Geoffrey Jenkins: A Ravel of Waters

I sensed his tenseness and attributed it to anxiety regarding my decision.

'Right — you can come, if you can wangle a seat aboard the plane tomorrow night. If you can't, it's off. I won't wait.'

He laughed and said enthusiastically, Tm damn sure you won't, Peter. You'll get that flier moving the moment you step aboard.' 'I hope so.' 'Meaning?'

'This is off the record,' I said, and I gave a brief outline of Captain Mortensen's death, the so-called arrest of the ship, and Grohman's discussions on the mainland.

Brockton stood abstracted until I reminded him, 'You've got a lot of hard talking to do on the phone tonight, Paul, if you're to tag along with me — first, for a connection to Cape Town in the morning and, more important, on Aerolineas Argentinas tomorrow night.'

'Nothing is going to stop me being aboard those planes tomorrow — nothing,' he asserted. 'I'll be sitting waiting here on the jetty first thing with my bags.'

He started to leave, then came back and said, with such undisguised sincerity and warmth that I was glad I had decided to take him on, 'Peter, you've given me a big, big break. Bigger than you can guess. Maybe I'll be able to tell you about it some day. It's more than I ever expected when I came aboard tonight. Remember that, will you?'

I dreamed that Jetwind was tearing out of control towards a monster iceberg. Her masts were without sails: a great wind was hurling her along by thrust on the stream-lined yards alone. Inside the bridge a computer was flashing and chattering insanely, 'wind-tunnel negative, wind-tunnel negative'. Then the dial would clear itself and begin all over again in a kind of frenetic repeat print-out. The monster berg, steaming and ill-defined, filled the entire horizon — it had the evil menace of a nightmare. I heard the pitch of the gale change; Jetwind accelerated; I awoke in a sweat.

The air-brakes of the Boeing 747 of Aerolineas Argentinas were on; it was their sound that had penetrated my eight-hour sleep across the South Atlantic from Cape Town to Buenos Aires. Now, to find myself descending towards the great estuary of the River Plate in broad sunlight — we had taken off from Cape Town after midnight, in a blustery southeaster — had in itself the quality of a waking dream. Beyond the plane's window on my right I spotted the luxury resort of Ciudad de Punta del Este where I had tied up in Albatros when staging south to Cape Horn: the lighthouse with its tall, round, white masonry tower was unmistakable. The sight of it again, with sleep still fogging my senses, made me wonder whether the intervening six weeks' events had indeed taken place — Albatros, the record, Jetwind.

However, it was all real enough on landing. So was the obstructionism of Argentinian officialdom once they learned that Brockton and I were bound for the Falklands. Brockton had been as good as his promise in securing a seat — next to me — on the full aircraft. I think it owed much to his command of Spanish. His fluency was certainly the key factor in smoothing the way for me to obtain a travel permit called a 'white card' which all British subjects entering the Falklands by air via the southern Argentinian town of Comodoro Rivadavia are required to carry. Despite the fact that the Falklands are British, the Argentinian authorities insist that they are rightfully Argentinian territory, and the 'white cards' are a way of asserting this claim by bureaucratic harassment of British travellers.

At the mention of the Falklands, officials started the 'work to rule' routine on Brockton and me which left us well behind the other passengers. Further, the name Jetwind and the fact that I was her skipper turned obstructionism into thinly concealed hostility. I was still suffering from sleep dosage withdrawal symptoms — either I needed more, or none at all. It was only Brockton's patience and his Spanish which saved me from exploding. After innumerable questions and much note-taking, our 'white cards' were finally issued. We made our connecting plane by a whisker. Late that afternoon, after a wearisome flight southwards, when I finally came out of my heart-of-darkness sleeping jag we arrived at the oil-field town of Comodoro Rivadavia, jumping-off point for the final leg, next day, to Port Stanley.

Later Brockton and I were drinking a glass of wine in the creeper-covered patio of the Spanish colonial Austral Hotel, which contrasted nostalgically with the upstart modernism of the town itself, centre of one of Argentina's most important oil-fields. The town's streets had a superfluity of raw concrete walls, most of which seemed to be graffitied with the same slogan in big red letters — 'Las Malvinas son nuestras'.

I was relaxed, warm and comfortable in the secluded twilight. The vino rosado was good, if a trifle sweet for my palate. I liked having Brockton around; our acquaintance was turning to friendship, especially after the 'white card' unpleasantness. I was gratified that my first impressions of the man had proved correct.

Robbie Lund, proprietor of the Austral, came to our table. He was an amiable, big-boned Scot whose grandfather, in common with hundreds of others of Hebridean descent, had settled southern Patagonia towards the turn of the last century. Originally they had been 'kelpers' in the Falklands and later were responsible for the famous Patagonian wool boom. 'So you're the new skipper of Jetwind? he asked.

'Yes. It surprises me how many people in Argentina seem to know about the ship.' 'You wouldn't know why, would you?'

'No. A record attempt of that nature doesn't seem to be the sort of thing to create much popular feeling.'

Two kids appeared suddenly, and Lund said something to them in Spanish, indicating the entrance bell. They shot off excitedly.

Lund excused himself for the interruption, and continued the conversation.

'And you wouldn't know either, Mr Brockton, in spite of the fact that you speak Spanish so well?'

'I guess not, except that everyone's hackles seemed to rise when Jetwind was mentioned.'

Lund chose his words. 'Jetwind has kind of split public opinion down the middle in Argentina.' He dropped his voice. 'A hotelier has to be careful. Split, left and right.'

Something of the bien aise went out of the evening. 'You mean, politically left and right?' 'Aye, I do.'

'Who dragged politics into a neutral subject like a record-breaking attempt?'

'You may well ask. Captain Rainier. You see, Jetwind is tied up in the Falklands.' 'Don't I know it!'

'The ship has become a kind of symbol, if I may put it that way.' 'A symbol of what?'

Lund glanced about uneasily, tfien replied. 'Hasn't your friend translated the slogans on the walls of the town? They've shot up like mushrooms ever since Jetwind was known to be in Port Stanley.'

Brockton repeated the Spanish. '"Las Malvinas son nuestras" — the Malvinas are ours. As good nationalists, they don't tolerate the name Falklands. The question of ownership of the Falklands has been a point of friction for generations. Now the whole controversy has flared up again — because Jetwind was forced to make for Port Stanley.'

'Forced? Who says forced?' I asked. 'The ship was en route from Montevideo to the Cape when her captain was killed in an accident. Her first mate, Anton Grohman, turned and like a frightened rabbit made for Port Stanley.'

Lund sat down and stared. 'That isn't the story that has been circulated in Argentina.'

'Now I see,' I replied. 'Grohman is an Argentinian. The Falklands are a delicate political issue, and Grohman thought it would make good political capital.'

Brockton blew in the mouth of the wine bottle as if underscoring my remark. It emitted an odd, menacing, horn-like sound. 'Whose side is he really on, Mr Lund?' he asked.