A Twist of the Knife

  ‘So let’s do it!’

  ‘Sri Lanka it is!’

  Then he pointed at the chart again. ‘If we’re going to sail that route, it’s about three thousand, seven hundred miles. At our average speed of six knots that’s about thirty days sailing across open ocean, and there’s a risk of Somali pirates all the way. We’d have several days out of radio contact with anyone – we would be totally on our own – at the mercy of whatever happened.’

  ‘I feel safe with you. And besides, what interest would pirates have with us? They’re after big commercial ships – like in that film Captain Phillips.’

  ‘Not always. They take Western hostages, too. We’d be sitting ducks.’

  ‘I want to get home, Tony, OK? I’m prepared to take that risk.’

  ‘Right, fine, we’ll have to establish a watch routine all the way – like we had to do during some other crossings on this trip.’

  ‘Yes, no problem.’

  For some reason he seemed particularly keen to get this idea of the watches across to her. ‘It will mean long, lonely vigils on deck,’ he said.

  ‘I’m used to that.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  There were a couple of occasions over the next two days, while they provisioned the boat, when Juliet’s old suspicions about Tony returned. He seemed to need the toilet on the harbour rather a lot, and always took his satellite phone with him. And he had become particularly irritable with her.

  Once, she ribbed him, only partially in jest, saying, ‘You’re going to have a crap, darling. Does your phone help you or something? Do you have a crap app on it?’

  He just gave her a strange look as he jumped ashore and strode up the quay.

  God, she loved him. But there was something, always something, thinking back throughout their time together, that she felt he kept from her. And she hated that. She had never kept anything from him, not from the very first moment they had met. Her biggest wish was that she could trust him just as much as she loved him.

  She stared at the chart over his shoulder and could see it really did look a long way. An awfully long way. They would be leaving Borneo, and then Singapore, hundreds of miles to starboard. There was just a vast, blue, fathomless expanse of Indian Ocean. Of course, they could just berth the boat here and fly home. They’d be back in England in twenty-four hours, instead of three months, minimum. But she thought about the huge send-off they’d had, and all the donations, some per nautical mile covered, that were still clocking up, and she knew they had to arrive home, just as they had departed, by boat.

  Three days later they set off. Tony, with his tanned face and beard flecked with white, was at the helm, motoring them out of the harbour while Juliet stowed the fenders into the hatches. It was a calm day, with a gentle force three breeze. Once they were clear of the moles, Juliet, still spritely, energetic and agile, unfurled the roller jib. When it was set, with the breeze on their port beam, she pressed the button to raise the mainsail.

  Then Tony cut the engine and they sailed, with smiles on their faces, in the blissful, sudden silence. Just the crunch sound of their prow through the water, the clatter of the rigging, and the occasional caw from the handful of seagulls that accompanied them, hopeful of a snack of any scraps that they might jettison overboard.

  After their long stay in port, Juliet moved around the deck, tidying away or coiling loose ropes, and checking for any loose tools Tony had left lying around. Then when her chores were finished, she went aft, leaned on the stern rail and watched the coastline of mainland Australia slowly, but steadily, fading into the heat haze.

  Suddenly she felt a prick of apprehension. As if she had a presentiment, which she could not define, of the horror that lay ahead. They faced a long, long, voyage ahead of them. It would be one of the longest times they had spent at sea, unbroken by any landfall. In many ways she had been looking forward to it. On a long sea voyage, routine took over your lives, and she liked that routine. Taking turns on deck at the helm, on watch for other craft, especially at night in bad weather, when you were in the shipping lanes and there was the constant danger that a container ship or supertanker with a lazy crew on the bridge might not spot you, and could run you down without ever even noticing the impact.

  Then preparing meals. Sleeping. And plenty of time for her passion: reading. They had a good supply of books, and she had her Kindle loaded with all the books she hadn’t yet got around to reading, including War and Peace and the complete works of Charles Dickens.

