Hungry as the Sea

by Wilbur Smith

The world has to use fossil fuels, and we sailors have to transport

  them/ he said at last.

  But not at such appalling risks, not with an eye only to the profits.

  Not in the same greedy thoughtless grabbing petty way as man wiped out

  the whale, not at the cost of turning the sea into a stinking festerring

  cesspool. There are unscrupalous owners! - he agreed, and she cut

  across him agrily.

  Sailing under flags of convenience, without control, ships built to

  dangerous standards, equipped with a single boiler -she reeled out the

  charges and he was silent.

  Then they waived the winter load-line for rounding the Cape of Good Hope

  in the southern winter, to enable them to carry that extra fifty

  thousand tons Of crude. The Agulhas Bank, the most dangerous water sea

  in the world, and they send overloaded tankers into it. that was

  criminal/ he agreed.

  Yet you were Chairman of Christy Marine, you had a representative on the

  Board of Control. She saw that she had made a mistake. His expression

  was suddenly ferocious. His anger seemed to crackle like electricity in

  the ruby gloom of the bridge. She felt an unaccountable flutter of real

  fear. She had forgotten what kind of man he was.

  But he turned away and made a slow circuit of the bridge, elaborately

  checking each of the gauges and instruments, and then he paused at the

  far wing and lit a cheroot. She ached to offer some token of

  reconciliation, but instinctively she knew not to do so. He was not the

  kind of man who respected compromise or retreat.

  He came back to her at last, and the glow of the cheroot lit his

  features so that she could see the anger had passed.

  Christy Marine seems like another existence to me now/ he said softly,

  and she could sense the deep pain of unhealed wounds. Forgive me, your

  reference to it took me off balance. I did not realize that you know of

  my past history., Everybody on board knows., Of course/ he nodded, and

  drew deeply on the cheroot before he spoke. When I ran Christy Marine, I

  insisted on the highest standards of safety and seamanship for every one

  of our vessels. We opposed the Cape winterline decision, and none of my

  tankers loaded to their summer-line on the Good Hope passage. None of

  my tankers made do with only one boiler, the design and engineering of

  every Christy Marine vessel was of the same standard as that ship

  there/he pointed back at Golden Adventurer, or this one here! and he

  stamped once on the deck.

  Even the Golden Dawn? she asked softly, braving his anger again - but

  he merely nodded.

  Golden Dawn/ he repeated softly. It sounds such an absurdly

  presumptuous name, doesn't it? But I really thought of her as that,

  when I conceived her. The first million-ton tanker, with every

  refinement and safety feature that man has so far tested and proved.

  From inert gas scrubbers to independently articulated main tanks, not

  one boiler but four, just like one of the old White Star liners - she

  was really to be the golden dawn of crude oil transportation.

  However, I am no longer Chairman of Christy Marine, and I am no longer

  in control of Golden Dawn, neither her design nor her construction. His

  voice was hollow, and in the dim light his eyes seemed shrunken into

  their cavities like those of a skull. Nor yet am I in control of her

  operation. it was all turning out so badly; she did not want to argue

  with him, nor make him unhappy. However, she had stirred memories and

  regrets within him, and she wished vainly that she had not disturbed him

  so. Her instinct warned her she should leave him now.

  Goodnight, Doctor Silver/ he nodded noncommittally at her sudden plea of

  tiredness.

  My nname is Sam! she told him, wishing that she could comfort him in

  some way, any way, or Samantha, if you prefer it. I do prefer it, he

  said, without smiling. Goodnight, Samantha. She was angry with both

  herself and him, angry that the good feeling between them had been

  destroyed, so she flashed at him: You really are old-fashioned, aren't

  you? and hurried from the bridge.

  The following evening she almost did not go up to him, for she was

  ashamed of those parting words, for -having pointed up their age

  difference so offensively. She knew he was aware of their differences,

  without being reminded. She had done herself harm, and she did not want

  to face him again.

  While she was in the shower of the guest cabin, she heard Tim Graham

  come clattering down the stairs on the other side of the thin bulkhead.

  She knew that Nicholas had relieved him.

  I'm not going up/ she told herself firmly, and took her time drying and

  talcumming and brushing out her hair before she clambered naked and

  still pink from the hot water into her bunk.

  She read for half an hour, a western that Beauty Baker had lent her, and

  it required all her concentration to follow the print, for her mind kept

  trying to wander. At last she gave an exclamation of self-disgust,

  threw back the blankets and began dressing.

  His relief and pleasure, when she appeared beside him, were transparent,

  and his smile was a princely welcome for her. She was suddenly very

  glad she had come, and this night she effortlessly steered past all the

  pitfalls.

  She asked him to explain how the Lloyd's Open Form contract worked, and

  she followed his explanations swiftly.

