Geoffrey Jenkins: A Ravel of Waters

The narrow, dangerous entrance needed all my concentration. It would not have done to pile Albatros up on her home cliffs. Ahead lay a tricky outer and inner bar to negotiate, further complicated by the peculiarities of the Venetian Rig. Its principal virtue was excellence in heavy weather. Below the towering cliffs the sails would be blanketed from the fresh southeaster and I marvelled again, as I had done so many times on the voyage, at the paradoxical sight of Albatros's burgee streaming in one direction, forward, while tufts of rope in the lee of the sail streamed in the opposite direction, against the wind. It was the embodiment of the aerodynamic magic of the Venetian Rig.

Breakers threw up a menacing line of white between the towering head-lands guarding the entrance channel. In a moment I was among them. The strong thrust of the wind disappeared below the cliffs. It became fluky, bouncing from high point to high point. I held on, however, and then I was over the inner bar to where the narrow channel led into the lagoon beyond.

I was in the process of lining up the yacht's sea-stained white hull for the last turn into the anchorage when I was deafened by the blast of horns. Hundreds of cars which I had not noticed before because of my concentration lined the eastern head-land and the road flanking my route. It seemed as if the whole population of Knysna had turned out — hooting, shouting, waving, cheering. Then a fleet of motor-boats appeared from nowhere. Men and women in holiday wear came alongside shouting congratulations and gawping at Albatros'*s sea-swept cockpit and the salt stains trailing from the sail battens, mute witnesses to half a dozen furious encounters with the Roaring Forties. In my dark clothes and my unkempt month-old beard, I felt like the Flying Dutchman himself.

The motor-boats began sheep-dogging Albatros down-channel past Leisure Island, a paradise of luxury homes and gardens standing among dark milkwood trees. It seemed to me that not only Albatros's home port but the whole country was waiting when I stepped ashore on the jetty at Thesen's Yard, where Albatros had been built. There was a barrage of press camera flashes, TV and movie cameras. Microphones were thrust in front of my face; I was assaulted by scores of questions. The Venetian Rig — what was its secret? Speed? Best day's run? From all the shaking of well-wishers' hands my arm felt as if I had pumped out Albatros's bilges for a week.

Then, after a brief respite, Knysna's pride in Albatros and its hospitality overflowed at an official luncheon. More interviews. Endless handshakes. The blur of friendly, anonymous, admiring faces. Inevitably a local beauty queen found her way into a picture pose with me.

Finally, in the late afternoon, I was the house guest of the reception committee's chairman, a yachting enthusiast named Don Mackay. I was thankful to be whisked away from the never-ending congratulations to his home on the summit of Eastern Head from which I overlooked the entrance channel I had sailed through that morning. Don was apologetic about the place.

'It's only the old Pilot House,' he explained. 'But I wanted the view. When the harbour was still functioning commercially, it used to be the spot from which the pilots could see what ships were approaching Knysna — from any direction.' It had a wood-panelled room whose octagonal sides consisted entirely of glass as high as the waist. The panorama of ocean and mountain landwards was stupendous. A telescope on a stand, clipper ship prints on the walls, a full-rigged model in a glass case, mounted scenic charts of the coast, and a flagstaff on the so-green lawn beyond the windows made the Pilot House comfortably suburban-nautical.

Don's whisky felt good. I was exhausted. I felt more like ninety years old than twenty-seven. Every muscle, every nerve-endings was tired. My mind was as flat as a sail in the doldrums.

Don, a sunburned, red-headed giant of a man, held out the whisky bottle for me to inspect. 'Like it?' he asked.

I looked at the label in surprise. 'I thought it was genuine Scotch.' *No, South African. Good as the original heather brew. "Three Ships" — the name seemed appropriate for the occasion.'

'I hope the occasion's done. I couldn't stand much more of it.' I wanted more than anything to be alone, like a drunk with his bottle.

I said gruffly, ‘I hope you're not throwing another party for me now.' Don looked uncomfortable and glanced at his watch. 'Not a party. Just one other guest.' 'Friend of yours?'

Don hesitated. 'His name is Axel Thomsen. He jetted in early this morning and motored over to Knysna from the airfield at George. He collected a speeding fine on the way because he was so keen not to miss your arrival. He got here literally in a jib-boom ahead of Albatros.9 'What's the rush?' Don was cagey. 'He'll tell you himself. He's late.'

Sheila, Don's wife, appeared and saved him from further questions. Any woman looks beautiful after you've been a month alone at sea but Sheila didn't need that distorted view to boost her good looks.

'Peter,' she said to me, 'I'll show you to your room if you'd like to clean up before Mr Thomsen arrives.' 'My room?' 'You're staying, surely?'

I tried to laugh off their disappointment. 'A fakir likes to get back to his bed of nails. I think I'd rather sleep aboard Albatros tonight. I'll come some other time5 if I may.' 'We'll keep you to that,' she said. Just then a car drew up on the driveway. There was something in the glance that Don shot in my direction which puzzled me. 'Here comes Axel Thomsen. I hope you'll like him.'

He came forward, and without any preliminaries, took my hand.

'Congratulations, Captain Rainier’ he said. He had the most compelling pair of eyes I had ever seen. He held my hand in a strong grip. There was power in it, power about the man himself. He would draw people to himself like iron filings to a magnet. His scrutiny of me was as keen as a wind off the Drake Passage. He was of medium height only, and looked about forty. The clothes he wore — light blue casual slacks and a kind of matching battle blouse — emphasized his leanness. A Chinese white silk choker was secured at his throat by a yellow diamond pin. He seemed to miss, or simply override, my resentment.

'I was in one of the boats that came to cheer you on completing your magnificent feat. I saw you bring your ship through that tricky entrance. I didn't think it possible to manoeuvre any craft with the mainboom centred without adjustment to the sheets.' ‘I hope you're now satisfied that it's possible,' I retorted.

‘I think it must be because there are vents from the high pressure to the low pressure sides of the sail at such short intervals that the air flow turns round the back and still gives a high degree of lift even when it's well beyond what would be the stall angle in a normal sail.'

I realized how near the limit of fatigue I was when I heard myself rasp, 'What are you trying to prove?'

Thomsen threw me a keen up-and-under glance. His reply was conciliatory. 'Nothing — except one must understand what one is up against. I have a rig which works better.'

Thomsen stood there, rocking on the balls of his feet as if inviting me to hit him verbally. His eyes were searching mine, assessing me. Then he pulled out a gold and black pack of Perilly's Private Blend and offered me one, lighting it and his own with a tiny gold lighter in the shape of a dolphin.

I answered him, repeating it by rote -1 was too tired to be original — 'The Venetian Rig is the first major advance in sail design for centuries. It was invented by Dr Glauco Corbellini, an Italian engineer…*

Thomsen made an impatient sweep with his cigarette. 'I know all that. What I want to know is, how does it work?5