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The saloon beckoned me, the anonymity of the cocoon, the safety of blankets pulled up tight to the chin. The yacht could run itself, the auto-pilot in charge. My eyes kept swivelling back to that dark hole – that sanctuary.
No, I would see this through. Steve must have made a dozen ocean crossings in the Belle, and she was still afloat. Yachts went cruising every day. But some of them were never seen or heard of again!
Steel doesn’t float when it’s full of water! That thought kept circling round and round in my brain.
I watched the minute hand as it crawled slowly around to the midnight hour. An eternity.
Poor Sonia. I gave her not a minute more than her allotted time in peaceful sleep. She dropped her legs over the edge of the bunk, rubbing her eyes and mumbling to me before disappearing towards the bow. I made coffee, handing her the cup as she passed me on her way to the deck. A minute to give her the heading, and Steve’s instructions; and then to bed.
I lay on the bunk, the donkey engine throbbing in my ears, feeling the motion of the yacht as we slipped along; ready to leap out at the first scream of danger.
I slept a troubled sleep; dreaming of Vicki chasing me with a loaf of bread, stabbing me in the shoulder with a beer can. The stabbing went on and on until I opened my eyes. Steve.
“Come on, Mike. It’s your watch again.”
I’d had my four hours sleep – according to the clock. I was still wrung out, exhausted. I staggered out on deck and urinated over the side, yawning and blinking the sleep from my eyes.
There had been no change in the weather; maybe the clouds had thinned a bit. We were still on the same heading and would be on it for days unless the wind changed direction.
Four o’clock in the morning. I wasn’t as worried as I had been before – I was too tired to care. I sat down, leaned back, and stared up at the stars, wondering thoughts that have intrigued man for thousands of years.
My head hit the side of the cockpit with a thud, jolting me awake. I glanced at my watch: still only five past the hour. I had slept for only a minute, just enough for my head to droop. I stood up, taking the great wheel again, letting the breeze blow through my hair, bringing life into my brain.
My legs grew tired, cramped, but they kept me awake. The minutes crept past and I counted off the first hour; leaving sixty more minutes until rest and the peace of my bunk. I cast my thoughts elsewhere, thinking of the girls I had known, of the ones I had made it with and those I had missed – wondering where I had gone wrong, what line I should have tried; wondering where they all were now, what they were doing. Were they married, with kids and dog and mortgage?
The time started to pass, not dragging so much. I swung round to the stern; the glow of the wake a fascination; the phosphorescence bouncing and sparkling as we sped along.
The tiny red light at the masthead sent out its muted rays. My eyes travelled down the edge of the sails, and past them, far ahead, dreaming. And then I saw it. At first I thought I was mistaken, but no, it was there right enough, a break between sea and sky as the horizon appeared once more, faint, but there.
Slowly the orange of the dawn took over; sending beams into the sky, but with still no sign of the golden orb of the sun. I looked at my watch; too early yet for the dawn. But it was the dawn; the false dawn, the reflected rays of the sun from places far to the east where the new day had already begun.
The sea came out of its blackness; the waves ahead visible once again; the stars already lost; the glow from our wake fading and then gone. We were headed towards the rising sun, towards a new day. My spirits rose and I cast aside thoughts of tidal waves and squalls, of life-rafts and broken masts. I let go of the wheel and sank back into the cockpit, relaxing as the wind carried us along. The sails turned from grey to white; the yacht’s number, scrawled across the broad expanse, legible once more.
The saloon began to lighten; my bunk taking shape, the pillow lying on the floor where it had fallen. Then the saloon came into the day, the sunlight reaching down to Steve’s door. I stood up and moved over to the hatchway, looking down past the dining table, down to the arc-welder – the monster blocking most of the width of the alley-way. And then back to Sonia, the beautiful Sonia, asleep on the starboard midships bunk, seemingly at peace with the world, her blue eyes tight against the morning light.
I thought she would move in with Steve. It seemed as if she had always been with Steve. They had been together on the yacht that first day I had come on board and I had assumed they were an item. Steve hadn’t said anything to suggest it, but then, he hadn’t said anything to make me think otherwise. They were familiar with one another, no kissing, but a few hugs here and there. I thought perhaps they were self-conscious with me on the yacht in Townsville, that they would move back into Steve’s cabin once we got under way – with me standing a watch on deck through part of the night.
I never bothered to question him about it. It was none of my business in any case. I didn’t dare ask. My jealousy might have worsened if he told me something I didn’t want to hear. I was falling in love with Sonia. And that was a lie – I had fallen in love with Sonia the moment I had first set eyes on her!
But she stuck to her bunk and Steve stayed in his cabin; an arrangement which didn’t displease me.
She had given no indication of any feelings towards me and treated me the same as she did Steve. Well, almost the same. There were still a few private jokes they shared, past experiences they didn’t let me into, stories that would lose their impact with translation. She showed affection towards me, but nothing more. Not indifference, not stand-offish, but keeping her distance; out of reach.