  If they take into consideration the danger and difficulties involved in

  the salvage/she mused, you should be able to claim an enormous award.

  I'm going to ask for twenty percent of the hull value What is the hull

  value of Golden Adventurer? And he told her.

  She was silent a moment as she checked his mental arithmetic.

  That's six million dollars, she whispered in awe.

  Give or take a few cents/ he agreed.

  But there isn't that much money in the world! She turned and stared

  back at the liner.

  Duncan Alexander is going to agree with you. Nick smiled a little

  grimly.

  But, she shook her head, what would anybody do with that much money? I'm

  asking for six - but I won't get it. I'll walk away with three or four

  millions. Still, that's too much. Nobody could spend that much not if

  they tried for a lifetime. It's spent already. It will just about

  enable me to pay off my loans, launch my other tug, and to keep Ocean

  Salvage going for another few months. You owe three or four million

  dollars? She stared at him now in open wonder. I'd never sleep, not

  one minute would I be able to sleep Money isn't for spending/he

  explained. There is a limit to the amount of food you can eat, or

  clothes you can wear.

  Money is a game, the biggest most exciting game in town. She listened

  attentively to it all, happy because tonight he was gay and excited with

  grand designs and further plans, and because he shared them with her.

  What we will do is this, we'll come down here with both tugs and catch

  an iceberg. She laughed. Oh, come on! I'm not joking, he assured her,

  but laughing also. We'll put tow-lines on a big berg. It may take a

 
week to build up tow speed, but once we get it moving nothing will stop

  it.

  We will guide it up into the middle forties, catch the roaring forties

  and, just like the old wool clippers on the Australian passage, we will

  run our castings down. He moved to the chart-table, selected a

  large-scale chart of the Indian Ocean and beckoned her to join him.

  You're serious. She stopped laughing, and stared at him again. You

  really are serious, aren't you? He nodded, still smiling, and traced it

  out with his finger.

  Then we'll swing northwards, up into the Western Australian current,

  letting the flow carry us north in a great circle, until we hit the

  easterly monsoon and the north equatorial Elicuffent! He described the

  circle, but she watched his face.

  They stood very close, but still not touching and she felt herself

  stiffed by the timbre of his voice, as though to the touch of fingers.

  "We will cross the Indian Ocean to the east coast of Africa with the

  current pushing all the way, just in time to catch the south-westerly

  monsoon drift right into the Persian Gulf- He straightened up and smiled

  again.

  A hundred billion tons of fresh water delivered right into the dryest

  and richest corner of the globe., But - but - she shook her head, it

  would melt!

  From a helicopter we spray it with a reflective polyurethane skin to

  lessen the effect of the sun, and we moor it in a shallow specially

  prepared dock where it will cool its own surrounds. Sure, it will melt,

  but not for a year or two and then we'll just go out and catch another

  one and bring it in, like roping wild horses. How would you handle it?

  she objected. It's too big. My two tugs hustle forty-four thousand

  horses - we could pull in Everest, if we wanted. Yes, but once you get

  it to the Persian Gulf? We cut it into manageable hunks with a laser

  lance, and lift the hunks into a melting dam with an overhead crane, She

  thought about it. It could work/ she admitted.

  It will work/he told her. I've sold the idea to the Saudis already.

  They are already building the dock and the dams.

  We'll give them water at one hundredth the cost of us nuclear condensers

  on sea water, and without the risk of radio-active contamination. She

  was absorbed with his vision, and he with hers. As they talked deep

  into the long watches of the night, they drew closer in spirit only.

  Although each of them treasured those shared hours, somehow neither

  could bridge the narrow chasm between friendliness and real intimacy.

  She was instinctively aware of his reserves, that he was a min who had

  considered life and established his code by which to live it. She

  guessed that he did nothing unless it was deeply felt, and that a casual

  physical relationship would offer no attraction to him; she knew of the

  turmoil to which his life had so recently been reduced, and that he was

  pulling himself out of that by main strength, but that he was now wary

  of further hurt. There was time, she told herself, plenty of time - but

  Warlock bore steadily north by north-east, dragging her crippled ward up

  through the roaring forties; those notorious winds treated her kindly

  and she made good the six knots that Nick had hoped for.

  On board Warlock, the attitude of the officers towards Samantha Silver

  changed from fawning adulation to wistful. respect. Every one of them

  knew of the nightly ritual of the eight-to-midnight watch.

  Bloody cradle-snatcher! groused Tim Graham.

  Mr. Graham, it is fortunate I did not hear that remark/ David Allen

  warned him with glacial coldness - but they all resented Nicholas Berg,

  it was unfair competition, yet they kept a new respectful distance from

  the girl, not one of them daring to challenge the herd bull.

