A Ravel of Waters

'Take me along in Jetwind. From what I hear she's got plenty of spare passenger accommodation. A day-by-day write-up of her progress will put the public back on Thomsen's side. You're still riding the crest because of Albatros's run. The two go together, news-wise.' He slipped the question – it was only later that I remembered it. 'I guess you'll be taking the same route as in Albatros’

I must have nodded agreement, but primarily I was considering whether Jetwind could afford'a supernumerary aboard like a reporter.

I sensed his tenseness and attributed it to anxiety regarding my decision.

'Right – you can come, if you can wangle a seat aboard the plane tomorrow night. If you can't, it's off. I won't wait.'

He laughed and said enthusiastically, Tm damn sure you won't, Peter. You'll get that flier moving the moment you step aboard.' 'I hope so.' 'Meaning?'

'This is off the record,' I said, and I gave a brief outline of Captain Mortensen's death, the so-called arrest of the ship, and Grohman's discussions on the mainland.

Brockton stood abstracted until I reminded him, 'You've got a lot of hard talking to do on the phone tonight, Paul, if you're to tag along with me – first, for a connection to Cape Town in the morning and, more important, on Aerolineas Argentinas tomorrow night.'

'Nothing is going to stop me being aboard those planes tomorrow – nothing,' he asserted. 'I'll be sitting waiting here on the jetty first thing with my bags.'

He started to leave, then came back and said, with such undisguised sincerity and warmth that I was glad I had decided to take him on, 'Peter, you've given me a big, big break. Bigger than you can guess. Maybe I'll be able to tell you about it some day. It's more than I ever expected when I came aboard tonight. Remember that, will you?'

Chapter 7

I dreamed that Jetwind was tearing out of control towards a monster iceberg. Her masts were without sails: a great wind was hurling her along by thrust on the stream-lined yards alone. Inside the bridge a computer was flashing and chattering insanely, 'wind-tunnel negative, wind-tunnel negative'. Then the dial would clear itself and begin all over again in a kind of frenetic repeat print-out. The monster berg, steaming and ill-defined, filled the entire horizon – it had the evil menace of a nightmare. I heard the pitch of the gale change; Jetwind accelerated; I awoke in a sweat.

The air-brakes of the Boeing 747 of Aerolineas Argentinas were on; it was their sound that had penetrated my eight-hour sleep across the South Atlantic from Cape Town to Buenos Aires. Now, to find myself descending towards the great estuary of the River Plate in broad sunlight – we had taken off from Cape Town after midnight, in a blustery southeaster – had in itself the quality of a waking dream. Beyond the plane's window on my right I spotted the luxury resort of Ciudad de Punta del Este where I had tied up in Albatros when staging south to Cape Horn: the lighthouse with its tall, round, white masonry tower was unmistakable. The sight of it again, with sleep still fogging my senses, made me wonder whether the intervening six weeks' events had indeed taken place – Albatros, the record, Jetwind.

However, it was all real enough on landing. So was the obstructionism of Argentinian officialdom once they learned that Brockton and I were bound for the Falklands. Brockton had been as good as his promise in securing a seat – next to me – on the full aircraft. I think it owed much to his command of Spanish. His fluency was certainly the key factor in smoothing the way for me to obtain a travel permit called a 'white card' which all British subjects entering the Falklands by air via the southern Argentinian town of Comodoro Rivadavia are required to carry. Despite the fact that the Falklands are British, the Argentinian authorities insist that they are rightfully Argentinian territory, and the 'white cards' are a way of asserting this claim by bureaucratic harassment of British travellers.

At the mention of the Falklands, officials started the 'work to rule' routine on Brockton and me which left us well behind the other passengers. Further, the name Jetwind and the fact that I was her skipper turned obstructionism into thinly concealed hostility. I was still suffering from sleep dosage withdrawal symptoms – either I needed more, or none at all. It was only Brockton's patience and his Spanish which saved me from exploding. After innumerable questions and much note-taking, our 'white cards' were finally issued. We made our connecting plane by a whisker. Late that afternoon, after a wearisome flight southwards, when I finally came out of my heart-of-darkness sleeping jag we arrived at the oil-field town of Comodoro Rivadavia, jumping-off point for the final leg, next day, to Port Stanley.