The Triangle and The Mountain: A Bermuda Triangle Adventure (23 page)

“And you let them take everything?”

“It’s the law. They have a right to do it. They brought a
bunch of clerks and packed it all in boxes, all your records and then asked me
if there was anything else. I said no and they reminded me that I will go to
jail if I lied. I still figured they would find all of it too much to handle,
but here we are. They want to ask
you
about the VAT.”

“Which we withheld and for good reason!” Braam could feel
his blood pressure building. “Those bloody roads. The damage to my tyres. I had
to get the money back somehow!”

“I don’t think you should give them that argument.”

“So what do I say?”

“I don’t know what they will show you, but you simply say
that you have always left it all to me.”

“Simple.”

“Simple.”

“Have you spoken to my daughters?”

“SARS will have meetings with them before they see you. The
three of us have been strategizing every day.”

Braam stayed over at his daughters’ luxury townhouse without
getting any wiser. The next day he flew back and was in bad humour for a week.
At the end of that week he had his first meeting with the tax authorities.

They confronted him with thick sheaves of documents. He must
have said ‘I don’t know’ and ‘I don’t remember’ hundreds of times. He walked
away not knowing how he had fared. The Kimberley meetings were apparently a
battle and blood flowed on both sides. The SARS people were not always nice and
his daughters retaliated in ways that they did not inherit from their mother.

More meetings followed. Braam had confidence in his people
and stuck to his ground. They owed SARS nothing. SARS disagreed and Braam
received a letter from them informing him that he owed a hundred and sixty five
million rand in back taxes, fines and interest. He had better pay up or face
the consequences - which was going to be a hefty jail term. He could look
forward to fifteen years, the letter stated.

Braam’s sensed that his world was threatening to come down
crashing about his ears. But he was a fighter. He instructed Jimmy to find him
the best tax lawyers in Cape Town and took the case to them.

The lawyers informed SARS that they had a battle on their
hands and requested copies of all documents. Before they had gone through half
of them they informed Braam that his case rested on shaky legs. He did not take
the news well. New pains in his chest made him believe that he was a candidate
for that cardiac unit in the clinic. He had it checked out but it transpired
that he was not going to die. There was no easy out.

Braam Malan had spent his whole working life in blustery
self-sufficiency. Now, for the first time, he did not shake his fist at the
heavens, but bowed his stocky frame, rested his head in his hands and prayed.
Because he did not have a hundred and sixty five million rand. He did not have
a tenth of that. He would have to give the state all he had and still go to
jail for the balance.

In his advanced age, without the means to generate more
funds, he was in serious trouble. With his new attitude he became a serious
churchgoer for the first time. Where was his help going to come from? He prayed
but there was the doubt. What he had done, was wrong. Why would God help him?
He searched the depths of his soul, focussed on things spiritual, pleaded with
God, but still the doubt was there.

Then, during the most desperate moments of his search he
began to sense something. Auntie Juliana. She was spiritual.  But - with the
keenness of intuition that he had developed over many years in dealing with
people, cutting through layers of pretence and sentiment to find the core, he
knew that her spirituality was not from the light. It was from the dark side. Did
it matter? No. He needed help and he did not care where it came from. She had
something. He could sense its power and he wanted it.

***

Grant closed his mind to the wind that shrieked and screamed
in the rigging, sending a vibration through the entire boat. He no longer saw
the solid mass of water that hit the yacht from the heavens, interspersed with
paint-removing blasts of hail that mercilessly pummelled the coach roof and
pinged loudly whenever it hit a metal part. He no longer noticed the occasional
flash of lightning. He paid no attention to position or course. Not once did he
glance down at the compass. All his focus was on the wave, its energy, its
power and on his efforts to harness that power, to use it and at the same time
to prevent it from becoming a fatally destructive force. He felt it come, lift
the stern and sensed the boat speeding up. At the right moment he angled the
rudder and the ride was on. He moved to the side of the wheel, keeping a close
eye on the wave and their forward progress at the same time.  

