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Authors: Paul E. Hardisty
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with a catch in his voice as he clambered down into the dinghy. âShe needs to get out, do what she was made for.â He untied the line and started back to shore.
Clay stood a moment and watched Punk row for shore. He considered calling out, something about bringing Flame back to him, when this was all done, then thought better of it and turned away.
He jumped below, found the small jib bag and pushed it up through the forward hatch onto the foredeck. In a few minutes he had the foresail hanked on and ready to go, the sheets made good and lined back to the cockpit. He pulled off the main cover, attached the halyard, checked the main winch and made ready the unfamiliar mizzen. The engine started first go, that comforting diesel rattle, not fast, but could go all day. He walked forward, looking back towards Punkâs yard, the chimney of the cottage trailing a wisp of smoke, and let go the mooring buoy.
Soon Flame was motoring seaward, the estuary opening up broad and flat on both sides, the breakwater passing astern now, the breeze fresh in his face, the heads at Penlee looming to starboard, Haybrook bay to the east. The wind was strong but steady, eighteen knots by the anemometer, gusting twenty-five he guessed, the swell coming in strong now, Flame âs bow ploughing through the waves, the big, full keel steady and heavy, all that steel ballast holding her centre straight like a compass, a conviction.
Clear of land now, Lizard Head off distant to the west, the Spanish coast somewhere over the horizon, through the black clouds and the grey sea, five hundred nautical miles distant. If he pushed, with a bit of luck and a following wind, he could be in Santander in four days.
And somewhere out there, another thousand miles away again, across yet more sea, mountains, coastlines and frontiers, Rania.
By noon, Flame was foaming along at ten knots under foresail, reefed mainsail and mizzen in a force four westerly. Clay made west as hard as he could, knowing that, in the northern hemisphere, the wind would back as the storm moved south. He was making good time. The weather had closed in, the clouds close and heavy, visibility still reasonable. Just after one, a small freighter appeared then tracked away off to the north, heading for the coast. He had long since lost sight of land.
Trimmed up, the wheel lashed, Flame heeling nicely, he moved around the cabin, stowing his few things in the priesthole â the money, the guns and ammunition, all sealed in plastic inside a duffel bag â exploring the food stores, laying out the charts, plotting a dead reckoning position he had taken half an hour earlier. He opened a can of baked beans and ate it cold sitting in the cockpit.
He was estimating distance made good, Flame foaming along, close-hauled in a rising wind, stays and sheets strumming like guitar strings, when a pounding chop cut through the symphony. His body tensed, reflexed, knew what it was before his brain had time to compute, and he was back in Ovamboland, the Alouettes roaring in above the treetops, door guns blazing, the whump of the blades detonating in his chest, the white dust spinning all around, blinding, leaves and branches swirling in the storm, the atmosphere jumping with electricity, lead and steel ripping through the air, tearing at its very fabric, shearing the molecules he breathed. The noise was getting louder. At first he thought it was another of his hallucinations, another post-traumatic spell to ride out. He grabbed the gangway-hatch guide plate, steadied himself. The metal strip fixed into the teak decking was vibrating, the frequency matching the pounding beat. It was real.
He clambered into the cockpit and searched the clouds. And then it was there, right above him, fifty metres above the masthead, no more, in a gap in the clouds. A Bell Jet Ranger, hovering tail up, jerking in the scuttling cloud like a hornet in a wildfire.
9
The Difference between Living and Dying
The
Clay stood a moment and watched Punk row for shore. He considered calling out, something about bringing Flame back to him, when this was all done, then thought better of it and turned away.
He jumped below, found the small jib bag and pushed it up through the forward hatch onto the foredeck. In a few minutes he had the foresail hanked on and ready to go, the sheets made good and lined back to the cockpit. He pulled off the main cover, attached the halyard, checked the main winch and made ready the unfamiliar mizzen. The engine started first go, that comforting diesel rattle, not fast, but could go all day. He walked forward, looking back towards Punkâs yard, the chimney of the cottage trailing a wisp of smoke, and let go the mooring buoy.
Soon Flame was motoring seaward, the estuary opening up broad and flat on both sides, the breakwater passing astern now, the breeze fresh in his face, the heads at Penlee looming to starboard, Haybrook bay to the east. The wind was strong but steady, eighteen knots by the anemometer, gusting twenty-five he guessed, the swell coming in strong now, Flame âs bow ploughing through the waves, the big, full keel steady and heavy, all that steel ballast holding her centre straight like a compass, a conviction.
Clear of land now, Lizard Head off distant to the west, the Spanish coast somewhere over the horizon, through the black clouds and the grey sea, five hundred nautical miles distant. If he pushed, with a bit of luck and a following wind, he could be in Santander in four days.
And somewhere out there, another thousand miles away again, across yet more sea, mountains, coastlines and frontiers, Rania.
By noon, Flame was foaming along at ten knots under foresail, reefed mainsail and mizzen in a force four westerly. Clay made west as hard as he could, knowing that, in the northern hemisphere, the wind would back as the storm moved south. He was making good time. The weather had closed in, the clouds close and heavy, visibility still reasonable. Just after one, a small freighter appeared then tracked away off to the north, heading for the coast. He had long since lost sight of land.
Trimmed up, the wheel lashed, Flame heeling nicely, he moved around the cabin, stowing his few things in the priesthole â the money, the guns and ammunition, all sealed in plastic inside a duffel bag â exploring the food stores, laying out the charts, plotting a dead reckoning position he had taken half an hour earlier. He opened a can of baked beans and ate it cold sitting in the cockpit.
He was estimating distance made good, Flame foaming along, close-hauled in a rising wind, stays and sheets strumming like guitar strings, when a pounding chop cut through the symphony. His body tensed, reflexed, knew what it was before his brain had time to compute, and he was back in Ovamboland, the Alouettes roaring in above the treetops, door guns blazing, the whump of the blades detonating in his chest, the white dust spinning all around, blinding, leaves and branches swirling in the storm, the atmosphere jumping with electricity, lead and steel ripping through the air, tearing at its very fabric, shearing the molecules he breathed. The noise was getting louder. At first he thought it was another of his hallucinations, another post-traumatic spell to ride out. He grabbed the gangway-hatch guide plate, steadied himself. The metal strip fixed into the teak decking was vibrating, the frequency matching the pounding beat. It was real.
He clambered into the cockpit and searched the clouds. And then it was there, right above him, fifty metres above the masthead, no more, in a gap in the clouds. A Bell Jet Ranger, hovering tail up, jerking in the scuttling cloud like a hornet in a wildfire.
9
The Difference between Living and Dying
The
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