Her Name Will Be Faith (41 page)

Jo
looked at the picture window and frowned.

"That is going to explode like a bomb," Richard
told her. "Do you
really want your kids in
here when that happens?"

"My
God," she said. "I hadn't thought of that."

"So
get out while you can. If you don't want to trouble the Donnellys, go to that
cottage of yours."

"Sure.
I'll do that."

"But
not until tonight?"

"We'll
have time. Won't we?"

He
sighed, and nodded. "Okay. Tonight." He took her in his arms.
"Promise?"

"Guide's
honor."

"I'll be counting on that. I have an idea things are
going to start to
hum tonight, and I
probably won't have the opportunity to call you. But if you're going to be out
of town, I won't have anything to worry about."

"And what are you going to be doing? Aren't you at
risk from flying
glass as much as
anyone?"

"Sure. But I at least know what to expect. And I
have a job to do. I'll
call
you at Bognor, the moment I can. Now..." He kissed her to stop
her
protests. "Let's drink to Michael. I reckon he's doing it the hardest
possible way, right this minute."

The squalls continued all morning,
the wind speed gradually rising in
each
one, and the wind gradually backing as well, from south-west to south-east and
then through east to north-east. Michael shut down the
engine as even under reefed main and storm jib
Esmeralda
was
making
nine knots; but as the wind began to head him it was not possible
to maintain a course as much north as he would have liked.

It was a peculiar day in that during a squall visibility
would close down
to
under a mile, and they seemed alone in an empty grey world. Then
the
rain would pass, the clouds would break as they chased across the
sky, and, at least on the top of the swells, they
could see forever, the
horizon at once
sharp and serrated by the surging waves. On these
occasions they became comfortingly aware of how
busy a stretch of ocean this was. Steamers appeared and disappeared again, all
heading north as fast as they could, and Sam chatted with one huge container
ship, whose
operator remarked, "Say, you guys know what's behind
you?"

"We're keeping an eye on it," Sam said, blood
tingling at the non
chalance in his voice.

"Well,
good luck," the operator said. "Keep your whisky clean."

The
swell was now mountainous, at least 20 feet from trough to crest, but still long,
perhaps 300 feet between each crest. With each squall the crests rose another
six or eight feet in curling waves, a foretaste of what
was to come. Yet
Esmeralda
coasted along very comfortably under
her
reduced canvas, and she was as ready for the storm as human
ingenuity could manage. Michael had sailed in the infamous Fastnet Race of 1979
when a freak storm had caused a large number
of yachts to be abandoned
and some
fifteen men had been lost, and he remembered that the casualties
had
been caused by two main factors: premature abandonment of a ship for a life
raft, and failure of safety gear. He also knew that the greatest
danger any yachting crew can face in bad weather is
that of man
overboard. And already occasional waves were overtaking the
yacht; he was now steering with the wind on the starboard quarter to avoid the
dangers inherent in running dead in such conditions, but even so water would
often splatter over the stern, not solid enough to be considered pooping as
yet, but again a portent of what was on the way, with the
consequent danger of being washed out of the
cockpit. Thus he had given
instructions
that no man was to leave the cabin without two safety
harnesses, so that he could be clipped on to two
strong points at the same
time
– he knew the force that could be exerted were the ship to be knocked
down.
He had also commanded that two men were to be on the helm at
all times, one steering, the other ready to take
over should anything
happen. And
still he tried to envisage all possibilities, but as the afternoon
wore on he felt he could relax for a while. He had
done everything he
could. After they had eaten the first of Mark's
stews, he told the watch
below to turn in
and try to sleep, but they all preferred to remain on
deck, watching the
horrendous cloud formations looming up from the south.

At
two o'clock they were hit by their first thunderstorm. Sam disconnected all his
radio equipment in case of a strike; the yacht itself was
perfectly safe, as the mast would act as a
lightning conductor, allowing
the
electrical discharge to run down the steel shrouds and thence into the
chainplates,
from where it would plunge harmlessly over the side. But of course a strike in
the vicinity of the aerials could blow all their electronic gear.

The
first storm passed over quickly enough, but now the wind had freshened, the
anemometer mounted at the masthead, some forty feet
above deck level, showing a steady 35 knots with gusts of up to 60
knots,
which was as high as the gauge would read. Even under shortened
sail
the yacht was racing along, soaring up
the back of each swell and careering
down the other side in a welter of
foam streaking away from the bows.
"Heck,
if this keeps up, we could be in Boston for dinner," Larry quipped.

"She's
going too fast," Michael decided, as the bows nearly buried
themselves in a shorter than usual swell.
"Let's have that mainsail down."

They
handed the mainsail, stuffing the wet canvas on to the boom and
strapping it down with twice the normal number of
sail ties.

"Okay,"
Michael
said. "Mark and I will take over now."

Larry
frowned at him. "Pete and I have only been on two hours."

"Two-hour watches from here on. It's going to be
pretty damned
exhausting. Now all
of you get below and lie down. I don't care if you
sleep
or not. Just get your heads down for a couple of hours."

He
connected both his harnesses, made Mark do the same, settled himself on the
bench seat behind the wheel. With only her storm jib and mizen up the yacht was
travelling much more slowly, but still handling perfectly well off the wind;
the mizen staysail was acting as a secondary, airborne rudder. And while the
wind was now blowing a steady 45 knots with gusts clearly far more than that,
and the seas were building all the
time, it
was a slow process; Michael knew it took several hours for the
sea state
to approximate actual wind conditions. On the other hand he was now definitely
steering more west than north which meant that he
was closing the Gulf Stream. That had to be crossed at some stage, but
he
had no doubt it was going to be hard going; running at an average of
four knots the Stream reacted to wind blowing
across it almost like a tiderace,
and could be the roughest water
anywhere in the world.

