A Ravel of Waters

Kay was standing on the mainyard of the next mast for'ard, No. 2 mast, the one which bisected the bridge. This was her daily run. She was far out along the yard, hanging on with one hand to a loading cable. She spotted us, gesticulated urgently forward seawards. From our level nothing could be seen but the next wall of water waiting for Jetwind’s bows. 'Hang on, sir!'

I made an uncompromising gesture in response to Kay. I grabbed the life-line and braced myself.

To my horror, Kay let go the cable and cupped her hands like a megaphone to her mouth. 'Ice! A growler! Right ahead! Port! Hard-a-port!'

The wave dealt a right cross to Jetwind’s jaw. She gave a wicked lurch, like a boxer absorbing a hay-maker. Kay grabbed frantically for her support. The yard was coated with ice. I saw her feet slip. She tried to regain her balance by tottering out along the yard. Her plan might have worked had there been no ice and no second lurch from the ship.

Kay staggered a few steps beyond the line of the ship's side, then pitched overboard.

Had she fallen from her original position, nothing could have stopped her being smashed to pieces on the deck. As it was, she catapulted clear of the ship. But a sea's surface from a height of twenty metres is as hard as a deck. She turned a complete circle in the air. It was not a quick kill fall. Even as my mind went numb, I sensed that she was falling more slowly than she should have. The wind had got under her loose track-suit top, ballooning into the loose-fitting pants as well.

It took a little less than five seconds for her to hit the water.

I followed her fall into the sea. A human body is a puny thing. It left no tell-tale splash where it hit the foam-torn surface. As Jetwind lifted again I caught a glimpse of a terror-struck face with staring eyes only a few metres from the ship's side.

I have no conscious memory of my actions during those brief seconds of her fall. All I know is that I had ripped a life-belt from the rail and was poised to throw it when her face showed again momentarily against the grey-white sea. Even as my mind registered the fact that she was still alive, another thought supervened: no human could live long in that icy ocean.

I hurled the life-belt. I could only pray that it would land near her. I didn't pause to think about the next flood of water sweeping along the deck. I took it up to the armpits. How I reached the starboard bridge wing within seconds, I shall never know. I threw open the door.

The bridge watch – Tideman was there now – stood frozen at my frenzied entry.

'Back the tops'ls – Numbers One and Two masts! Man overboard!'

No skipper gives an order like that in that sort of gale and sea unless he is mad or drunk. It is a life-or-death manoeuvre for a sailing ship – like pulling a Grand National steeplechaser up short while hell bent over Beecher's Brook. The ship, running off before the wind, would crash into the troughs of waves as big as hillocks. That meant she would roll – roll herself full of water, roll the masts clean off her. Even if she survived, she faced the same dangers a second time as she came round to pick up the rescue boat.

I was already shouting for a boat. 'Number Four boat – clear away! Volunteers!'

It was a small, four-man harbour runabout which was secured on the port, or lee, side of the quarter-deck.

I found Jim Yell at my elbow with two other of Tideman's men he had conjured up from somewhere.

Tideman held my eyes before obeying. He was silently asking the unaskable question – was it worth risking the ship and the lives of all aboard for the sake of one person who would already be starting to stiffen in the cold? Would it not be better rather to let her go? One life for the sake of twenty-eight? One life for the sake of twenty million dollars' worth of ship?

I never admired Tideman more than at that moment. When I did not respond, he gave the kill order steadily. 'Helm down!'

We four sprinted for the boat. Jim Yell cut it loose and in a moment we seemed to be pitching among the breaking crests. Once clear of Jetwind's stern, the full fury of the storm struck us. The light was as grey as a shroud. I steered by guess and by God. Somewhere to windward Kay was gasping out her life. It was the very greyness of the storm which saved Kay. 'Flare, sir! Thereaway!'

I was at the outboard tiller. Already the freezing metal was stripping my skin.

I got a sight of the self-igniting life-belt flare. That didn't mean to say Kay was in it. I guessed it to be a couple of hundred metres away; separating the boat from it were hills of water. I riveted my gaze in that direction.

Then – one of the men shouted. 'The ship – the ship, sir! Christ, she's going over!'