WE PICKED UP a mooring in Horta Harbor and, immediately, were under a happy siege of wellwishers, most talking rapidly in Portuguese, and all bearing gifts of wine, fruit, brandy and such. Customs hardly bothered, which suited me, because the illegal weapons were still in the bilges, which we kept half-full for the purpose of hiding them.
The commodore of the Club Nautico, a sort of yacht/fishing/swimming organization, made a welcoming speech on deck, and a Commander Foster, of the Royal Western Yacht Club and chairman of the race committee, was aboard, too, with a welcoming bottle of champagne. After an hour or so, the crowd drifted away, and Commander Foster asked if he might have a word with us below.
“I’m afraid I have some rather bad news, which I know will mar your victory, and I’m sorry it can’t wait any longer.”
We all sat down. I wondered what new bad news we could now have.
“An hour or so after the start of the race, Andrew and Roz Fortescue were killed in a car bomb explosion in Plymouth.”
He was quiet for a moment, but none of us broke the silence. Blank disbelief was all he got from us.
“I’ll give you what details I have,” he said, “but I’m afraid there’s not much. The Royal Marine installation at Poole received a car bomb on the day before the start of the race; perhaps you heard about that before leaving.”
“Yes,” Mark said.
“It’s assumed that the same group came to Plymouth and did the job on Andrew’s car. It’s supposed that, because of Poole, the terrorists would meet difficulties with getting onto the base in Plymouth—quite true of course; security was immediately increased after word of Poole—and, since bombing the base was too difficult, they went after a symbol, the commander of the Royal Marine detachment. Andrew’s car was parked overnight at the Cre-myl ferry on the Plymouth side—did he and Roz stay aboard with you that night?”
“Yes,” Mark said.
“My God,” Annie broke in, “Perhaps if we’d gone back to the base with them on Friday night it never would have happened.”
“Perhaps,” the commander replied, “but it’s just as possible that the bomb could have been planted on Friday, and in that case you would have certainly been killed, as well. What’s more, the car park was deserted at the time of the explosion; if you’d come off the ferry and gotten into the car, there would have been other passengers all about, and many more people would certainly have been killed. As it was, most of the shops on the street had their windows blown out, and there were twenty-odd people hurt with flying glass and debris.”
“They were aboard Wave with us until the fifteen-minute gun,” Annie said.
“Yes, and I understand they got a lift back to the ferryport with one of the marine crash boats. They happened to arrive at at time when the ferry was across the river; that was fortunate, I think.”
We were all silent again.
“I’m afraid that’s everything I know,” the commander said. “The funeral was on Tuesday, just a week ago, so there’s nothing much to be done. A detective in the Plymouth police has asked that you telephone him as soon as possible. Since you were the last to spend any time with them, he’d like to ask you some questions.” He handed Mark a piece of paper. “Andrew’s parents’ number is there, too. I thought you might like to ring them.”
“Yes, thank you, Commander,” Mark replied.
“If you’ll excuse me, I should stop off on Three Cheers on my way back to the club. I’m very sorry to have to bring you such bad news, but I thought you should know without delay.”
Mark thanked him, and he left. It was another hour before we could stir ourselves to move about and go ashore.
Annie and I sat at a table in Peter’s Sport Café on the Horta waterfront. Mark was talking on the telephone there and, shortly, joined us.
“Nothing new from what the commander told us,” he said. “Except that the same group that did Poole rang up and took credit.”
Annie’s eyes were red from weeping. “I still can’t believe it,” she said. “Mark, do you think this might have had anything to do with us?”
“No, I discussed that with the detective. I told him we’d had a brush with the bastards, but his attitude was, and I think he’s right, if they’d wanted us they’d have gone after the boat, not Andrew’s car. He thinks there’s no doubt they wanted Andrew because he was C.O. in Plymouth, and Roz was just unlucky enough to be with him. I talked with Andrew’s parents. They’re crushed, of course, but seem to be bearing up.”
We spent the remainder of the day ashore, getting our land legs and shopping for fresh food. We had a subdued dinner and were back on the boat and turned in by ten o’clock.
Mark planned a week in Horta before sailing back. He would sail directly to Cork, now that the legal problems were solved, and leave the boat with Finbar for the winter. He wrote to Finbar and gave him an ETA. Annie and I would stay on in Horta for a holiday, then fly back in time to meet him. Through the commodore of the club, we found a little flat for our stay and were able to hire a car.
There was a lot to do during that week, and we were all grateful to have our minds occupied. We had had alternator problems and spent a lot of time on that and other minor repairs to the yacht and her sails, working our way through Mark’s inevitable lists. As other, slower competitors arrived, the social life picked up markedly. The Azoreans had planned a series of parties and were marvelous hosts. Our spirits improved as the week wore on.
At the end of our week, predictably on schedule, Mark sailed. We took the last load of fresh stores out to the boat, and I deflated and packed away the rubber dinghy. We had breakfast in the cockpit, enjoying the Azorean sunshine. “Well,” Mark said, “I’m off.”
“Nothing else I can do?” I asked.
“Not a thing. You’ve been great, Willie. Once in Cork we’ll get her laid up and her gear stowed, then the job’s over. You’ll come for the start of the transatlantic next June won’t you?”
“Sure I will. Wouldn’t miss it. Listen, are you feeling really in control with the leg, now?”
“Absolutely, old chum. Not to worry.”
“Mark, can I extract a promise from you?” I asked. “Depends. What did you have in mind?”
“Don’t set a spinnaker on the way home. I’ve watched you move around the foredeck, and I don’t think the leg’s ready for that. Oh, you’d get it up and down all right in light weather, but if you got a wrap or something it would be a real problem.”
Mark looked at me, but said nothing.
“Come on, Mark, promise him,” Annie chimed in. “He’s never tried to tell you what to do on the boat; you owe him this much.”
“Save it for next spring,” I said. “The leg will be much stronger by then, and you’ll still have time to practice. This is no race home; just cruise and enjoy yourself.”
“All right,” he said, finally. “No spinnakers on the way home. I’m cruising.” He hesitated. “I promise.”
We stood and shook hands. Mark and Annie embraced perfunctorily. I helped get the main up, then stood by to slip the mooring while Mark started the engine. The club tender took Annie and me off, and we chugged along beside Wave out past the breakwater for a last goodbye.
“And be careful reefing the main,” I shouted across to him as he broke out the headsails and started to sail the boat. “Take your time.”
“Yes, sir!” he shouted back, giving me a large, mock salute.
Then he was gone, Wave reaching across toward Pico, the next island, before rounding the headland and sailing off toward Ireland. Annie and I were left, waving, in the club boat. Finally, the coxswain turned back toward Horta, and we began our holiday.