A Ravel of Waters

He brought the steaming mugs and put them in front of us on the swivel table.

'From what I hear, "down south" are the operative words for Albatros – you kept much further south than is customary.'

'Customary? What is customary any more, Paul? What some old windjammer did, or what modern techniques dictate?'

I noted that I was echoing Thomsen. Perhaps Jetwind made one think like that.

'You sure stuck your neck out in a little craft like this -what was your track?' he asked.

I got up and pulled a metal object from a locker. I handed it to Brockton. 'First, take a look at that. Life harness hook from Albatros's cockpit. See how it's straightened out? A wave did that.'

He weighed the heavy hook in his hand and shook his head. 'And you?'

'When the hook gave up, I went overboard. The next wave scooped me up and deposited me neatly back in the cockpit.' 'Congratulations to your guardian angel.' 'That's what happens – down south,' I replied.

'Sometimes, maybe.' He brought me back to the subject of Albatros's track. 'Show me where this happened.'

As I got out my track chart, I wondered further about Brockton. If this was eliciting information, the extraction process was certainly painless.

He pored over the chart for some minutes before he asked, 'What made you choose such an unusual course? It disregards the Great Circle route between Cape Horn and the Cape.'

'Wind,' I answered. 'I had to have wind, plenty of it, all the time. Plus a current that would add speed to Albatros. I went north about the Falklands on a favourable slant, cut through the Jasons to use the tide-rips…' 'Jeez! The Jasons!'

'That's the second time I've heard that exclamation tonight. Thomsen said the same thing.'

'It takes a sailor to know what it means. And you also disregarded the biggest hazard of all – ice?' 'Ice isn't so hazardous if you keep a sharp look-out.'

'One man can't keep a sharp look-out for twenty-six days on end. You had to sleep sometimes.' 'Sometimes’ I echoed. 'You'd never have made it in winter-time.'

'It's still summer down there. The bergs drift continually in the general direction of Gough. The warmer the seas, the smaller they grow.'

He pointed again at the chart. He was close to me; he was sweating. Even Navy rum doesn't act that quick. I froze when I saw the place he indicated. It was about 600 sea-miles southwest of Gough. 'What took you here?'

He was watching me closely. 'Wind’ I answered curtly. 'I went where the best winds blew.'

'Did you choose this course yourself, or was it Weather Routed?' I resented his probing.

'I sail by what I feel’1 replied offhandedly. 'Not by what some boffin halfway across the world tells me what the weather should be where I am.' 'Are these exact day-to-day fixes marked on the chart?'

'No. They were by guess and by God.' The relaxed air had gone out of our talk. 'At the point you're interested in I hadn't had a proper sight for a week.'

'Ah!' The remark might have meant something. He followed it with a large gulp of rum-laced coffee.

His next query was phrased carefully. 'The area where my magazine considers a story may lie is in your inner reaction to such a long voyage alone. A study in depth, so to say, of the mind of the lone sailor.'

Did Brockton know – or suspect – anything of my secret that he should have pinpointed the place where it had happened? How could he, I asked myself. There had been no witnesses, not one for a thousand miles. I told myself I was becoming unnecessarily sensitive. Nevertheless, I decided to fob Brockton off.

'Listen, Paul, I said. 'As far as I'm concerned there isn't a story in lone sailor soul-searching. If you're looking for a hard news story, the Jetwind record attempt is on again. I am her hew captain. Thomsen offered me the job tonight. Tomorrow I fly to Buenos. Aires from Cape Town, and then on to the Falklands.'

My earlier inner questionings about Brockton were revived by his over-kill reaction to my news. He gave me an all-American grin and pump-handled me. 'Boy, what a scoop! This'll lick the ass off the other reporters sitting back in Cape Town playing crap games to pass the time of day!' 'I thought you wrote for the Deep Sea Sailer?

'Not only,' he replied. 'A small outfit like that couldn't afford to fly me out to the Cape.'

He seemed to take a sudden hold on himself, as if aware of his over-reaction, and went on in his previous manner to which I had been attracted. 'Peter, I'm glad for your sake. If any man can make it, you will. Nevertheless, to reach Gough from the Falklands in a week is one hell of a tall order. But you're the man to put the Jetwind project back in orbit. I'd like to be able to tell the world about it as it takes place.' 'What do you mean?'