Wave after wave overtook them from the rear and he rode them
all. He was aware of his heart pounding in his chest while he tried to get as
much feedback as possible from the small doghouse wheel, until at last the wave
passed in the usual welter of boiling foam. Although he only had one cup of
coffee since daybreak he was not hungry. Apart from checking the clock to time
the rides, he paid no heed to time at all. It was with a surprise therefore,
that he noticed Madeleine back in the cockpit.

“Your four hours are up,” she said loudly in his ear. “I’ve
made you some soup.”

“I’m not hungry,” he said. “In fact, I think I can go on a
little more.”

“I don’t think you should. You are running on adrenaline. At
some point you are going to have a low, perhaps exactly at a point when we can
least afford it.”

“Are you telling me now what to do?”

“Only the facts,” she said. “I know about the adrenaline. I
was so pumped up after my session of this morning that I could not sleep.”

“I love the adrenaline,” he said, taking the soup anyway and
allowing Madeleine to the wheel.

 “Not bad,” he said.

“I thought so.”

Grant thought it prudent to stay. He wanted to see if
Madeleine still had the touch that she had displayed that morning. She took on
the next wave with a cool confidence. He wondered how much of her lack of fear
had to do with ignorance. He remembered two days ago how she was completely
unperturbed by the rough conditions that actually threatened the yacht.

“I’ve broken your record,” he said.

“My fifty five seconds?”

“Exactly.”

“How long?”

“Fifty seven.”

“It’s not that much more. How many times?”

“Just once.”

“You had four hours to try. Have you enjoyed it?”

“I have. I’m really stoked by this kind of stuff. You said
that you surf on Bermuda. Tell me more.”

“I’m out there every week,” she said. “I have a few friends
that I always surf with. And we look out for the storms that bring the big
ones.”

“I go for the big waves too. My mates and I don’t surf a lot
in summer, but when winter comes, we hit the forty footers near Cape Town. The
storms hit from June to about September. That’s when we go.”

“Forty feet! That’s impressive. What other extreme sports do
you do?”

“Apart from rock climbing and paragliding, nothing much.”

 “You can go and rest now. I won’t roll the boat.”

“The bilge pumps are working overtime again. Have you
noticed anything, before I go and check?”

“There is a bit of water coming from the roof, I think from
around some of the skylights.”

“Not
through
the skylights?”

“No, they seem to be all intact, but there is some water
coming through the seams.”

“That’s disappointing. We have extra heavy-duty skylights on
this boat but somehow the guys missed the small stuff, like making sure the
seals don’t leak.  Remind me before we come out here again to replace the
seals.”

“I will.”

Grant took himself down the slanting companionway, albeit
reluctantly. There was indeed water coming through the roof. The noise made by
the pounding rain reverberated deafeningly inside the yacht. No wonder
Madeleine could not sleep. He found the leaks. They were from the skylights
indeed. He pushed and prodded but let it go when he realised that it was no use.
For this kind of weather you needed to add something extra, maybe a layer of
grease. Or perhaps another kind of seal. He’d have to enquire. Contrary to
logic, down here below he felt the pitch and roll of the yacht much more than
on deck. He wanted to talk to the weather router again but decided against it
when his fingers moved one way and the dials in the opposite direction. There
would be another time when there was less danger of him hitting his teeth
against the navigation table.

A wave of nausea hit him. Seasickness! Not now. Not now. 
His next move was toward the medicine cabinet. He hurriedly grabbed some
Dramamine tablets and poured water for himself in the galley to swallow them
down with.  An old sea hound like him coming down with seasickness! He
sincerely hoped that it was only a passing attack. He urgently needed to focus
on something else. He got himself back to the navigation table.

