A Ravel of Waters

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.

'I haven't chickened in,' I retorted. 'Now look here* Mr Thomsen, I've been twenty-six days alone at sea across the wildest ocean in the world. I'm dead on my feet. I need a rest’

'Don't give me that stuff, Rainier. Sure, you've done a great job with Albatros. Now there's an even greater job awaiting you with Jetwind’

Don and Sheila reappeared. Don dumped Thomsen's brief-case and they beat a hurried retreat when they heard the drift of our discussion.

'Jetwind has lost so much time that it's hopeless.. I began.

Thomsen did not seem to be listening. He pulled a plan from his brief-case and threw it in front of me.

'Look! Jetwind! There has never been a ship like this before! One hundred and twenty-five metres long, twenty-one in the beam, nine deep. Look at her proportions! Six masts! Neither you nor anyone else has ever seen masts like those! Stream-lined, aerodynamic, hydraulically trimmed – perfect. High tensile steel for the lower, light alloy for the upper sections. The masts are designed to offer minimum wind resistance. She's beautiful, she's fast – by all that's holy, man, can't you feel what this ship is?'

I could, and I did. But my appreciation was at a distance, the distance of a drawing-board plan. I had not experienced the real thing. 'I thought her yards would be wider,' I remarked.

I was aware of Thomsen's keen scrutiny of me as my interest grew. 'They have been criticized by comparison with those of the famous clippers. They are as deep as the fastest, but not as wide. Still, that counts for nothing. As I've said, those old fliers are dead. What matters here is the shape of the aerofoil – that has been evolved by means of the wind-tunnel.'

I studied the plan further. 'I see she's got accommodation for passengers.'

'Aye, for twelve, in the stern. Well out of your way on the bridge.'

'What do you mean, "out of my way"? I said No, didn't I?' 'I was just generalizing.'

Noting the design closely, I continued, 'I don't care for all the clutter of bridge structure so far for'ard – the position of it seems to be thought out in terms of a steamship. The captain of a sailing ship must be able to see his sails in front. I would have sited the bridge much further aft, abaft the mainmast.' iJetwind’s bridge is not so much a bridge in the accepted sense as a control centre,' replied Thomsen. An imperceptible change had crept into his voice. His former aggressiveness had disappeared. Perhaps he was playing his fish far more skilfully than I gave him credit for.

'Data is fed into the controls and consoles in the wheel-house from sensors, computers, and all the rest of the electronic gadgetry located in various parts of the ship and masts,' he explained. 'Sailing Jetwind is not an operation like in an old windjammer where the skipper relied on his senses and experience. His nerve-ends in Jetwind are electronic. They are twice as quick and ten times more accurate than human intuition.'

'I'd back my own senses against electronic sensors when it comes to a Southern Ocean squall,' I replied. 'They come at you suddenly from any point of the compass. They jump about like a hipped-up bird in a disco.'

'It would be very difficult to catch Jetwind aback,' Thomsen countered. 'Her entire sailplan can be furled in twenty seconds flat. It would take some squall to do better.' 'Did Mortensen establish that at sea – or is it just another wind-tunnel print-out?' 'Wind-tunnel.'

'How much free-board will Jetwind have when she's fully laden?' I asked.