There was so much to do if we were to stand a chance of survival — and somehow, when the shock had worn off, we did it. But this was better, we felt, than all our past fights. We were not threatened with the malignancy of Man or the viciousness of other intelligent beings. It was just Nature with whom we had to deal — Nature in a bad mood, perhaps, but predictable. As a seaman I knew what should be done and what could be done and, after a minute or so, found myself enjoying the impersonal fight.
First of all we baled, hampered by the items of gear that were floating unsecured in the boat, and worked the handle of the semi-rotary pump until our arms ached. With the interior water level reduced I was able to see where things were. I broke out the sea anchor, and the oil bag, and found the gallon can of vegetable oil. I managed to saturate the oakum-filled oil bag without spilling too much of it and then made it fast inside the hooped cone of canvas. A huge sea crashed down on me as I was trying to get it over the bows, smashing me down into the boat, stunning me, so that I let go the line. Dimly, almost without interest, I watched the tail end of it vanishing over the gunwale. And then two slender arms flashed into my field of view and I realised that Sally was sprawled on top of me, could feel the tenseness of her body as she fought to maintain her grip on the anchor line.
Carefully, carefully, fearful that she would lose her hold, I slid and squirmed from under her and then, kneeling unsteadily by her side, pressed against her in the cramped space, I got my own hands on to the wet rope. Together we were able to pull in some slack and then, cursing the stubborn cordage, to work the bight to one side so that it was no longer chafing on the sharp edge of the gunwale but resting in the fairlead. Sally belayed it then to the large cleat designed and fitted for that purpose.
We huddled there in the bows, heavy water breaking over us, the wind snatching the words from our mouths every time that we tried to speak. We huddled there, waiting for the big sea that would completely swamp the boat, or overturn her, or smash her to kindling. And then — but slowly, slowly — the boat came round, sagging to leeward, fetching up with her bows to wind and sea, the line stretching forward in a long catenary. And the waves, frightening as they were, were no longer breaking; we could see the greasy glisten of the film of linseed oil that, although only a few molecules thick, held the breakers in check. And we could see, too, when the rain abruptly ceased, the terrifying mountains of water to which, miraculously it seemed, we lifted, dragged uphill by the weight of the anchor line, sliding sickeningly downhill into each trough.
But we were relatively dry now. Only the occasional small dollop of water slopped inboard and the rain, as I have said, had ceased. We were dry — and, so long as the anchor line held, we were safe. There was a long drift on it, so it had the elasticity to take any shocks, and I had no fears that it would carry away at the drogue end. But I was beginning to worry about the other end, the end in the boat. The more I looked at that cleat the flimsier it seemed and the less I trusted it. But to try to make the line fast elsewhere would be to risk losing it altogether. And I did not like the way that it was starting to chafe, even though it was led through the fairlead. I took off my trunks — they were the only soft, pliable cloth at our disposal — and managed to get them under and around the line as chafing gear. And then I bent the end of the painter to the bight of the anchor line with a double clove hitch and, with Sally’s help, got a little weight on it and backed it to the forward thwart. I was able, then, to make a better job of parcelling the line in way of the fairlead. And if that cleat should carry away, the painter would be an excellent preventer.
I looked around for other things to do. There were the oars and other pieces of gear to lash. There was more water to be pumped out. But that, so far as I could see, was all. I was beginning to feel almost happy.
Working in silence we did what had to be done. (In any case, the shrieking wind, the crashing thunder, inhibited conversation.) Working together, with no need for words, we made all secure. And then (we had not yet broken our fast) we realised that we were hungry and thirsty and, as we sat huddled in the bottom of the boat, I broke out water and provisions. After all that had happened, after all that we had done, it should have been a good, hot meal with something alcoholic to wash it down. But we were grateful for the biscuits and the malted milk tablets and the barley sugar …
We could talk now, sheltered as we were from the wind. It was almost cosy in the bottom of the boat, under the shelter of the sail that I had lashed over the thwarts.
She asked, “What time do you suppose it is?”
I said, “I don’t know. But it’s getting dark …”
“So much has happened since this morning,” she said.
“Too much,” I said. “And Curley Green’s had it. And his pal, Moby Dick … And Noah …”
She said softly, “I’m sorry about Noah …”
“And I,” I agreed. “He did his best — and what better can one say of any intelligent being, man or porpoise?”
We were silent for a while, listening to the wind, the thunder. It seemed to me that the wind was less violent, the thunder less frequent. Wishful thinking, I told myself.
“Do you think we shall make it?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said with a conviction that I almost felt myself. “We’ve provisions, and the mast and sails, and the compass …”
“We’ve been lucky,” she said softly. “More so than the others.”
“And you have your story …” I said.
To my surprise she flared up at me. “Damn the story! This is all so much more important than a seven day wonder in the blasted rag! That partnership that we were discussing — or alliance, or symbiosis, or whatever you like to call it … I didn’t think that I was patriotic — but, can’t you see? this is our chance to make Australia a great power …”
Suddenly I was very tired, very despondent.
“Was our chance …” I said.
“What do you mean?” she asked sharply.
“Noah’s dead. And Moby Dick’s dead. And the others, as Noah told us, want nothing to do with Man. They’ve all the seas to hide away in. They need never show themselves …”
She started to laugh, softly at first and then more loudly. I gripped her arm firmly, started to shake her.
“No, Peter, I’m not hysterical,” she gasped. “And this isn’t really funny — although it is, in its way. Think of it, after all that’s happened, no treaty, no alliance, no story, even … With no proof we shall never be believed …”
“And so,” I murmured, “we have … nothing …”
She was laughing again, softly, and she was very close to me, and the confined space under the canvas was filled with the scent of her, and I was achingly aware of her body, and the nipples of her breasts as she pressed against me were like points of flame.
She turned her head to evade my mouth, but only so that she could say, “But we have each other …”
And the motion of the boat and the crash of the thunder were part of it all, and when it was over we slept soundly.