performance of the Venetian Rig…' he began.
'You don't have to, until we've sorted out why you're on board my boat. Below! That door's not locked. Switch on the left.' 'Okay,' he replied. 'My question will keep till later.'
He did as I said. The cabin had a welcome, familiar deep-sea smell.
My captive looked round. 'The guy who designed this must have been either a pinch-gut or a monk.'
He didn't look like a petty thief to me. I liked his easy laugh, as if he knew in advance that he would be exculpated. Humour ran from his mouth up into his brown eyes.
He held out his hand. 'I'm Paul Brockton. Boy, I thought the America Cup Twelves were pretty stark below, but this!' He indicated the cell-like spartan scantlings. 'I thought you would have taken up a crash-pad ashore rather than sleep here any more.'
I said, although now I wasn't convinced of my accusation, 'Is that why you took the opportunity to sneak aboard my boat?'
He smiled and shook his head. 'I've been waiting for you for about half an hour. If I'd wanted, I could have cased the whole boat and got the hell out again, and you'd never have been the wiser.'
Somehow, I believed him. He faced me with a half smile and a slight lift of his left eyebrow. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Paul Reveres. I noted the ripple of powerful muscle under the close- hugging fabric.
'Listen, Brockton’ I said. ‘I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. I've had people on my neck all day; I'm dead beat. I want some sleep, and I intend to get it. What do you want? Say it quickly.' 'I want your story and that of Albatros9 'You a newspaper-man?'
'No. American yachting journal – the Deep Sea Sailer. I'm looking for an exclusive.'
'You reporters all are. There's nothing new left to be told. Albatros's record is on the board now. That's all there is to it, even for the experts who may read Deep Sea Sailer.’
'There's always something hew if you know the right questions to ask.'
'I don't intend to answer any questions, however clever. Nor do I intend to be interviewed. When I came aboard I intended to make myself a cup of coffee before turning in. You can stay and share it, if you wish.'
'I'll do more than that. I'll make it, if you'll tell me where things are.' He got the gas going and I sat on a locker seat.
'You didn't come from America to write up Albatros› I said. 'What's behind your visit, Brockton?'
He fiddled wtih cups and sugar. 'The big story was, of course, Jetwind. I flew out to cover her arrival in Cape Town. The record attempt has aborted, as you may have heard. So logically Albatros was the next best.' 'I heard about Jetwind – tonight,'
He was very acute and tried to milk the line. 'Why.. tonight?' *I had dinner with Jetwind's owner, Axel Thomsen.'
'I noticed him around during the day. I wondered what he was doing in Knysna. Pity. Jetwind had the makings of a winner.' 'She's faster than those America Cup Twelves you mentioned.' 'Who says?'
'Thomsen. On paper she is, at any rate. Wind-tunnel tests proved it.’
'Is that a fact? I was aboard Courageous and Independence when they worked out off Marblehead back in 76. They were engaged in a trial horse contest one against the other in preparation for the Cup. If you want to see every goddam thing optimized and then re-optimized, take a look inside an America Cup Twelve.'
'None of them could do twenty-two knots in a Force Nine gale – especially in the Southern Ocean. Jetwind can.'
Brockton contemplated me. 'I've sailed with skippers like Ted Turner of Courageous and Lowell North of Enterprise and if ever there are guys who can extract the last hundredth of a knot out of a hull, it's an America Cup skipper. They are refined, highly sophisticated machines, those Twelves.' 'And therefore unsuited to the Southern Ocean.' 'Could be.'
'With a gale on her quarter or beam, Jetwind is probably the fastest sail-powered hull ever to figure on the high seas.'
'By contrast, a Twelve is relatively slow downwind,' he answered. 'You have to tack 'em at critical angles for best performance.' Brockton screwed up his eyes. 'You seem pretty sold on Jetwind, Peter. You wouldn't think you'd just proved that the Venetian Rig is the fastest rig afloat.'
‘Albatros is a yacht, Jetwind is a ship,' I answered. 'That's the difference – Paul,' I added, taking him up on his use of first names. Perhaps I wanted to psych myself into believing in Jetwind because deep down I was not sure of her true capabilities.
Brockton whipped the milk off the stove to prevent it from boiling over.
'If you look in the for'ard locker, there's a bottle of Navy rum,' I said. 'It helps the coffee.'
He found the bottle, unscrewed the cap and sniffed. 'Boy, that sure is nanny-goat sweat.'
We laughed about it. Brockton had an easy man-to-man way.
'Keeps the icebergs down south at a respectable distance,' I remarked.
He brought the steaming mugs and put them in front of us on the swivel table.
'From what I hear, 'down south' are the operative words for Albatros – you kept much further south than is customary.'
'Customary? What is customary any more, Paul? What some old windjammer did, or what modern techniques dictate?'
I noted that I was echoing Thomsen. Perhaps Jetwind made one think like that.
'You sure stuck your neck out in a little craft like this -what was your track?' he asked.
I got up and pulled a metal object from a locker. I handed it to Brockton. 'First, take a look at that. Life harness hook from Albatros's cockpit. See how it's straightened out? A wave did that.'
He weighed the heavy hook in his hand and shook his head. 'And you?'
'When the hook gave up, I went overboard. The next wave scooped me up and deposited me neatly back in the cockpit.' 'Congratulations to your guardian angel.' 'That's what happens – down south,' I replied.
'Sometimes, maybe.' He brought me back to the subject of Albatros's track. 'Show me where this happened.'
As I got out my track chart, I wondered further about Brockton. If this was eliciting information, the extraction process was certainly painless.
He pored over the chart for some minutes before he asked, 'What made you choose such an unusual course? It disregards the Great Circle route between Cape Horn and the Cape.'
'Wind,' I answered. 'I had to have wind, plenty of it, all the time. Plus a current that would add speed to Albatros. I went north about the Falklands on a favourable slant, cut through the Jasons to use the tide-rips…' 'Jeez! The Jasons!'
'That's the second time I've heard that exclamation tonight. Thomsen said the same thing.'
'It takes a sailor to know what it means. And you also disregarded the biggest hazard of all – ice?' 'Ice isn't so hazardous if you keep a sharp look-out.'
'One man can't keep a sharp look-out for twenty-six days on end. You had to sleep sometimes.' 'Sometimes’ I echoed. 'You'd never have made it in winter-time.'
'It's still summer down there. The bergs drift continually in the general direction of Gough. The warmer the seas, the smaller they grow.'
He pointed again at the chart. He was close to me; he was sweating. Even Navy rum doesn't act that quick. I froze when I saw the place he indicated. It was about 600 sea-miles southwest of Gough. 'What took you here?'
He was watching me closely. 'Wind’ I answered curtly. 'I went where the best winds blew.'
'Did you choose this course yourself, or was it Weather Routed?' I resented his probing.
'I sail by what I feel’1 replied offhandedly. 'Not by what some boffin halfway across the world tells me what the weather should be where I am.' 'Are these exact day-to-day fixes marked on the chart?'
'No. They were by guess and by God.' The relaxed air had gone out of our talk. 'At the point you're interested in I hadn't had a proper sight for a week.'
'Ah!' The remark might have meant something. He followed it with a large gulp of rum-laced coffee.
His next query was phrased carefully. 'The area where my magazine considers a story may lie is in your inner reaction to such a long voyage alone. A study in depth, so to say, of the mind of the lone sailor.'