The Garmin screen showed their position and how they got
there. They were approaching sixty nine degrees west, having sailed extremely
fast, a hundred and eighty kilometres in half a day, which was a record for
this yacht. It put them deep inside the Bermuda Triangle of course. He wondered
how Madeleine was dealing with that fact. To all appearances, she was enjoying
herself out there. It was a state of affairs that he would have liked to
maintain. He decided to avoid any mention of silly stuff like the Triangle.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Braam and his wife Katarina became regular visitors on the
farm. They bought milk and had a chat. Uncle Henry confirmed that he was up
every morning at four to tend to the cows, even at his age. They stayed long,
longer than the other visitors who came for milk. As a reward they were made to
sample Auntie Juliana’s baking on occasion, which was actually not that bad. Of
course, Braam made a point of saying so.

He talked more farming with Uncle Henry. The vineyards were
old and needed replacement in some parts but the wine made from it was good.
Uncle Henry did not make his own but took it to the local cooperative wine
cellar, which had a good name, he added. Had Braam ever been there? They had a
very modern visitor’s centre where one could sample all the wines that they
bottled. Braam promised to visit. He was sure his children would appreciate a
gift of the local wine for Christmas.

Once they were more comfortable with the two wonder
geriatrics Braam made his move. Uncle Henry was required to attend to something
away from the house and he had Auntie Juliana for himself.

“Can I tell you something, Auntie?” he asked.

“Anytime,” she said.

“Well, it is personal. It is a problem, so to speak.”

“Is it something that is bothering you? Tell me everything.”
Auntie Juliana’s pale blue eyes expressed an angelic warmth that would have
fooled Braam if he was not so astute with people.

“It is like this. I have a massive problem with SARS.” He
continued to tell her the entire story, with Auntie Juliana smiling and
uttering words of encouragement all the time. She wanted to know every detail. She
seemed very concerned about the fact that they were going to lose the house,
the car, the golf membership and the boat. It was terrible. They had become
part of the community. Where would they go? It should not happen. With this he
heartily agreed. At last he was finished and not surprisingly, felt better for
it.

“What we should do,” said Auntie Juliana, “is pray for you.
Why don’t you come to our weekly prayer meetings in the barn on Wednesday
evenings? Since Uncle Henry goes to bed so early, we start at seven.”

“We definitely will,” said Braam. Was this all there was to
it? He was sure she had something else up her sleeve, but they would have to
wait and see. The couple from Kimberley became even more regular in their
visits, seemingly revelling in the simplicity and rusticity of it all but keeping
their eyes and ears open for the ‘secret’.

Meanwhile Braam’s lawyers produced every trick in the book
to frustrate the process. They obfuscated what was simple, swore to the
innocence of obviously devious schemes, charmed officials who were charmless
and who had seen and heard it all before and worried Braam and themselves sick
when they reported back. They were worrying for different reasons – Braam about
jail and the lawyers about whether there would be anything left at all to pay
them for their efforts.

The important thing was that they kept up a show of
defiance. Braam spoke to no SARS official without legal representation and
Jimmy and his daughters held things tight on their side as well. Not that the
daughters were comfortable either. A local doctor had made some discreet
advances before to Laetitia, the younger one. Not with a view to acquire her.
He was interested in her Porsche. Under the new set of circumstances she was
moved to let him know that she would consider an offer, although she previously
declined. She did not tell him why she had changed her mind, but was taken
aback by his answer.

“I don’t think so,” he said, and continued rather plainly.
“I am aware of the SARS process against you. I certainly don’t want them to
confiscate my car in a month or two.”

So the town knew. The sisters contemplated the next move.
The best would probably be to disappear into the anonymous masses of
Johannesburg. What would it be? West Rand, East or South? Where would
impoverished women with a father in jail fit in? What could women of their age
do? Find sixty year old husbands? At least one of them was secretly going
through the romance websites.

In the shadow of the Kamberg Mountain Braam and his wife of
forty five years began to attend the prayer meetings in the shed on the farm. It
took a while before Braam realised that these were prayers with a particular
slant. Yes, he unpacked his story again before the attendees, albeit not in the
same detail as demanded by Auntie Juliana in the one-on-one session he had with
her. The prayers on his behalf were fervent. Nobody came with a judgmental
attitude. It made them feel slightly better. They came in a spirit of humility
and left in the same way but with Braam still searching for that power that he
knew was there.

