A Twist Of Sand

Well, that was safe enough. Looking at the chart, I estimated that I had almost run Trout aground on the north-western tip of the Alecto Shoal. I decided to swing her round and keep away from the general north-westerly trend of the shoreline.

"Speed for six knots," I ordered down the voice-pipe. "Course three-four-oh."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Trout edged her way round the shoal. Then the light came. I was aghast. I seemed to be almost on top of the land. The sea was quiet, with no sign of the dreaded heavy south-westerly swell. The sun, starting to rise redly against the backdrop of dune and sand, looked as if it had a hangover. I felt something like that myself. I took Trout seawards for a while and changed course inwards again.- The chart said "foul ground "- and foul, indeed, it was. Trout ran on slowly. Out to port the quiet sea merged into the peculiar light haze; to starboard loomed the long line of dunes topped by the bibulous sun. I switched my glasses to the north, but I suppose the refracted light destroyed some of the magnification, for a moment later, when I looked with the naked eye, I saw the three-topped hill, unmistakable, against the dun background. The entrance to Curva dos Dunas! I altered course slightly to keep me clear of a sudden four-fathom hump to the south-west of the three-topped hill.

Trout, at funereal pace, moved towards where I knew Simon's Rock must lie. And — beyond lay Trout's objective, Curva dos Dunas! A ten-foot rock sticking out of the sea is a difficult enough thing to see at any time, but in the peculiar inshore light, one might well pass it by — and be wrecked on the shoals at the entrance to the island. Old Simon's chart showed it bearing 330 degrees from the three-topped hill.

I began to sweat; nothing showed as the bearing approached. All those doubts which I had rigidly refused to consider when I had made my decision to break away from the box-search assailed me. If all this was merely chasing a will-o'-the-wisp… The line of the bearing fell across the 330 degree mark. Nothing! There was nothing either on the landward side — nothing that remotely looked like an island.

"Stop both," I ordered, struck by the harshness of my own voice.

I consulted the chart again. I was almost exactly — if any navigator can hope to be anything like exact on that coast — where the rock should be. While Trout wallowed in the slight swell, I swept every inch of sea between myself and the shore.

There was nothing. No rock, no breakers, not a living or dead thing.

I scanned every inch of sea where I knew Curva dos Dunas should lie. Nothing!

So, I thought bitterly to myself, an old man's illusion and a young fool's dream turned out to be nothing but a stretch of empty water! I could take Trout through without a thought of wrecking her, if I wished.

Even to myself I could not answer the questions which arose about NP I — or rather the noise which I fatuously believed was the hydraulic jet machinery of NP I. Who had ever heard of a submarine being propelled by the expulsion of water anyway? Who would believe such a cock-and-bull story? It looked lamer every moment. I had made a complete fool of myself in front of my officers and my crew, standing a watch alone — in war-time — and conning a ship without a single soul aboard knowing where she was. Trout's log would look lovely before a court-martial! No entries, and the captain unable to say where he was. I looked round me, cursed the Skeleton Coast and cursed NP I and all the blasted fools who had given me this impossible mission.

I snapped open the voice-pipe.

"Course three-two-oh. Two hundred revolutions."

I'd get the hell out of this blasted coast, I thought bitterly.

Then I saw it.

It flashed white and evil, like a guano-covered fang, out of the sea a few hundred yards on the port beam. I had been on the inside of the damned thing and I had been searching landwards! A sick, cold feeling hit me in the stomach after my momentary elation. I was in the wickedest stretch of foul ground. The fathom line was contorted like a switchback at Blackpool. I had been fooled for the second time that morning by the current and fooled more still by the curious light refraction so that I had not seen Simon's Rock itself, but only its white-guano-littered tip where the sun caught it. I was like a blind man rushing through a roomful of glasses trying not to knock them over.

"Full astern!" I yelled in the voice-pipe. "No, stop both! Give me continuous depth readings."

"Echo-sounder reports four fathoms, sir," came up John's quiet, untroubled voice. What the hell would he be thinking about my hysterical commands screamed down from the bridge where there was no one else to tell him what was going on?

"Asdic reports obstructions bearing ah… hem… almost all round the compass, sir." The calm voice had a tinge of irony. "Hydrophones report all quiet, sir. No transmissions."