  The first two weeks passed without incident, and they had a steady, benign wind on the beam, giving them slightly faster progress than they had expected. If this continued, they could be home several days ahead of schedule. She was looking forward to seeing her family more and more with every passing day – and becoming increasingly excited. About two weeks to landfall in Sri Lanka, then up towards Europe.

  The first inkling of what was to come happened while she was asleep in the stateroom with two hours to go until her turn on watch, when suddenly the yacht pitched violently, almost throwing her out of bed. She could hear the rigging clattering more than usual, and the yacht pitched again. It felt like the sea was getting up.

  She slid out of bed, made her way across the saloon and climbed the steps up to the cockpit into the pitch darkness of the night, with Tony’s face looking grim and paler than normal in the glow from the instrument binnacle. For the first time since they had set sail on this leg of the voyage, she could see no stars above them. ‘Everything OK, darling?’

  ‘Wind’s getting up,’ he said.

  The forecast earlier had said a mild depression was heading their way, but Tony had not been worried. Now he looked a tad concerned. ‘Take the helm, will you, I want to go below and get a forecast update.’

  She could feel a strong, warm wind on her face, and the boat’s motion was now so violent she had to hold onto a grab rail as she stumbled over to the wheel. The bitumen-black sea was flecked with phosphorescence from white horses. ‘Are you OK, darling?’

  ‘I’m OK – well – I don’t feel that great, to be honest.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I sort of feel a bit clammy. But I’m OK.’

  ‘Clammy?’

  ‘That curry we had – I think I may have eaten a duff prawn.’

  ‘You poor darling. Go below and I’ll take over for a while.’

  ‘I want to get an update on the forecast. But I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You don’t sound fine,’ she said, alarmed now. ‘You sound short of breath.’

  ‘I’m OK, really. All shipshape and Bristol fashion! We may have to reef in a bit if the wind gets up any more.’ He told her the course to stay on, advised her to clip on to the safety wire, gave her a peck on the cheek and disappeared down the companionway steps.

  The wind was very definitely strengthening. The boat was heeling over, and pitching and rolling increasingly violently. They had far too much sail up. Reducing the mainsail was a matter of pressing a button and the reefing mechanism would wind it in. If necessary they could lower the main completely, as they had done on several occasions previously, and just sail on under a reduced jib – they could do that from the safety of the cockpit by winding in one of the sheets. In configuring the boat for this voyage, Tony had sensibly ensured that anything they needed to do at night to reduce the amount of sail could be done without leaving the cockpit.

  Above her head, the rigging was clacking and pinging alarmingly. Suddenly, in a violent gust, the boat almost went flat on its side. She only just averted disaster by violently swinging the wheel, bringing the prow around into the wind. Below, she heard Tony bellow in anger – or shock or pain; she couldn’t tell which. Immediately she obeyed his earlier instruction and clipped herself on.

  Moments later he reappeared, his face looking like thunder through the hatch, and blood pouring from a gash in his forehead. ‘What the hell are you bloody doing, woman?’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling, we’ve
got too much sail up. Let me put some antiseptic on your head and a bandage.’

  ‘Bugger that,’ he said. ‘Get that ruddy main down, fast! We’re heading straight into the eye of a force ten!’

  ‘That’s not what the forecast said earlier!’

  She didn’t like the panic in his voice. Tony never panicked, ever. But he was looking extremely worried now.

  ‘OK!’ She leaned over and pressed the button to begin the hydraulic roller reefing. The boom would rotate, furling the mainsail around it. With a force ten imminent, they needed to lower the main completely and take in the jib. The strength of the wind would power them forward just on their bare rigging. And they could do what they had done on two previous occasions, which was to go below, batten the hatches and ride it out. Fortunately they were well past all the major shipping lanes, and they could drift for days, if necessary, without any danger of striking land or rock. They had plenty of what sailors called sea room.

  There was an alarming clanking sound from the boom, a loud whirr and nothing happened. The boat keeled over, and again, only her fast reactions on the helm prevented them from being knocked flat by the wind. Then it began pelting with rain, hard needles on her face.

  ‘Get that sodding main down!’ he yelled, clinging onto the companionway rail, unable to move with the angle of the boat.