  The time that Samantha had looked upon as endless was running out now,

  and she closed her mind to it. Even when David Allen showed her the

  fuzzy luminescence of the African continent on the extreme range of the

  radar-screen, she pretended to herself that it would go on like this -

  if not for ever, at least until something special happened.

  During the long voyage up from Shackleton Bay, Samantha had streamed a

  very fine-meshed net from Warlock's stern, collecting an incredible

  variety of krill and plankton and other microscopic marine life. Angel

  had grudgingly given her a small corner of his scullery in return for

  her services as honorary assistant under-chef and unpaid waitress, and

  she spent many absorbed hours there each day, identifying and preserving

  her specimens.

  She was working there when the helicopter came out to Warlock. She

  looked up at the buffeting of the machine's rotors as they changed into

  fine pitch for the landing on Warlock's high-deck, and she was tempted

  to go up like every idle and curious hand on board, but she was in the

  middle of staining a slide, and somehow she resented the encroachment on

  this little island of her happiness. She worked on, but now her

  pleasure was spoiled, and she cocked her head when she heard the roar of

  the rotors as the helicopter rose from the deck again and she was left

  with a sense of foreboding.

  Angel came in from the deck, wiping his hands on his apron and he paused

  in the doorway.

  You didn't tell me he was going, dearie.

  What do you mean? Samantha looked up at him, startled.

  Your boyfriend, darling. Socks and toothbrush and all., Angel watched

  her shrewdly. Don't tell me he didn't even kiss you goodbye., She

  dropped the glass slide into the stainless steel sink and it snapped in

  half. She was panting as she gripped the rail of the upper deck and

  stared after the cumbersome yellow machine.

  It flew low across the green wind-chopped sea, humpbacked and nose low,

  still close enough to read the operating company's name COURTLINE

  emblazoned on its fuselage, but it dwindled swiftly towards the far blue

  line of mountains.

  Nick Berg sat in the jump seat between the two pilots of the big S. 58T

  Sikorsky and looked ahead towards the flat silhouette of Table Mountain.

  It was overlaid by a thick mattress of snowy cloud, at the

  south-easterly wind swirled across its summit.

  From their altitude of a mere thousand feet, there were still five big

  tankers in sight, ploughing stolidly through the green sea on their

  endless odyssey, seeming to be alien to their element not designed to

  live in harmony with it, but to oppose every movement of the waters.

  Even in this low sea, they wore thick garlands of white at their stubby

  rounded bows, and Nick watched one of them dip suddenly and take spray

  as high as her foremast. In any sort of blow, she would be like a pier

  with pylons set on solid ground.

  The seas would break right over her. It was not the way a ship should

  be, and now he twisted in his seat and looked back.

  Far behind them, Warlock was still visible. Even at this distance, and

  despite the fact that she was dwarfed by her charge, her lines pleased

  the seaman in him. She looked good, but that backward glance invoked a

  pang of regret that he h
ad been so stubbornly trying to ignore - and he

  had a vivid image of green eyes and hair of platinum and gold.

  His regret was spiced by the persistent notion that he had been

  cowardly. He had left Warlock without being able to bring himself to

  say goodbye to the girl, and he knew why he had done so. He would not

  take the chance of making a fool of himself. He grimaced with distaste,

  as he remembered her exact words, You really are old-fashioned, aren't

  you? There was something vaguely repulsive in a middle-aged man lusting

  after young flesh - and he supposed he must now look upon himself as

  middle-aged. In six months he would be forty years of age, and he did

  not really expect to live to eighty. So he was in the middle of the

  road.

  He had always scorned those grey, lined, balding, unattractive little

  men with big cigars, sitting in expensive restaurants with pretty young

  girls beside them, the young thing pretending to hang on every

  pearl-like word, while her eyes focused beyond his shoulder - on some

  younger But still, it had been cowardice. She had become a friend

  during those weeks, and she could hardly have been aware of the emotions

  that she had aroused in him during those long dark hours on Warlock's

  bridge. She was not to blame for his unruly passions, in no way had she

  encouraged him to believe that he was more than just an older man, not

  even a father figure, but just someone with whom to pass an otherwise

  empty hour. She had been as friendly and cheerful to everyone else on

  board Warlock, from the Mate to the cook.

  He really had owed her the common courtesy of a handshake and an

  assurance of the pleasure he had taken from her company, but he had not

  been certain he could restrict it to that.

  He winced again as he imagined her horror as he blurted out some sort of

  declaration, some proposal to prolong their relationship or alter its

  structure into something more intimate, her disenchantment when she

  realized that behind the facade of the mature and cultured man, he was

  just as grimy an old lecher as the furtive drooling browsers in the

  porno-shops of Times Square.

  Let it go, he had decided. No matter that he was probably in better

  physical shape now than he had been at twenty-five, to Dr. Samantha

  Silver he was an old man and he had a frightening vision of an episode

  from his own youth.