Gradually he came to the conclusion that they were in fact
in the right place. The prayers were not judgmental as far as
they
were
concerned. They were accepted into the inner circle. But the discussions were
breathtaking in their condemnation of others who were on the outside. Before
actual prayers they discussed the sins of those who were wayward and those
present easily agreed to things that Braam knew was pure slander. Auntie
Juliana led them in blackening the sheep whose slaughter was patently deserved
and nobody demurred. There was a pattern here, a process that escaped almost
everybody but the wily transporter. Once he understood, he became an
enthusiastic supporter of everything that came up in the meetings, denouncing
people he had never met in his life, following the lead of his Auntie Juliana,
wherever it went. That horrible things happened to those people was accepted by
all to be the result of a sinful lifestyle or dismissed by some prayer
participants as pure coincidence. Braam, however, took careful note. Something
was at work here. Something real.

Their followership paid handsome dividends. Or something
did. One night, not long before Auntie Juliana’s hundred and fifth birthday,
Braam announced to all who were assembled that his case had taken a new turn. It
appeared likely that out of a hundred and sixty five million rand initially
owed he now only had to pay a mere six million. This was something he could
handle. He was going to keep the house, the car, the boat and the golf
membership – on top of his freedom. It was truly miraculous. Everybody rejoiced
for him.

One day in early November a great number of friends attended
a splendid birthday party for the centenarian plus five. It was a little
overshadowed by the fact that Uncle Henry had had his hundred and tenth
birthday a month and a bit before her. The laconic farmer made it to national
television, of course, but so did Auntie Juliana. Speculation about the reason
for the super longevity was rife and colourful. Braam listened to it all. He had
his opinion by now and dared not share it.

A day after the birthday celebration the usual gathering
took place in the shed. At this event the usual bunch of sinners were brought
to the attention of the assembly. There was an addition. His name, Braam heard,
was Grant Anderson, practically adopted son of Uncle Henry and Auntie Juliana.
The young man was more or less heir of the kingdom, deemed a better option to
those unworthy ones in the family line with whom those present were already
acquainted. But he proved to be no better! How their hopes were shattered! Not
only did he choose to go on a pleasure cruise, knowing well enough that
important birthdays were coming up, but, what added salt to the wound was that
so far there was no sign that he remembered Auntie’s birthday! Braam
enthusiastically endorsed the chorus of those who roundly condemned the
wayward, thoroughly ungrateful rogue. He judged the situation correctly and
secretly felt sorry for the poor bugger. He seemed young to die.

***

Grant carefully took off his dripping oilskins, boots and
harness and settled on a settee in the saloon from where he could see part of
Madeleine as she moved around behind the small wheel in the doghouse. She
appeared utterly absorbed in what she was doing, showing no signs of trouble
while he hoped that the padding of the couch would dampen the effects of their
rough ride and spare him more discomfort. The Sony All-Band receiver was alive
with queries from yachts wanting to know the latest movements of the hurricane
while they anxiously tried to get out of the way. Many of them already reported
from anchorages around the Caribbean. He would not mind trading places with any
of these in the latter category. It was so much more preferable to be
frantically setting out ground tackle and laying on lines to every tree in the surroundings
than to be jolted along at a risk to your dentistry.

With no regard to the comfort levels, his amazing and
un-seamanlike capacity to knock off when things were not at all smooth
manifested once more. When he woke up it was to a situation that proved to be
the turning point of their journey so far.

