The Black Tide

It was towards dusk, when the wind had eased slightly, that I took my first trick at the helm under Pamela’s supervision, the others having got their heads down in preparation for the long hours of darkness when they would be standing lone watches. It was only then, with my hands gripping the wheel, that I began to appreciate the extraordinary power of an ocean-racer. Until then I had only seen them at a distance, but now, feeling that wind-driven power under my hands and vibrant throughout the ship, I experienced a feeling of intense excitement, a sense of overwhelming exhilaration as though I were a god riding the sea on a white-winged Pegasus. And when Pamela clapped me on the shoulder and said, ‘You’ll do, mate,’ I felt a wave of pleasure as though I were a kid and had passed some sort of a test. She got up then, bracing herself with a hand on the bar-taut mainsheet. ‘You’re on your own now. I need a pee and there’s the evening meal to get.’

She left me to my own devices then, so that for almost two hours the ship was mine, and as we powered to windward I found myself revelling in the extra thrust that came from slight adjustments of the wheel, the way I could slide her over the worst of the waves, and once in a while Pamela, keeping an

eye on me from the galley, gave me a little smile of approval. With no make-up on, a dirty old woollen cap pulled down over her head and yellow oilskins she looked more like a ship’s boy than the owner’s daughter, and how she could cook with the boat pitching and slamming I couldn’t imagine. When Toni Bartello finally relieved me and I went below I found I had no interest in food and had to get my head down or be sick.

The seasickness didn’t last, but the sou’wester did. The wind seemed fixed in that quarter, staying there for almost a week, sometimes light, sometimes blowing a near-gale, and always we were beating.

It was a strange life, the five of us cooped up together, at such close quarters, and in some respects in such rugged conditions, that it was almost the equivalent of serving as a seaman in the Navy two centuries ago. Most of my working life had been spent at sea so that it was difficult for me to understand at first why anyone would do it for pleasure, particularly a girl. So little space and no privacy, the violence of the movement — and yet it worked, our lives ruled by the sea and the wind, and little time or energy to think who it was had left the bunk warm for me when I came below tired after a sail change or a long spell at the wheel with the salt of the wind-driven spray crusted on my face.

The sun shone most of the daylight hours and when the wind dropped and we had the engine on, all of us up in the cockpit with a drink in our hands, then it was different. We were relaxed, talking uninhibitedly

about our lives, or speculating what we would find when the Selvagens appeared over the horizon. Would we find the Howdo Stranger sitting there, waiting? And if so, what would she be called now, what false name would they have painted on her bows and stern? We had a lot of fun inventing names for her, and for the Aurora B, laughing uproariously at simple jokes, like twinning them and calling them Castor and Bollocks. We laughed a lot at silly ordinary things, ate enormously and drank well. It was, in fact, a singularly happy ship, made more so I think by the presence of a girl who was a good cook, a good sailor and good company. There were times when I found it difficult to take my eyes off her, for it was getting warmer all the time and, ghosting along in light airs after Saltley had decided we needed to save our fuel, she was wearing very little at the midday pour-out.

We were drinking wine, not spirits, but it was strong Spanish stuff and I suppose my interest in her showed. It was on the eighth day, when the wind had at last gone round to the north-west, where it should have been all the time. I had the middle watch and when I took over from Mark he brewed us mugs of cocoa and joined me in the cockpit. ‘Lovely night,’ he said, staring up at the stars. He was silent for a long nme after that, so I knew he had something on his mind. At last he came out with it. ‘Look, Trevor — hope you don’t mind, but I think I’d better tell you.’ He paused there, not looking at me, his face in silhouette against the light of the compass. ‘About Pam,’ he went on awkwardly, burying his face in his mug and