Steve had mentioned her parents to me one evening, told me how they had separated when she was three. Her mother, a war bride, had taken her back to Australia and lived with a succession of men. Sonia hadn’t seen her father again until he called her to the States, knowing he didn’t have long to live. She hadn’t mentioned him since the day in Townsville when she had described the coins. Steve thought that perhaps she felt guilty for not having gone to him earlier, maybe blaming herself for the break-up of the marriage – and the strange men who shared her mother’s bed.
It stopped me from making any obvious overtures in her direction, scared of being rebuffed in such a way that might spoil the whole expedition. My feelings for her would have to wait until the salvage was completed and we had the coins safe and sound.
By six o’clock the day was well and truly with us. The sun had come creeping over the distant edge of the sea, bouncing its light from clear white clouds drifting away to cross over distant lands – free spirits.
It was still silent below. Steve would be sleeping the sleep of the dead. He had been up throughout the night, checking the sails, the heading, the wind, the sea.
It had been a long first day, and an even longer night. My thoughts went back to Sonia, looking so peaceful and cosy that I let the clock roll on, giving her extra time for beauty sleep. But fifteen minutes later, fifteen minutes of watching flying-fish leaping out of the water, watching them skimming across the waves before knifing back into the depths, was enough to dampen my enthusiasm. I needed that sleep.
I took one last look around: nothing on the horizon that might cause us trouble; compass on the right heading; the sails full and straining. Dropping down into the saloon, I tiptoed along to her bunk, careful not to trip as the yacht climbed the waves, rolling and pitching. One bare shoulder peeked above the sheet. I leant down and gently stroked it with one cautious finger, drawing circles on the soft skin. Her eyes opened.
“Mmm, what is it?” she murmured, and then: “Oh, it’s you, Mike. What time is it?”
I told her, pointing to my watch.
Her make-up had disappeared, her hair tousled; blown by the wind during the night and stiffened by the salt-laden air. But my heart still gave a lurch.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” I said, trying to tear my eyes away. “A steaming hot cup of coffee will clear the cobwebs.”
“Okay. Thanks, Mike.” She yawned, pale lips, perfect teeth glistening in the sunlight shining through the porthole. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
She rolled back the covers and moved past me, her firm behind; covered in wispy lace briefs; bouncing along the alley-way; shortie nightie swirling tantalizingly.
I hadn’t changed after my first watch; sleeping in my clothes. There hadn’t been any point at the time. I stared after her until the door slammed shut. I heard the shower pump start up, and could picture the water cascading off that magnificent body, hitting her shoulders, running down over ......
The whistle of the kettle brought me back with a jolt. The pump stopped. They were short showers on the Belle, unless you wanted a salt-water one, hot from the engine’s cooling system. My eyes strayed back to my bunk as I poured boiling water into the two cups. It looked inviting, even though a complete shambles: blankets and sheets twisted and bunched at one end. I carried the cups up into the cockpit.
She joined me several minutes later, bright and cheerful; not the way I felt at all, with two day’s growth on my chin and my eyes sticking out like two wrinkled cherries. Not the best time of day to impress the girl you’re in love with.
“What a great day!” she said, the smile happy and genuine. “I hope the weather stays like this.”
So did I. I had discovered I wasn’t a good sailor – feeling queasy once or twice; the second time whilst waiting for the kettle to boil.
“You should’ve seen the dawn this morning!” I said, trying to take my mind off the rolling sea. “The red glow in the sky was fantastic. I wouldn’t have missed it for anything.”
The yawns had got to me as well. I shook my head, trying to clear the fuzziness away.
“You look exhausted, Mike. Why don’t you hit your bunk for a couple of hours? I’ll wake you in time for breakfast.”
“I think you’re right,” I replied, my mouth forcing itself open once more. “I’ll finish this cup and be off.”
We sat together in the cockpit for another ten minutes or so, enjoying the vastness of the ocean; each knowing that conversation wasn’t needed. I drained the cup and stood up.
“See you in the morning,” I said, which was a stupid thing to say at six-thirty, with the sun already above the horizon. My head hit the pillow and I dragged the sheet up over my face, pushing my feet out over the side and kicking off my sneakers. One of them hit the deck with a thud. I heard that first one fall, but not the second.
My brain slowly transmitted the message to my consciousness. Noises, yelling, curses.
“Jesus bloody Christ! Bloody auto-pilot! You mongrel bastard! Useless goddamn son-of-a-bitch!”
I staggered out of my bunk. I could see Steve’s legs up in the cockpit, and I could hear him screaming; his lungs almost at bursting point. At first I thought it was me he was cursing; that perhaps I had done something wrong in the middle of the night. And then the yells started again.
“Shit! I hate these newfangled bloody machines! Mongrel bastard! Why I ever got rid of the old one, I’ll never know!”
I reached down and grabbed my sneakers, slipping them on. The deck started to spin as I lowered my head. I held my breath and straightened up. The air was close in the saloon, the smell of diesel hitting the back of my throat.
I shot up the steps and out into the fresh air, bumping past Steve as he jumped back down into the saloon. I leant over to see what he was up to, glimpsing the back of a panel he had removed, and a mess of wires. A quick look was all I could stomach. I moved back out onto the deck, my face into the breeze.
