A Ravel of Waters

'What do you have in mind? Anything to do with the bridge?' 'Yes and no.' 'Free-board will be almost four metres.'

'That's precious little when it comes to beating close-hauled in the Roaring Forties,' I answered. 'She'll be taking it green over her rails, especially if she's being hard pushed. That means a hell of a lot of sea will be coming over her lee rail – it's going to be worst at the spot where the bridge is located. That's exactly where she'll put her rail under. Any man on that long uncluttered deck will stand a pretty fair chance of being swept overboard. If the bridge were further aft, it would serve as a breakwater.'

The exchange of technicalities was establishing a closer link between us. I found myself being carried away.

Thomsen laughed. ‘I can't get you away from thinking Jn old-fashioned terms. Rainier. You're visualizing a deckful of men pulley-hauling at a spider's web of ropes. Jetwind doesn't have any men on deck in a blow. The crew mans stations either on the bridge or below-decks. Forget the word windjammer. That's what the old-timers really were – jammers into the wind. Jetwind is different.' 'In a wind-tunnel.'

'You keep saying that, and it underlines my point. That is why I built Jetwind. To prove the space-age rig by trial at sea.'

'You talk as though there were only one revolutionary rig – yours, Jetwind's. What about the Venetian Rig?'

'I know, I know,' he answered broodingly. 'It was a major decision I faced. In fact there are two splendid space-age sail systems which are exactly opposite. Both are based on sound observation and scientific theory. You can't fault either. There is the contrast between a highly efficient wind flow in conditions of flow stability…' 'Rarefied aerodynamics are beyond me,' I interrupted.

'They should not be and must not be,' he replied impatiently. 'The new age of sail is a young person's world. Everyone – men and women – involved in Jetwind is young. The scientists, the aerodynamicists, the engineers, are all young. You, Rainier, are young. Wake up and go along with it.'

'Right now I feel about a hundred,' I replied. 'I'm clapped out, as I said, dead on my feet. All this is aircraft talk…'

'Pull yourself together’ went on Thomsen in the same tone. 'Aerodynamics, flow, stability – yes, but aircraft, no. I grant you that when Jetwind is beating upwind, her sails are experiencing flow which is in some ways similar to air flow across an aircraft wing. Running downward is another story. The comparison is much closer to a parachute than a wing. You know the type of special multi-slotted ribbon parachute used to slow down jet fighters on landing? That's where the similarity comes in.'

'All this balancing of pros and cons must have given you ulcers – especially at the price of twenty million dollars.'

'The final and twenty-million dollar question was, how much efficiency could be sacrificed to improve efficiency? The aerofoil rig finally beat the Venetian Rig by a short head.' 'Then hard luck stepped in and messed it all up.'

'Hard luck, hell!' he snapped. 'It was a sonofabitch named Grohman. I can still make it. But I need your help, Rainier. You are my man. I am offering you the captaincy of Jetwind – here and now.' 'I couldn't do justice to the job in my present state.'

'Rubbish! You're a sailor. The old China clipper skippers went without sleep for three months racing home! Three months, with only a cat-nap now and then in a deck-chair lashed to the weather rail! And you've been without proper sleep for only twenty-six days! It's less than a ten-hour flight from Cape Town to Buenos Aires. You can sleep all the way, recharge your batteries. You'll be as right as rain after that. You can have a further night's sleep on the journey to the Falklands. That's more than enough for a sailor like you!'

Still I stalled. 'Fair enough. However, I've never even set eyes on your space-age marvel. By your own admission, Jetwind is a highly complex machine, all push-buttons and computers. I'm a practical sailor. I haven't a clue how to operate her. I'll probably dismast her first time out.'

As I temporized, my eye fell upon Thomsen's photograph of Jetwind. The towering aerofoil sails and streamlined masts had a stylized beauty all of their own. I remembered a similar strange exultation when I had first seen the Venetian Rig's reefing lines streaming contrary to the wind's direction – it had been a kind of mystic revelation of man's complete conquest of the wind.

Thomsen waited for the kill now he saw he had me hesitating.

'There'll be a lot of delays,' I added lamely. 'Air tickets to arrange, clearances, connections, and so on…'

'Your seat is booked on the Aerolineas Argentinas Boeing leaving Cape Town for Buenos Aires tomorrow. From Buenos Aires you will fly to Comodoro Rivadavia in the south and onwards to the Falklands. You will have my full written authority to act as you think fit – fire anyone, hire anyone, bribe anyone. Only, for Pete's sake get going?