The Black Tide

He stared up at me, his eyes wide, not saying anything. ‘And then they grabbed the second ship, the How do Stranger. Did you see her?’

‘No.’ He said it fiercely, an urgent whisper. ‘I don’t know anything about it. Nothing at all.’

‘Are they going to meet up? Is that why they’re getting the Aurora B officered and ready for sea?’ His eyes had closed, his body limp. ‘Where are they going to meet up? Where are they going to spill their oil? They’re going to spill it on the coast of Europe. Isn’t that the plan?’ I was shaking him violently now, so violently that he screamed out with the pain of it like a shot rabbit.

‘Please, for God’s sake!’ His voice was thick with blood and hardly audible.

‘Where?’ I shouted at him.

But he had fainted away, mumbling something about the salvage, which I didn’t understand, his body collapsing in the grip of my hand. I cursed myself for having been too rough, the man in a coma now, his body shifting limply to the movement of the ship. I went back to the helm then, and though I called him

several times, repeating my questions over and over again, he never answered. I passed the time watching the fish rise, pools of brightness in the dark, and our wake a fading lane of sparkling brilliance. We were well into the Gulf of Oman now, the fish more numerous than ever and the sea’s phosphorescence quite spectacular. Sharks went under us leaving torpedo-like wakes and shoals of fish broke up like galaxies exploding. It was a fantastic pyrotechnic show of brilliant white lights forming below the surface of the sea and then bursting, constantly vanishing only to reappear, another patch of dark water suddenly illuminated.

Dawn came at last, a greying in the east, on the port bow. My second dawn at the dhow’s helm and still nothing hot to eat, only dates and unboiled water. It came quickly, a magic burst of violent colour thrusting in flame over the horizon and then the sun like a great curved crimson wheel showing its hot iron rim and lifting fast, a visible movement.

I had parted company with the tanker traffic at the beginning of the dawn watch, steering a course just south of east that I hoped would close the coast in the region of the Pakistani-Iranian frontier. There were moments when I thought I could see it, a vague smudge like a brown crayon line away to port just for’ard of the thunderbox. But I couldn’t be sure, my eyes playing me tricks and the sun’s rapidly growing heat drawing moisture from the sea, the atmosphere thickening into a milky haze. Another eighteen hours! I went below

and dipped the fuel tank. It was almost empty. Smears of dried blood marked the poop deck.

Choffel’s eyes were closed, his head lolling. His features, his whole body seemed to have shrunk in the night, so that he was like a wax doll curled up there by the binnacle.

I secured the helm and went up into the thunderbox to squat there with my bottom hung out over a slat and bare to the waves, my head poked out above the wood surround, looking at the dhow and the injured man and the water creaming past. Afterwards I stripped off and sluiced myself down with buckets of sea water. And then I carried him back to the lazarette.

It was too hot for an injured man on the deck. That’s what I told myself anyway, but the truth was I couldn’t stand him there. He had begun mumbling to himself. Jenny! He kept on saying Jenny, so I knew he was talking to his wife. I didn’t want to know the intimate details of their life together. I didn’t want to be drawn closer to him through a knowledge of his own private hell. Jenny, oh my darling — I can’t help. He choked over the words. I’ve nothing left to give you. And then he whispered, The stomach again, is it? He said he’d bring more pills. He nodded, playing the part. Yes, the doctor’s coming, darling. He’ll be here any minute. His eyes were closed, his voice quite clear, trembling with the intensity of recollection. Doctor! His eyes were suddenly open, staring at me, but without sight. Have you brought them? For the pain. It’s in the belly … I put him down quickly and fled, back into the sunlight and the sanity of steering.

A few minutes later the engine gave its first tentative cough. I thought perhaps I was mistaken, for it went on as before giving out full power. But it coughed again, checking, then picking up. It picked up on the dip of the bows, so I knew it was now dependent on the last vestige of fuel being slopped back and forth in the bottom of the tank. I suppose we covered another two or three miles under increasingly uneven power, then suddenly all was quiet, only the splash and gurgle of water along the ship’s side. The engine had finally died, the tiller going slack as we lost way.