Sonia was at the wheel, one eye on the compass, the other on the tip of the bowsprit.
“What happened?” I asked her. “Was it me?”
“No, not your fault. It’s the auto-pilot. It’s gone on the blink.”
Steve’s head appeared out of the saloon. He climbed the steps, wiping his hands on a piece of waste cloth.
“What’s the problem?” I asked, standing and scratching the growth on my chin, half considering whether I should grow a full beard.
“The bloody auto-pilot’s locked on full right rudder. Nearly took the yacht round in a tight circle. Just as well Sonia managed to get the bloody thing back to manual steering in time.” He wiped the perspiration off his face with the rag. “Lucky it didn’t happen when you were on watch. I’d forgotten to show you where the switch was.”
“What would’ve happened?” I asked.
“We probably would’ve jibed. The boom would’ve swung over at a hell of a rate as we turned away from the wind. Possibly snapped a couple of stays. Maybe even lost the mast if it happened fast enough. Would’ve been a hell of a mess!”
I gave a shudder.
“Can you fix it, Steve?” Sonia asked, still not taking her eyes far from the compass; spinning the wheel first one way and then the other.
“Yes,” he said. “At least I think I can. But the bastard might foul up again, and we mightn’t be quick enough to catch it the second time.” He gave me a look as if to say it would be no problem with him or Sonia on the wheel, but maybe a catastrophe if it were me. “No,” he continued. “There’s probably a break in one of the wires. Every now and then the ends draw apart and she goes crazy.”
He threw the piece of rag over the stern and sat down in the cockpit, leaning back against the side with his hands linked behind his head.
“Looks as though I’ll have to teach you how to be a helmsman, eh, Mike?” He gave a chuckle which I didn’t like the sound of.
“Not to worry,” I replied, with a nonchalance I didn’t feel. “I’ll try anything once!”
With that, I turned on my heel and went below, heading for the galley and that breakfast Sonia had promised me, and finding the dirty dishes in the sink that nobody had cleaned up after the previous night’s meal. I scraped most of the congealed fat off the frying pan and managed to trim and slide the bacon into the hot oil, but I couldn’t crack the eggs. I couldn’t even focus on the pan as the bile began to climb up the back of my throat.
With a rush, I was up the steps and out onto the back deck, taking great gulps of fresh air, the perspiration pouring down my cheeks, my stomach lurching, throat muscles tightening.
“What’s the matter?” Sonia asked, half-concealing a grin with her hand.
“Nothing,” I replied, turning my face away and swallowing hard, hoping I wasn’t going to make an exhibition of myself.
Steve looked up as I finished, went to speak and then stopped, the grin twisting itself across his face.
“Mike,” he laughed. “You should see the colour you’ve gone. Wow!” He jumped up from the seat and took the wheel from Sonia, saying: “I’ll take over here, Sonny. You go and turn that damn pan off before the yacht catches on fire; and bring Mike another cup of coffee – black with plenty of sugar. Oh, and a pile of those dry biscuits.”
He made a couple of adjustments to the wheel and turned back to me. “Don’t worry, Mike. We all go through it. You’ll be okay in a day or so. The best place is up here in the fresh air.”
He was right. The crisp air filling my lungs and the breeze against my face were already doing wonders.
“And, Mike. If you do feel like throwing your dinner over the side, go ahead, don’t feel ashamed. Just make certain you don’t spew into the wind.”
That did it. There was no way I could hold it down; no way I could continue the brave front. With a rush and a stumble I was draped over the starboard rail, heaving and retching. I hung there for an eternity and then collapsed back into the cockpit.
Sonia was nowhere to be seen. I think she’d had the good grace to stay below during my embarrassment; but appeared in the hatchway a few minutes later, a steaming cup in one hand and several large biscuits balanced on the other.
“Here,” she said. “Get these into you. They’ll help to settle your stomach.”
“Uh-uh. No thanks. Not at the moment. Maybe later.”
“Now,” she insisted. “Not later. Now! Get something back into your stomach or you’ll feel rotten for the rest of the day!”
It wasn’t a pleasant thought. My stomach muscles were already starting to contract. I had tossed everything into the sea.
Steve turned from the wheel. “She’s right, you know. Get it down, but don’t rush the coffee. It looks scalding bloody hot.”
The steam was rising in slow spirals, to be fanned away by the stiff breeze filling the canvas above us. I looked up at the masthead.
Oh, God!
It was no problem looking straight ahead towards the horizon, but as soon as I lowered my eyes or raised them to the sky, the dizziness hit and my stomach turned over.
I took the biscuits and sat down in the cockpit, munching slowly and sipping the hot sweet coffee, and slowly the pain in my middle subsided. I passed Sonia the cup and asked for another. My mouth was still dry, tasting of yesterday’s food.
“You’re right, you know,” I said. “I do feel better. Not one hundred percent, mind you, but better.” I went to stand up and rapidly changed my mind. “But it might be a good idea if I stayed on deck for a while longer; keep you two company – learn a bit more about this sailing business.”