A Ravel of Waters

For an answer, Brockton nodded towards the group of Argentinians whom Grohman had just rejoined from the cockpit.

He said softly, 'Don't look so damn worried – they're not.'

There seemed to be a holiday air about the party. Again, I speculated who they could be. They all looked tough and sunburned.

It was as much frustration at not having to hand the data I needed to work out my break-out plan as the colossal uncertainties surrounding it which ate like acid into me for the remainder of the flight. Its interminable slowness was relieved later only by the sight of the Jason Islands below; beyond, southeastwards, loomed the mass of the two main islands of the Falklands group itself and their scatter of several hundred satellite isles. There was no indication westward – the gale quarter – of my wind of salvation.

Paul and I had not spoken again; now, as if sensing my need to scrutinize and assess, he silently swapped seats with me. Suddenly we were over Stanley.

I was taken aback by the beauty of two things. First, the harbour itself, snugged between low hills, about seven and a half kilometres long and one and a half kilometres at its widest point: beyond, through a small gap between two low headlands – not more than 300 metres wide – a broad waterway opened up between serrated coves leading to the high seas. The rare sunny day painted the inner harbour bright cobalt; the low hills on every side were exquisite pastel shades of grey, green and purple, pocked frequently with scrubby brown patches of a low-growing plant.

I had no eyes for nature's beauty. It was the loveliness of the man-made thing riding at anchor offshore which commanded all my attention. Jetwind! I fell in love with her at first sight.

Her long, lean hull was dark green against the cobalt water; her six masts were taller than the spire of the cathedral standing at the head of the main jetty and dominating the brightly coloured iron roofs – blue, red, lime-green, yellow – which sloped down to the waterfront. The sheen on Jetwind's steel and light alloy masts and yards gave her a purposeful, up-and-go look.

The pilot circled over the harbour, no doubt thinking he was treating his passengers. My mind, until now seething with frustration at want of information, clicked like an activated electronic calculator. Unwittingly, within a few minutes, I was supplied with vital tactical information. Jetwind was moored about one and a half kilometres from the entrance gap, rightly named The Narrows. The two high points flanking the entrance were high enough to block Jetwind from the warship's sight as she approached from seaward.

From my vantage-point I could plot the entire break-out – Jetwind and the Almirante Stomi out of one another's sight on either side of The Narrows by virtue of the intervening range of hills, except for the very tip of Jetwind's masts. This was too small a target for the destroyer's radar to constitute a major danger. It meant, however, that from the mast-head the destroyer would be visible to Jetwind while she remained invisible herself until she entered The Narrows proper. Keeping Jetwind out of view until the last possible moment would require split-second timing and manoeuvring.

The plane then circled the outer harbour – Port William – before turning to approach the airfield on the western side of the town near the water's edge.

It banked for the landing. It was from this direction that the wind must come; I was relieved to note that there were no high hills to blanket its passage towards Jetwind. We made a bouncy touch-down and taxied to the airport building whose new yellow paint was beginning to peel from the onslaught of innumerable gales. The plane's arrival seemed to be the event of the week – a bevy of Land Rovers lined the fence with adults and children gaping as the passengers filed into the terminal.

My first urgent task was to get aboard Jetwind, take a quick look around, and then talk to the authorities. I chafed at the delay when a lackadaisical but amiable customs officer wanted to know the background of Robbie Lund's bell. The Spaniards, someone had mentioned, had first named the Falklands after Our Lady of Solitude – that was how it appeared to me, unhurried, utterly remote. The bell seemed to interest the official far more than Brockton's hard-fabric, business-man's black brief-case which he had kept at his feet during the flight; the official cursorily checked it without examining the contents.

Brockton and I lagged behind the rest of the passengers and his Argentinian foursome were quickly cleared and disappeared. Brockton and I had few exchanges since our arrival. I had enough to think about without making polite conversation. Paul seemed to realize it. I liked the man for his silences as much as for his words. It appeared to me, however, that when we finally reached the immigration desk he subtly jockeyed himself to be first in line.