A Luxury Cruise
The Sigma Miranda was a medium-sized, steam-powered cargo vessel registered in and sailing out of Argentina. Her itinerary, which never varied, was Buenos Aires, then a short hop across the bay to Montevideo, north to Rio de Janeiro, a long haul through the Caribbean into Havana, then across the Gulf of Mexico and into Altamira. Sybilla was embarked on the return sailing which followed the same route in reverse.
People would pay a lot of money to undertake this voyage, she thought, but perhaps not on this vessel.
Sybilla occupied one of the six cabins available for occasional passengers. Only two of the others were occupied, both by single men, probably travelling on business. Facilities were severely limited—there was only one bathroom between them—however, there was a mess hall or lounge where they took their meals, brought to them by their assigned steward, a Mexican with the extremely unlikely name of Jack. Jack was in his mid to late fifties and was pleasant enough, though he spoke little. Sybilla guessed that the food he brought was the same as that provided for the crew, but it was wholesome and there was plenty of it.
The lounge also boasted a number of easy chairs arranged around the bulkhead where they could relax out of the sun and, just outside, a short roped-off section of deck, which the steward informed them was their ‘promenade’ deck. On it were arranged a couple of rickety sunloungers that had seen better days. On very hot days—and there were a lot of those—Sybilla would go to her cabin, lock the door, make sure the blinds were fully closed and, having stripped off, lie naked on her bunk, the overhead fan whirring noisily above her. She wasn’t quite sure what purpose the fan served. It just seemed to move the hot air from one part of the cabin to another. Sybilla would have given anything to go outside and lie on a sunlounger in her underwear but, being the only woman among twenty crew and two strangers, she considered that that would probably not be a good idea.
The first part of the journey was tedious in the extreme, sailing due east across the Gulf of Mexico. After Altamira disappeared behind them, they didn’t see land again until late afternoon on the second day, and then just a hazy line of bluey-green in the distant south. Probably the tip of the Yucatan Peninsula. They anchored in Havana on the morning of the third day.
One of the officers, a handsome young man in his early twenties, who seemed to find any excuse to hover near the passengers’ promenade deck whenever Sybilla was sat out in a lounger, informed them that passengers were permitted ashore. He offered to escort her and show her some of Havana’s sights. Sybilla declined, conscious that she was probably still wanted in connection with her activities with the communists in the late forties, but she hated saying no to the man as she felt he might prove to be a useful contact.
She made up for it after they left Cuba by speaking to him whenever he was nearby. Perhaps emboldened by this, the young man would often stop to chat for a few minutes but was always careful not to stray into the passengers’ deck area. Sybilla was glad of these brief diversions as her fellow passengers, both Brazilian, seemed very wary of each other and hence were quite reticent.
It transpired that the young officer’s name was Hessel van de Berg, from Paramaribo in Suriname, where his family—descendants of Dutch settlers—owned a bauxite mine and processing plant. In consequence, his first language was Dutch, however he spoke excellent Spanish and English and passable Portuguese. He was tall with blond hair, bleached almost white by constant exposure to the sun. In stark contrast, his skin was burned a chestnut brown. Add to that a good physique and Sybilla, despite herself, and more especially because of the age difference, found herself attracted to the young man. He was clearly intelligent and had studied marine engineering in England before gaining a commission as an Engineering Officer with the Sigma line. He confided to Sybilla that he had accepted the commission with Sigma in order to gain experience before applying to one of the big Dutch shipping lines. Hess, as he preferred to be called, made a point of meeting with Sybilla once a day to update her on the progress of the voyage.
After leaving Cuba, they had sailed to the east of the Caribbean islands, staying well out to sea, so that the islands were barely discernible off their starboard beam. Even so, Hess was able to show off his knowledge by naming each of them as they sailed past. On the third day out from Cuba, Jack brought breakfast as usual, then began collapsing the loungers and bringing them into the mess before lashing them to one of the bulkheads.
“Storm approaching, Jack?” asked Sybilla.
“Si, very soon, please all to stay inside, please, yes?” said Jack, smiling broadly and nodding his head vigorously.
They finished their breakfast quickly. It was clear that Jack wanted to collect the dishes and get them safely out of the way, the ship already beginning to roll as the waves increased in size. Her two fellow passengers sought the relative comfort of their individual cabins, while Sybilla sat looking out to sea. Ever since she was a child, she had been fascinated by storms. She would sit at her bedroom window in Grense-Jacobselv, well within the Arctic circle, and watch as the storm progressed. The only time she felt fear was when her father or her ‘uncle’ Gunnar, later husband, were out in their fishing boats.
Now she sat in awe as the sky darkened and the rain hammered against the window, the wind gradually rising until it was shrieking like a banshee. The old ship groaned and creaked as it rolled and pitched, registering