  ‘It’s not working!’ she shouted back.

  ‘Turn into the wind!’

  ‘I am, I’m trying to hold us there!’

  Tony ducked down, out of sight, then reappeared holding a large rubber torch. He shone the beam up the mast, to the top. And they could both immediately see the problem. The very top of the mainsail had torn free, and was tangled in the rigging; the Australian courtesy flag, which they had run up weeks earlier and forgotten to take down after leaving the country, was fluttering hard.

  Also clipping himself onto the jackstay safety wire, Tony stumbled across the wildly pitching deck and stabbed at the buttons on the reefing controls. The sail jerked up a few inches, then down. Then up again. They both smelled the acrid fumes of a burning electrical motor.

  ‘Struth!’ he said. ‘Struth!’

  He stabbed at the control buttons, but now nothing happened at all.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Juliet asked

  ‘Sodding motor – it’s either burnt out or fused.’

  ‘Put another fuse in!’

  ‘It’s not going to help, you bloody stupid woman! It’s all a bloody mess of knitting up there! I’ll have to go up in the bosun’s chair and sort it! You’ll have to winch me.’

  ‘You can’t, darling, it’s too rough, I can’t let go of the helm!’

  They’d had the self-steering replaced last year in Perth harbour with a completely new system, but this, too, had failed in today’s storm.

  ‘We don’t have a choice. We’re going to go over unless we get that damned main down – keep her into the wind while I pull in the jib.’

  A few minutes later, puffing and wheezing, and looking exhausted from the effort, Tony managed to get the jib completely furled. But with the wind rising, by the second it seemed to Juliet, it was making minimal difference, and she was fighting, with all her strength, to stop the boat being knocked flat. Rain continued pelting, and the troughs into which the prow was plunging were deepening. Each time it felt more and more like they were shooting down a big dipper. Spray roared over them, stinging her face.

  ‘I’ve got to go up!’ Tony shouted.

  He pulled on gloves, climbed up over the cockpit onto the deck, holding on to the grab rails for dear life, and wormed his way forwards towards the mast on his stomach. He reached the webbing harness, which was like a trapeze attached to a pulley system, and managed, with difficulty, to haul himself into it and secure himself with two straps, forming a seat, and one rising up between his legs. Then he clipped everything securely in place and shouted out, ‘OK, darling! I’m going up!’

  He released the safety wire attaching him to the boat, then slowly, inch by inch, hauled himself up the nylon rope by the handle. As Juliet did her best to hold the boat head-on into the wind, the mainsail thrashed at him with enormous force – so hard in one gust he thought it had broken his arm. The boat was pitching and rolling ever more crazily, and there were several moments on the way up when he was convinced he was going to get a ducking.

  The boat could ride this out, he was confident of that. Even if they did get knocked over, provided the hatches were all shut, it would right itself. What he was most scared about was losing this mainsail. They didn’t have enough fuel to motor the 15,000 miles they still had to go to Sri Lanka. And if they had to rely on the jib alone, it would add weeks to their sailing time.

  He hauled himself ever higher into the night sky, getting increasingly breathless. Almost at the top now! He was going to sort out this bastard! Then suddenly he felt a stabbing pain shoot up his right arm and his head swam. The darkness turned into a fairground ride. And suddenly it seemed as if a steel tourniquet was being tightened around his chest.

  ‘Darling! Darling? How are you doing?’ Juliet yelled. ‘Are you OK?’

  He shone his torch at the tangle of wire and rope. As he did so the boat keeled over violently and the wind ripped at his face and hair. Below him, he heard Juliet scream. The bosun’s chair was swinging wildly, and suddenly, despite his efforts, it stopped. Tangled up in the mess, too.

  ‘Bugger!’ he shouted out in frustration.

  ‘What is it, Tony?’

  There were times when you had to make fast decisions at sea. This was one of them. The companionway hatch, which he had climbed up through, was open. If they did get knocked flat, the sea would pour in and down into the saloon. If that happened, they were doomed. Juliet and he would stand no sodding chance of survival 15,000 miles out into the Indian Ocean in the little inflatable life raft with its emergency provisions of a small quantity of water and a couple of bars of chocolate. It was designed to keep them alive for a few hours, or a couple of days at the outside, before they were rescued. There was only one option.

