Трейси Киддер - The Soul of a New Machine

All the way to the horizon in the last light, the sea was just degrees of gray, rolling and frothy on the surface. From the cockpit of a small white sloop—she was thirty-five feet long—the waves looked like hills coming up from behind, and most of the crew preferred not to glance at them. There were no other boats in sight, but off to the south for a while they could see the reassuring outlines of the coast. Then it got dark. Running under shortened sails in front of the northeaster, the boat rocked one way, gave a thump, and then it rolled the other. The pots and pans in the galley clanged. A six-pack of beer, which someone had forgotten to stow away, slid back and forth across the cabin floor, over and over again. Sometime late that night, one of the crew raised a voice against the wind and asked, “What are we trying to prove?”

All of them were adults. The owner and captain was a lawyer in his sixties. There were a psychologist and a physician and a professor, all of them in their late thirties, and also a man named Tom West. West was rather mysterious, being the merest acquaintance to one of them and a stranger to the others. They were bound for New York from Portland, Maine, on yachtsman’s business, which is to say, primarily for sport. And when they had set sail in sheltered Casco Bay earlier that evening, decked out bravely in slickers and sou westers, all of them had felt at least a little bit romantic. But when they cleared the lee of the land and entered the seaway, and the boat suddenly began to lurch, they grabbed the nearest sturdy things and thought about their suppers, which by the time it got dark, several of them had lost.

Most of the crew now fell into that half-autistic state that the monotony of storms at sea occasionally induces. You find a place to sit and getting a good hold of it, you try not to move again. The boat rolls this way and you flex the muscles around your stomach, then relax; she rolls that way and you flex again. Just staying in one place is exercise. For a while your mind may rebel: “Why did you come, idiot? You don’t have to be out here.” You may feel remorse for having cursed some part of life on land. After a time, though, phrases start falling from your memory—snatches of song or prayer or nursery rhymes—and you repeat them silently. A little shot of spray in the face, however, or an especially loud and dangerous-sounding thump from the hull, usually breaks the trance and puts you back at sea again. You feel like a lonely child. The ocean doesn’t care about you. It makes your boat feel tiny. The oceans are great promoters of religion, or at least of humility—but not in everyone.

In the glow of the running lights, most of the crew looked like refugees, huddled, wearing blank faces. Among them, Tom West appeared as a thin figure under a watch cap, in nearly constant motion. High spirits had apparently possessed him from the moment they set sail, and the longer they were out in the storm, the heavier the weather got, the livelier he grew. You could see him grinning in the dark. West did all that the captain asked, so cheerfully, unquestioningly and fast, that one might have thought the ghost of an old-fashioned virtuous seaman had joined them. Only West never confessed to a queasy stomach. When one of the others asked him if he felt seasick too, he replied, in a completely serious voice, that he would not let himself. A little later, he made his way down to the cabin, moving like a veteran conductor in a rocking, rolling railroad car, and got himself a beer.

West was at the helm, the tiller in both hands, riding the waves; he was standing under a swaying lantern in the cabin studying the chart, he was nimbly climbing out onto the foredeck to wrestle in a jib and replace it with a smaller one. And when the captain decided to make for shelter, very late that night, at a little harbor with a passage into it that was twisty, narrow and full of tide, it was West, standing up in the bow, who spotted each unlighted channel marker and guided them safely in.

By dawn, the wind had moderated slightly and everyone felt better. They went out and raised their spinnaker. West gazed up at the large billowing sail and said, “The spinnaker looks like a win.” He said, “Hey, we’re haulin’ ass.” There was something faintly ridiculous about his exclamations, but also something childlike that made his companions smile. He was grinning most of the day, a cockeyed little smile that collected in one corner of his mouth. When the captain remarked worriedly that his boat had never gone so fast before, West laughed. He made the sound mostly in his throat. It was a low and even noise. Odd in itself and oddly provoked, the kind of laughter that ghost stories inspire, it seemed to say, “Here’s something that’s not ordinary.”

A snapshot taken of the cockpit in the afternoon shows West sitting in the stern. The dark shadow of a day’s growth of beard reveals that he passed adolescence some years ago, though just how many would be impossible to say. In fact, he is just forty. He wears glasses with flesh-colored rims, and a heavy gray sweater that must have given him long faithful service hangs loosely on his frame. He looks as if he must smell of wool. He looks thin, with a long narrow face that on a woman would be called horsey. A mane of brown hair, swept back behind his ears, reaches almost to his collar. His face is lifted, his lips pursed. He appears to be the person in command.

One of the crew would remember being alone with him on watch one night. They were sailing under clear skies with a gentle breeze. Suddenly, at the slackening of the tide, the wind fell away, some clouds rolled in, and then just as suddenly, when the tide began to run, the sky cleared up and the breeze returned. In a low and throaty voice, West made exclamations: “Did you see that? ” He made his low and spooky laugh. His companion was about to say, “Well, I’ve seen this happen before.” The tone of West’s voice prevented him, however. He thought it would be rude to describe this event as ordinary. Besides, West was right, wasn’t he? It was strange and wonderful the way the pieces of the weather sometimes played in concert. At any rate, it was fun to think that they had just encountered a natural mystery, and, somewhat surprised at himself, West’s companion suggested that events like that made superstitions seem respectable. West gave his low laugh, apparently signifying agreement.

The psychologist, meanwhile, was waiting for West to go to sleep. He had not done so for more than a few hours altogether. By the third day, when they were sailing in sunshine with a gentle breeze, the psychologist expected to see signs of exhaustion appear in West. Instead, West put on his bathing suit and took a long vigorous swim beside the boat.

Back at a restaurant near Portland before they’d gone out into the storm, while they’d been sharing the meal that most of them soon regretted, West had told them, “I build computers.” Although he spoke at some length about certain extraordinary sounding, new computing systems, the others came away uncertain about what role, if any, he had played in their construction. They felt only that whatever he did for a living, it was probably interesting and obviously important.

One time while West was manning the tiller, the psychologist asked him how he had learned to sail. West didn’t answer. A little later on, thinking he hadn’t heard the question, the psychologist inquired again.

“You already asked me that,” West snapped. After a moment’s silence, he wet his lips and explained that he had taught himself mostly, as a boy.

On another occasion, just to make conversation, one of the crew asked West what sort of computer he was building now. West made a face and looked away, and muttered something about how that was work and this was his vacation and he would rather not think about that .