A Ravel of Waters

It may have been the whisky, or perhaps the way Thomsen seemed to relate to Albatros's achievements, but I continued to talk, describing how I'd cut through the Jasons and the prevailing conditions which I admitted were fairly rough. The man was showing so much interest in my account, often interrupting me to put a very knowledgeable question to me, that he began to intrigue me – as did the reason for his presence. I was particularly intrigued as to why he should know so much about the Falklands and about a short cut through a group of remote, gale-lashed islands at the other side of the earth, of interest only to penguin fanciers and environmentalists.

Thomsen brought his right fist into his left palm with a smack.

'Hell's teeth! You were as close to Port Stanley in the Falklands as the Jasons! And I didn't know it!'

He strode across to one of the big windows overlooking the anchorage. The lagoon, in the last light of the midsummer's day, was incomparably soft and lovely, pearl-grey and other-world against a back-drop of blue peaks and green forested slopes of the soaring Outeniqua mountains.

Catching the mood, Don said, 'At this time of day a flock of wild ostriches comes down from the Belvedere side and feeds on the prawns in the shallows. They stay until the tide rises up to their bellies.'

Thomsen, however, had eyes only for Albatros at anchor. 'She looks very small.'

'Big enough, when you're only one. Bigger than a house when she pitchpoled and fell on top of me.'

He took another drink from Don. 'Arse over tip! What happened?'

'Listen, I'm tired…' I began, when a thought struck me. 'I appreciate your enthusiasm and interest in Albatros. I don't know anything about you beyond your -name. What's it all about?'

Don looked uncomfortable. 'Mr Thomsen is from the Aaland Isles.' As if that explained everything.

Thomsen laughed. 'You can't expect him to know anything as civilized as the Aalands.' He grinned at me. 'The Aalands are a group in the Baltic between Finland and Sweden. I am a Finn. I was born in Mariehamn, the Aalands capital. So was Gustav Erickson, the last great windjammer ship-owner before World War II. He had some magnificent ships – like the Herzogin Cecile, for one. Even today people remember her.'

Thomsen's amused glance at me was the sort that professionals swap in the company of amateurs. 'Finished up on the rocks in Cornwall.

'Erickson was a relation of mine, on my mother's side. Seamanship goes back centuries in the Aalanders' blood. Erickson drew his splendid crews mainly from the Aaland Isles. Even the advent of steam hasn't quite killed their love for sail. There are still crews to be had there who would rather man a windjammer than a steamer.'

Thomsen did not look like a dreamer to me. Yet today windjammers are the stuff that dreams are made of.

Don interrupted. 'Aaland is the home of the International Association of Cape Horners – men and women who have rounded the Horn in sail.'

'Don't forget to join the fraternity. Rainier’ Thomsen added, a little ironically. He resumed in a different tone. 'It is true, the Aaland Isles are the last resort of what few windjammers remain in the nuclear age. We Aalanders still hanker after sail for sail's sake, although our reason and our pockets tell us it is dead.' 'There are still people who love dinosaurs,' I remarked.

He downed his drink – he drank it on the rocks – in a gulp. 'It is a good comparison, that. The dinosaur was a complex creature. Complex and cumbersome. He lacked mobility, which means speed. Nowadays, speed is equated with evolution. The windjammer died because it was complex and cumbersome.'

'Sail has a place, even if a limited place, today still…' I began.

'Albatros has proved what I am trying to say,' he broke in. 'The Venetian Rig is simple; it has speed. Corbellini had a touch of genius.'

4No,' I said. 'You are trying to equate two things which cannot be compared – the yacht and the commercial sailing vessel. Let's face it, the cargo-carrying windjammer is dead. Dead as the dinosaur. What works for a small yacht doesn't necessarily work in a scaled-up version in a big ship.’

Thomsen paused a long while before replying. Then he said decisively, as if he had made up his mind about something – or someone, 'The Venetian Rig is not the only modern development in sail. There is another, which technically functions in exactly the opposite way in almost every respect. Nor is the windjammer dead. I have taken a twenty million dollar gamble to prove it is not.'

Chapter 3

All the circuits in my brain meshed, like a switch-board in which suddenly the right connections have been made. I knew now who Thomsen was. I knew why he was interested in sail. If I had not been so punch-drunk with fatigue I should have been wise to his identity earlier. 'Jetwind’ I said. 'You're the man who built Jetwind.’ 'Right. That's me.'