Geoffrey Jenkins: A Ravel of Waters

'He did. Then,' Thomsen added grimly. 'I met him in Germany while Jetwind was being built. He wanted a job. He had all the qualifications, and excellent references. I'd already hired Mortensen as captain but I had no doubts about Grohman's abilities. Until…' He threw back the last of his drink. 'Until when?' I asked.

'Until Grohman reported Mortensen's death, and I instructed him to take command of Jetwind and carry on to the Cape. The next thing I heard was that Jetwind was heading for the Falklands.' 'You must be joking!' 'Captain Rainier, I wish to heaven I was!'

'Any sailor worth his salt would know that such a diversion was plain mad.'. I found myself sharing Thomsen's anger. 'The Falklands!' I repeated in disbelief. 'If Jetwind was a thousand miles off the South American coast on course for the Cape, Grohman must have swung clean into the teeth of the prevailing winds and currents to head for the Falklands. He must have been crazy!' Thomsen said bitterly, 'That's what Grohman did.'

'I would have given any skipper who did that the chop — pronto’ I said.

Thomsen went on. 'The day Mortensen was killed Jetwind was running with a fresh southwesterly abeam — one of her best points of sailing. She was logging a steady sixteen knots in a rising sea. Weather Routing reported a big low astern of her, with the promise of a big blow — enough wind to take Grohman fast to Gough, which is halfway to the Cape. I know what conditions were because I spoke to Mortensen a few hours before his death. The prospect of a sustained storm thrilled Mortensen; he was piling on sail. He hoped to achieve Jetwind's theoretical maximum of twenty-two knots before it was over. Then…'

Thomsen collided with a table as he strode unseeingly about the room. What he went on to say made his face leaner, tougher, and he himself taller than he really was.

'Grohman put the ship about, and beat into the gale for days. The Falklands! Of all places, why? That is where Jetwind is now. In Port Stanley. That's why I reacted the way I did when you told me you'd been close to Port Stanley when you cut through the Jasons in Albatros.’ 'Who was the next man in line after Grohman?'

'Tideman. John Tideman. Royal Navy Adventure Training School. Sailed round the Horn three times. He would know how to handle a fast ship!' 'Why didn't you appoint Tideman?'

'I told you, after Mortensen's death, I could not communicate with Jetwind, or I would have. Besides, I didn't know — wasn't told — that Jetwind had altered course. The communications system seemed to go haywire.' 'The radio, you mean?'

'No. I know the radio was working, because I checked back with Weather Routing. The ship was still acknowledging weather advice. But all I got were some cryptic telex messages when he was finally approaching the Falklands. Something about formalities surrounding Mortensen's death… a lot of crap! But that isn't the end of the story. Once Grohman reached Port Stanley, the authorities held Jetwind’

'You mean arrested?'

'Held is all I know. Investigations. Inquest into Mortensen's death. I tried phoning for clarification. If you want to blow a gasket, just try phoning Port Stanley.'

'It's absurd,' I replied. 'The British authorities in Port Stanley…'

'It was not only the British who stalled,' he retorted. 'It was the Argentinians. They also put their damned dago fingers in my Jetwind operation.' 'But the Falklands are British,' Don said.

'Argentina doesn't give a damn,' Thomsen snapped back. 'They have claimed the islands for generations. They even have their own name for them — the Malvinas. I wish I knew what got into that fool Grohman to put his nose into that thorny nest of international politics. All he needed to do was to carry on to Cape Town.' 'When did all this happen?' I asked.

'A week ago. A week! A week ago Jetwind anchored in Port Stanley! She was originally due in Cape Town five days ago and now she's harbour-bound while a dozen of the world's top shipping tycoons snigger in derision!'

'What does Sir James Hathaway say about this Falklands business? He's on the spot.'

'He is in a spot,' Thomsen retorted. 'He is being held in a kind of protective custody aboard Jetwind. The Argentinian authorities have refused to allow him to return via the mainland — a matter of bureaucratic red tape involving his travel permit. He must be chewing the rudder pintles off Jetwind. Every extra day he is ship-bound in Port Stanley, my chances of obtaining his financial backing diminish.' 'What about the other ship-owners?'

'Polite, but increasingly sceptical about Jetwind. They bring up the old cliche, something always happens to a sailing ship. Something did. Twenty million dollars' worth of floating computerized gadgetry is tied up in an obscure port. But I'm not beaten yet,' he said in a steely voice.

I said tersely, 'You didn't come here to cry on my shoulder.'

'Jetwind is still viable. I've decided to send the shipowner party off on a cruise to Gough Island.'

'To Gough? What the hell for? It's only halfway from South America to the Cape.'

'That's why! I'll show 'em still!' he went on. 'Gough is fifteen hundred and fifty nautical miles from the Cape. It's two thousand, one hundred and fifty miles from the Falklands. Jetwind can cover that distance in a week if she's thrashed to the limit. My party will be travelling aboard the South African research ship Agulhas due to relieve the weather station on Gough. I'm planning to have Jetwind intercept the Agulhas, and give a demonstration of her — in full flight, so to speak. That'll get 'em! They'll buy my project yet, if they can see her like that! I'll convince Hathaway, too! Given the right skipper she can do it.'

Don obviously knew all about the Jetwind drama. He made a great fuss over Thomsen's empty glass. He was clearly deeply concerned over the whole affair. Turning to face Thomsen, he said, 'Axel, I think the time has come to tell our friend here the purpose of our meeting.'

'Right,' said Thomsen in an authoritative manner. 'Let me come to the point. Rainier. I need a sailor, a man with guts, a man who's not afraid to take chances and pick up a challenge.' He came close to me with his fists clenched as if he meant to hit me. And flinging a fist in my direction, he said, 'I need YOU!'

My state of exhaustion suddenly gave way to full alertness. Thomsen's offer triggered off in my mind's eye, like a slow-motion repeat TV run, some of the hazards I had survived in Albatros in the Southern Ocean. Beneath me again was a green and white monster wave down whose side Albatros had pitchpoled, out of control, with seventy-five knots of wind flattening its crest and searing the ocean's surface raw white, like an irradiated cancer exfoliating. Another mental picture followed: an ice-blue ocean in the vicinity of Gough and on every side a convoy of huge tabular icebergs stretching to the horizon, rearing and plunging like mobile casemates. Strangest of all, however, had been the swirling, steamy mist surrounding the bergs. It lent the scene an unreal, mystical quality, the quality of a dream. A final image was the dreaded Cape Horn itself — it had unveiled itself for an unprecedented half-hour of calm at the outset of Albatros's voyage. I had lived out these sights — alone. 'The answer is no,' I said.

Thomsen had been leaning towards me in that peculiar aggressive attitude; now at my refusal he drew back.

'Don,' he said calmly. 'Would you go and get my briefcase from the car?'

Sheila appeared at the door at that moment; Don had sense enough to sweep her away with him.

Thomsen eyed me. I saw him for what he was — tough, prepared to fight for what he wanted. His fancy diamond pin and dolphin lighter weren't part of the real man.

'So you're going to chicken out?' he said contemptuously.