired Tideman more than at that moment. When I did not respond, he gave the kill order steadily.

  'Helm down!'

  We four sprinted for the boat. Jim Yell cut it loose and in a moment we seemed to be pitching among the breaking crests. Once clear of Jetwind's stern, the full fury of the storm struck us. The light was as grey as a shroud. I steered by guess and by God. Somewhere to windward Kay was gasping out her life.

  It was the very greyness of the storm which saved Kay. 'Flare, sir! Thereaway!'

  I was at the outboard tiller. Already the freezing metal was stripping my skin.

  I got a sight of the self-igniting life-belt flare. That didn't mean to say Kay was in it. I guessed it to be a couple of hundred metres away; separating the boat from it were hills of water. I riveted my gaze in that direction.

  Then - one of the men shouted. 'The ship - the ship, sir! Christ, she's going over!'

  Maybe Tideman alone was capable of saving her. Nine degrees was Jetwind's theoretical maximum heel before things started to give. She must have been superbly built to have stood up to twelve degrees in those killer troughs. To my overwrought senses the sail plan seemed to flatten down almost parallel with the water. Would Tideman blow away her top-masts with the ring charges? It seemed the only way to save her now.

  I tore my eyes away from the sight when Jim Yell shouted. 'There! There she is, sir! It's her!'

  'Is she ... dead?'

  'No -1 saw her face.'