He had been on the helm an hour,
and was thoroughly enjoying himself,
steering
the boat up and down the ever-increasing swell, when Mark
looked
astern. "Oh, Christ!" he said.

Michael cast a hasty glance over his shoulder, although
he had already
heard
the roaring from behind him. This was a big wave, all of 28 feet
high, he estimated, and topped by another six feet of
curling crest. "Brace
yourself,"
he snapped, tensing his muscles. "Close the hatch," he shouted.
For
the hatch cover had been left open a few inches to allow some fresh
air into the cabin, as the ventilators had all
been sealed. Now it slammed shut, and Michael concentrated. His job was to keep
the yacht before the
sea; if he let
her yaw away to either side she might broach – turn broadside
to
the waves – and be rolled over and over like a car falling down a steep
slope.

The roaring became louder, and he hunched his shoulders.
He glanced
at Mark, white-faced as he looked astern,
then he was in the middle of a foaming maelstrom of water, and the wheel was
threatening to tear from his hands. The force threw him against the steel
circlet and he gasped at
a sharp pain, even
as he realized that Mark had been hurled forward
from his place beside
him. But the harnesses held, and the boy came to
rest just short of the hastily closed companion hatch, gasping and
spluttering.
The entire yacht was for a moment submerged as the water poured over the decks,
only the masts sticking up out of the flailing sea. Then the bows came up
again, and she surged back to the surface, wallowing for a few seconds. This
was actually the moment of greatest
danger,
as she had completely lost way and could not be steered, and was thus entirely
at the mercy of the sea. But the wave crests were sufficiently
far
apart, and the wind sufficiently strong, for the jib to fill and the ship
to start moving through the water before the next
wave came up to them.

"Holy
smoke!" Mark pulled himself back to the helm. "Have you ever seen one
as big as that before, skipper?"

"Yes," Michael replied, truthfully enough. He
did not add that the
only previous occasion
had been in that Force Ten storm of a few years
before, and that had been at the very height of the gale – not
with possibly
double as much wind still to be expected.

Yet
he was pleased with the way things were going, so far at least. The ship was
handling perfectly, and the gear was standing the strain. Soon
there were other waves as big as the first, but in
time they became almost
commonplace,
as the yacht reacted to every one with perfect balance.
The wind was now
howling like every banshee in the world cutting loose at the same moment and
the needle on the anemometer read out was
pressed
hard on the 60-knot mark. The sea was entirely covered in flying
foam,
and entering the troughs was like diving down to the center of the earth; there
was no way they could have any idea what was happening
within even a hundred yards of them down there. Not that there was
much to be seen from the tops of the crests
either. The rain teemed down
like solid grey walls, and felt as solid,
too, battering on the oilskins and
pounding
the decks. Yet it was totally exhilarating. They were fighting
the
elements, taking them on at their own game, and holding their own.

Just. A mammoth wave hit them and for a dreadful moment,
as the
stern was picked up high above the bow and
Michael fought to maintain control, he thought they were going to pitch pole,
go stern over bow, an
incredible thought
for a 48-foot yacht, but still a possibility in such seas.

"That's it," he bawled. "We have to get all
sail off her. Get up the
watch below."

Mark banged on the hatch cover and the others came out.
They gasped
at the conditions, but immediately
understood what was required. Larry and Pete went forward, crawling, unclipping
one harness and clipping it on again before releasing the next. Then they were
on the foredeck and
clawing down the sail.
Again the yacht was pooped and awash, and
Michael held his breath as he saw them being thrown about the deck like
tin soldiers. Part of the grab rail
snapped and Peter for a moment was
over
the side, but his harness held, and he scrambled back on board, and
eventually
the sail was handed and strapped to the deck. Meanwhile, Mark and Jon took down
the mizen.

"Good
work," Michael said. "Get changed."

"My turn on the helm, skipper," Jon said.
"Sam will keep me
company."

Michael
handed over the wheel and considered the situation. Without
sail at all the dangers of broaching were
increased, although with all
canvas
gone the yacht was riding easier, and the wind was so strong that
she
retained ample steerage way. He had two other possible courses of action, apart
from just abandoning any attempt at command and letting
her lie ahull. Then she might well be rolled over – but he knew
yachts
had survived extreme
conditions by merely behaving like pieces of jetsam.
To retain command
he could either put out a sea anchor or trail warps
astern, both to slow her down to the extent where she would be overtaken
by each wave rather than carried on
with them, and to keep her stern on
to
the seas. Neither appealed, as putting an immense extra strain on both
gear
and crew. He decided to let her stand on for as long as humanly
possible. "Just keep a look out behind
you," he suggested, and thankfully
crawled through the hatch into
the warmth and dryness of the cabin.
Only as
he stripped off his dripping oilskins and the sodden clothes
beneath did he realize how his muscles were burning
with exhaustion –
or how much
his ribs were hurting where they had been crushed against
the wheel. He rolled into his bunk, flopped from
the bulkhead against the
canvas
leeboard in perfect relaxed comfort, listened to the immense
roaring from all about him, and fell asleep. To
awake as the world turned
upside down.