Peter James - A Twist of the Knife

She slid out of bed, made her way across the saloon and climbed the steps up to the cockpit into the pitch darkness of the night, with Tony’s face looking grim and paler than normal in the glow from the instrument binnacle. For the first time since they had set sail on this leg of the voyage, she could see no stars above them. ‘Everything OK, darling?’

‘Wind’s getting up,’ he said.

The forecast earlier had said a mild depression was heading their way, but Tony had not been worried. Now he looked a tad concerned. ‘Take the helm, will you, I want to go below and get a forecast update.’

She could feel a strong, warm wind on her face, and the boat’s motion was now so violent she had to hold onto a grab rail as she stumbled over to the wheel. The bitumen-black sea was flecked with phosphorescence from white horses. ‘Are you OK, darling?’

‘I’m OK — well — I don’t feel that great, to be honest.’

‘In what way?’

‘I sort of feel a bit clammy. But I’m OK.’

‘Clammy?’

‘That curry we had — I think I may have eaten a duff prawn.’

‘You poor darling. Go below and I’ll take over for a while.’

‘I want to get an update on the forecast. But I’ll be fine.’

‘You don’t sound fine,’ she said, alarmed now. ‘You sound short of breath.’

‘I’m OK, really. All shipshape and Bristol fashion! We may have to reef in a bit if the wind gets up any more.’ He told her the course to stay on, advised her to clip on to the safety wire, gave her a peck on the cheek and disappeared down the companionway steps.

The wind was very definitely strengthening. The boat was heeling over, and pitching and rolling increasingly violently. They had far too much sail up. Reducing the mainsail was a matter of pressing a button and the reefing mechanism would wind it in. If necessary they could lower the main completely, as they had done on several occasions previously, and just sail on under a reduced jib — they could do that from the safety of the cockpit by winding in one of the sheets. In configuring the boat for this voyage, Tony had sensibly ensured that anything they needed to do at night to reduce the amount of sail could be done without leaving the cockpit.

Above her head, the rigging was clacking and pinging alarmingly. Suddenly, in a violent gust, the boat almost went flat on its side. She only just averted disaster by violently swinging the wheel, bringing the prow around into the wind. Below, she heard Tony bellow in anger — or shock or pain; she couldn’t tell which. Immediately she obeyed his earlier instruction and clipped herself on.

Moments later he reappeared, his face looking like thunder through the hatch, and blood pouring from a gash in his forehead. ‘What the hell are you bloody doing, woman?’

‘I’m sorry, darling, we’ve got too much sail up. Let me put some antiseptic on your head and a bandage.’

‘Bugger that,’ he said. ‘Get that ruddy main down, fast! We’re heading straight into the eye of a force ten!’

‘That’s not what the forecast said earlier!’

She didn’t like the panic in his voice. Tony never panicked, ever. But he was looking extremely worried now.

‘OK!’ She leaned over and pressed the button to begin the hydraulic roller reefing. The boom would rotate, furling the mainsail around it. With a force ten imminent, they needed to lower the main completely and take in the jib. The strength of the wind would power them forward just on their bare rigging. And they could do what they had done on two previous occasions, which was to go below, batten the hatches and ride it out. Fortunately they were well past all the major shipping lanes, and they could drift for days, if necessary, without any danger of striking land or rock. They had plenty of what sailors called sea room.

There was an alarming clanking sound from the boom, a loud whirr and nothing happened. The boat keeled over, and again, only her fast reactions on the helm prevented them from being knocked flat by the wind. Then it began pelting with rain, hard needles on her face.

‘Get that sodding main down!’ he yelled, clinging onto the companionway rail, unable to move with the angle of the boat.

‘It’s not working!’ she shouted back.

‘Turn into the wind!’

‘I am, I’m trying to hold us there!’

Tony ducked down, out of sight, then reappeared holding a large rubber torch. He shone the beam up the mast, to the top. And they could both immediately see the problem. The very top of the mainsail had torn free, and was tangled in the rigging; the Australian courtesy flag, which they had run up weeks earlier and forgotten to take down after leaving the country, was fluttering hard.

Also clipping himself onto the jackstay safety wire, Tony stumbled across the wildly pitching deck and stabbed at the buttons on the reefing controls. The sail jerked up a few inches, then down. Then up again. They both smelled the acrid fumes of a burning electrical motor.

‘Struth!’ he said. ‘Struth!’

He stabbed at the control buttons, but now nothing happened at all.

‘What’s happened?’ Juliet asked

‘Sodding motor — it’s either burnt out or fused.’

‘Put another fuse in!’

‘It’s not going to help, you bloody stupid woman! It’s all a bloody mess of knitting up there! I’ll have to go up in the bosun’s chair and sort it! You’ll have to winch me.’

‘You can’t, darling, it’s too rough, I can’t let go of the helm!’

They’d had the self-steering replaced last year in Perth harbour with a completely new system, but this, too, had failed in today’s storm.

‘We don’t have a choice. We’re going to go over unless we get that damned main down — keep her into the wind while I pull in the jib.’

A few minutes later, puffing and wheezing, and looking exhausted from the effort, Tony managed to get the jib completely furled. But with the wind rising, by the second it seemed to Juliet, it was making minimal difference, and she was fighting, with all her strength, to stop the boat being knocked flat. Rain continued pelting, and the troughs into which the prow was plunging were deepening. Each time it felt more and more like they were shooting down a big dipper. Spray roared over them, stinging her face.

‘I’ve got to go up!’ Tony shouted.

He pulled on gloves, climbed up over the cockpit onto the deck, holding on to the grab rails for dear life, and wormed his way forwards towards the mast on his stomach. He reached the webbing harness, which was like a trapeze attached to a pulley system, and managed, with difficulty, to haul himself into it and secure himself with two straps, forming a seat, and one rising up between his legs. Then he clipped everything securely in place and shouted out, ‘OK, darling! I’m going up!’

He released the safety wire attaching him to the boat, then slowly, inch by inch, hauled himself up the nylon rope by the handle. As Juliet did her best to hold the boat head-on into the wind, the mainsail thrashed at him with enormous force — so hard in one gust he thought it had broken his arm. The boat was pitching and rolling ever more crazily, and there were several moments on the way up when he was convinced he was going to get a ducking.

The boat could ride this out, he was confident of that. Even if they did get knocked over, provided the hatches were all shut, it would right itself. What he was most scared about was losing this mainsail. They didn’t have enough fuel to motor the 15,000 miles they still had to go to Sri Lanka. And if they had to rely on the jib alone, it would add weeks to their sailing time.

He hauled himself ever higher into the night sky, getting increasingly breathless. Almost at the top now! He was going to sort out this bastard! Then suddenly he felt a stabbing pain shoot up his right arm and his head swam. The darkness turned into a fairground ride. And suddenly it seemed as if a steel tourniquet was being tightened around his chest.