A Twist Of Sand

I decided that I would approach Curva dos Dunas from the south, turning north and east once I crossed the seventy-five fathom mark. The more I looked at the ghastly coast, the more thankful I was for old Simon's charts. It was a hopeless conglomeration of broken water, shoals and rocks; everywhere were the terrorising words, "discoloured water." Once across the seventy-five fathom line, I decided to turn Trout north-east and thread my way to within fifteen miles of the coast, and then try and pick up my two only sure landmarks, the ten-foot projection which I had named Simon's Rock, and the distinctive three-topped hill with another high hill about seven miles to the nor'rad. If I could spot the tiny beach marked "sandy, white "on the chart, it would be a great additional help; otherwise the old sailor-man's only direction on the landward side were "dunas moveis" — shifting dunes.

I crossed to the voice-pipe,

"What depth of water have we under us?"

"Eighty-seven fathoms, shoaling, sir."

"Call them out as she goes."

"Aye, aye, sir. Eighty-five. Ninety. Seventy-seven…"

God, I thought, what a coastline to be approaching! Rough as an uncut diamond.

"Seventy-five… eighty, seventy-four,…"

"That'll do," I snapped out. I had crossed my rubicon. Well, here goes, I thought.

I turned to John who, with the exception of the watchmen, was alone with me.

"Clear the bridge," I said. I felt the tremor in my voice.

"Diving stations, sir?" asked John, shooting me a curious look.

"Clear the bridge," I repeated. "I'll give my orders from up here. Alone."

The ratings on watch glanced nervously at each other;is they scuttled down the hatch. John followed. He paused as his head was about to disappear. Apparently he thought better of it and I could almost see the shrug of his shoulders.

"Course seven-oh," I ordered and heard John repeat it. "Speed for ten knots."

The shudder died as Trout slowed. I searched the horizon with my glasses, looking every way for the twin sentinels on land which overlooked NP I's hide-out.

I felt completely naked. A warship is a lonely place anyway, but when one has sent everyone below, it seems more so. The gun, unmanned, pointed forward, lashed, with its muzzle towards where the land must be. The light anti-aircraft weapons on the conning-tower had the same forlorn look. The quiet sea washed across the casing. All around the darkness was lightening, bringing with it that depression peculiar to early dawn. I swept the horizon in a slow arc with my glasses. If I were fool enough to have no watchmen with me, at least I could be careful enough not to have Trout caught with her pants down, so to speak. I could imagine what sort of short shrift I would get from a court-martial, driving a warship in war-time towards a dangerous roast without a single man on watch. And the enemy in the vicinity!

Then I saw the Skeleton Coast for the first time in my life.

I have seen it many times since, but I suppose I shall never forget the primeval awesomeness of that first sight. It was a trick of refracted light from the desert behind, I suppose, but it sent a spine-chilling thrill through me. Against the far rim of lightening east, a shaggy dinosaurs, tufted by shaggy bush and a dun tonsure of sand, rose and gazed hostilely at the lonely submarine. It was, as I have said, a strange trick of the light which gave me that forbidding first cruel glimpse of sand, sea and dune-starved shrub, for Trout was, I suppose, every bit of fifteen miles away. Light refracts and plays the strangest tricks in the mica-laden air. I gazed at the strange revelation. How many times had it shown itself in this way to old Simon, laboriously — and with superb seamanship — toiling up and down charting Curva dos Dunas from his sailing-ship? I leant forward to take a bearing.

The Skeleton Coast reached for Trout's throat.

I saw the discoloured water as I leant forward and, God knows, even at that stage of my ignorance of the Kaokoveld, I knew it for what it was — sand, shoals, death! I could even see the dun sand swirling in the sea under the thrust of the screws.

"Stop both!" I screamed into the voice-pipe. "Full astern!"

Almost in slow motion Trout''s way diminished. The sand swirled forward past the casing as the screws bit astern.

"What depth of water under her?" I asked weakly.

"Five fathoms sir," replied the disembodied voice from below.

Five! I marvelled, and reached a trembling hand for the chart. Another cold chill ran down my spine. Trout was over the dreaded Alecto Shoal, about fifteen miles south of my objective. Alecto! I didn't know what it meant then, but later I was to discover that HMS Alecto reported this particular horror in 1889. I realised, too, that I was only two miles off the coast — two miles! I thought I was live at least.

"Stop both," I ordered. "How much water under us?" a question which I came to ask almost automatically later.

"Twenty fathoms, sir."