  He began to cut the mainsail, stabbing it, ripping it, then moving his knife as far as he could reach. Within seconds, the wind made the tear wider. Then wider still.

  ‘Tony!’ Juliet called. ‘What’s happening?’

  He tried to shout back, but he couldn’t find the energy. Instead he spoke softly into the brutal wind. ‘It’s OK, we’re safe!’

  ‘Tony?’

  The band was tightening around his chest.

  ‘Tony?’

  He saw faces appearing out of the darkness. The faces of beautiful women. All of them were calling out, ‘Tony! Tony! Tony!’

  Somewhere in the distance he heard Juliet’s voice, anxiously calling, ‘Tony? Tony! TONY!’

  The yacht was easier to steer now, with the torn mainsail flapping around like laundry on a line above her. But the wind was so intense that whenever she tried to let go of the wheel, the yacht keeled over so sharply she was scared it would go flat, even on its bare rigging. She fought the wheel, trying as desperately hard as she could to keep the prow head-on into the strengthening and constantly veering wind, which seemed as if it was playing a weird game of catch-me-if-you-can, and constantly having to close her eyes against the stinging spray and rain. Again and again, she called out, ‘Tony! Tony! Tony!’

  Finally, without the storm letting up, dawn began breaking, slowly, after the longest night of her life. She kept on shouting her husband’s name. As the sky steadily lightened, she could see Tony’s silhouette at the top of the mast appear intermittently, as a strip of torn mainsail alternately wrapped itself partially around him, then flapped away. Steadily he became more detailed. He sat up there, silent, strapped into the bosun’s chair, his head slumped forward, swinging to port and then starboard with each roll of the boat.

  Her voice was hoarse from shouting. The rain and spray had long since stopped and now her eyes were raw from crying. This wasn’t happening, please God,
this was not happening.

  ‘Tony!’ she called again. ‘Wake up, Tony, please wake up!’

  He rolled around like a rag doll in his yellow T-shirt, blue denim shorts and plimsolls, the gloves making him look like some kind of mechanic.

  ‘Tony!’ she called again and again, with increasing desperation. The storm was beginning to ease. The swell was still very heavy, though, with the boat riding waves and almost pitchpoling. Over the course of the next two hours, the wind dropped steadily, and as it did, the sea slowly calmed down.

  Finally, she felt able to leave the helm. She locked the wheel, clambered up onto the deck, still clipped to her safety wire, and stumbled on all fours to the mast. She stared up at her husband and called out again, repeatedly, her throat raw and her voice croaking, ‘Tony, Tony, TONY!’

  She tried to climb the mast, but each time, swaying wildly, she only got a few feet above the deck before sliding down and burning her hands, painfully, on the raw wires. ‘Tony! Tony! Tony!’

  There was no response. And now in full daylight, as the torn strip of sail flapped away from him again, she could see why not. His eyes were wide open, but he wasn’t blinking. They just stared, sightlessly.

  Sobbing, she pulled at the wires, trying to free the bosun’s chair high above her from the tangle, but all that happened was the burns on her hands became worse. Finally, she gave up, crawled back to the cockpit and went below.

  She switched on the radio and tuned it to Channel 16, the international maritime channel. But all she got was a buzz of static. She tried other channels, but the same buzz greeted her. All the same she returned to Channel 16 and sent out a Mayday distress signal. The satnav wasn’t working, and she could only figure out their approximate position from Tony’s last plot of the chart on the chart table. She gave their approximate position and asked for urgent medical help.

  The only response she got was more of the same static buzz.

  She went back on deck and looked up with a shudder, past her husband’s swinging body by the spreaders, close to the very top of the mast, where the radio aerial, transponder and satellite navigation receptors were – and where the yard arm would have been on an older boat. And she saw, to her dismay, that they had gone. Presumably torn away by the tangle of rigging in last night’s storm.