The first thing he realised was that his nose was hurting.
He could feel the blood flowing and his first reaction was to take his right
hand to his face. But he could not. That hand, as well as the other one was
pinned against the hull. Although disoriented, he immediately realised that they
had broached to and that the yacht was on its side. Madeleine was screaming,
sounding more angry than scared. She had lost it after all. With regret he
realised that he had put too much faith in her abilities. She just did not have
the experience. On the other hand, it could have been him. He was not that
experienced a yachtsman either. He looked out of the porthole not far from his
face. It was all green water on the other side of the acrylic. Bubbles passed
over the window and then it was quiet. The howling in the rigging that had
become their steady accompaniment so far was gone. From inside however, there
followed the sound of glass breaking, cutlery and coffee mugs flying and
hitting the hull around him and in fact on him. Some missiles were heavier.
Those were unopened tins and he quickly folded his right arm over his head to
protect himself from serious damage.

He could feel the boat move. It was as if they were a piece
of roadside rubbish being swept along by the blade of a giant snowplough. This
was a knockdown of epic proportions. He crawled to companionway, now lying at a
crazy angle, facing downwards instead of up and had a look. The doghouse had a
foot of water in it. In it sat his crew. She seemed fascinated by the green
world outside the windows. With morbid fascination he watched as the doghouse
moved until it pointed straight down before angling up again. They were making
a three sixty!  It was going to be another good tale for sure! The boat righted
itself and dumped him unceremoniously at the foot of the stairs. Immediately
the screams in the rigging penetrated with a note of fresh hysteria, as if the
elements were angry that they did not stay down. Grant scrambled to his feet
and raced up the companionway.

“I’ve got it,” he said and grabbed the wheel.

Madeleine watched him passively, not getting up from where
she had been deposited on the floor.

“It’s useless,” she said. “Something broke in the steering.”

To see for himself, he swung the wheel from side to side.
The hydraulics operated but there was no effect. He looked outside and realised
that his boat was headed into the weather. That was fortunate, but how long would
it last? He had a long look into the saloon. Water was sloshing about on the
floor, carrying plastic boxes, clothes and vacuum-packed bags of food that he
could remember stowing not so long ago, even fruit. Obviously some locker lids
had broken open but that did not interest him now. He focussed on the water
level. Fortunately it did not seem to grow. Quickly he opened the door of the
cockpit and tried the wheel. It provided no resistance either. He came back in,
ran down the steps and into the spacious machine room under the cockpit.

“Please turn the wheel!” he shouted to Madeleine, after
looking for the remote for the autopilot but not finding it. “Now get into the
cockpit and try the wheel there.”

To his eye there was nothing wrong with the steering
mechanism. A horrible suspicion made itself master of him, but this was not the
time to confirm it.

“Please see if we have more water coming in,” he asked
Madeleine when he passed her on his way to the deck and exited through the
hatch of the doghouse. He adjusted the sheet of the mizzen sail until it
pointed directly astern and winched it tight. Good old mizzen sail. People
sometimes ragged him about having a mizzen sail. Showboats with their fast
sloops. Now he was extra glad for it. With the mizzen correcting any sideways
movement and pointing them into the weather there was less chance that the next
large one could roll them again. Now for the jib, which had foiled around its
stay and was flailing madly.

He made his way forward, from handgrip to handgrip along the
coach roof, clipping, reaching and unclipping as before while the wind tried to
pluck his eyes from their sockets. Salt was burning in his nose and penetrated
into his mouth. A shroud was flying loose and he barely escaped being
decapitated. He noticed several halyards lying over the side. A lot of cleaning
up needed to be done. Then it was a loose jib sheet that made him duck and
weave. He thought about stories he had heard of people who were so good with
whips that they could take a bird’s head off in flight. He now knew what it
felt like to be that bird.

He was in his final dash when he realised that they were
going down. Not a millisecond too late he reached the inner forestay that was
his target. He clipped on and wrapping himself around it, hung on with all his
might. Green water tugged furiously, but only up to his middle. Then the bow
rose several metres into the sky. Grant quickly started to undo the hanks and
was about halfway done when they dipped again. This time the water reached over
his head. He held his breath but kept his eyes open. He saw only green. After
another dunking, also over his head, he was done and raced back, storm jib
tugged under his arm.