The Triangle and The Mountain: A Bermuda Triangle Adventure (24 page)

With the yacht facing into the wind the hard dodger of the
cockpit provided a welcome respite. As a precaution he clipped himself to the
mizzen mast while he got his breath back. What was the next step? Ah, first a
check on the water inside and then that parachute. The bilge pumps were cycling
furiously. He wanted to start the big diesel but stopped his hand in mid-air
when he noticed that the ignition was already on. Deciding not to take a chance
he stepped through the doghouse and the companionway. Another quick survey told
him the water levels had not increased.

“Was the engine running when we went over?” he asked
Madeleine.

“I saw the battery levels going down, so I ran the engine,”
she said. “Was that a mistake?”

“It was not a mistake but it could mean that the engine got
seawater inside. If it is true, we are going to have a problem. This yacht uses
a lot of power. We need that engine to operate three hours a day just to charge
the batteries.”

“Next time I will cut the engine if I see that we are going
to roll.”

“Good idea. And you’ve done the right thing by running it.
The batteries are really, really low. It only means one thing and that is that we
have to start saving on electricity. The bilge pumps will use up our remaining
power in no time at all. I will have to disconnect them as soon as possible.
When I’m back from putting the parachute out we will have to get rid of the
water manually. We have manual pumps and hoses somewhere. You can look for them
so long.”

A shower of solid rain hammered on the coach roof like
bullets from a machine gun. There were new leaks and Grant shook his head in
despair. They had enough of the stuff inside already.

“You are not going out in that, are you?” asked Madeleine as
hailstones started coming down as well, pinging loudly against metal parts.

“There is no choice here,” said Grant.

The parachute anchor was easy to find, since he had
identified it earlier in the day. He took all the parts out the bags and
assembled it in the larger space of the saloon. It helped that he was a
para-sailor, used to work an expanse of silk, because there was a lot of it. When
he thought he had it all connected he bundled it back into the bags and tied
them together and then tied the whole lot to himself. Before he made his way up,
he grabbed his diving mask.

“This is for seeing the fishes when we dunk down,” he said
to Madeleine. “And by the way. Do you see this thing here?” He pointed at a
cylindrical object held in a bracket against a bulkhead next to the
companionway.

“Yep.”

“It is the emergency beacon. It sends a message with our
position via satellite once we have activated it. If, for some reason, I don’t
come back, you must take it out of the bracket and then you press this button here.”

“All right, and what do I do then?”

“You just sit tight. If the boat fills up and you cannot
bail anymore, use the life raft. There are instructions somewhere on how to get
it going.”

 It was a massive struggle to make progress forward, because
the wind had so much more to grip on. The diving mask helped remarkably well
against the rain and the pelting hail, although the wind nearly took it off as
well. He tied his load down, pulled the chain section of the parachute rode out
of its bag and fed it over the anchor roller. After tying the end to a Samson
post he only had to wait for the next dunking to release the parachute part
into the water. When the bow rose up again, it was with satisfaction that he
saw the silk spreading four metres below him in the sea.

On the way back aft he got hold of the loose shroud and tied
it to a lifeline. The last thing he wanted was for a rogue shroud to smash in a
skylight. The rest of the clearing-up work would have to wait until later. He sighted
up the spars. They were fortunate in that nothing major seemed to have
sustained damage. Down on deck he could only count a single stainless steel
stanchion that was bent out of shape by the force of the water. When he arrived
back below it was time to do something about the water that sloshed around,
covering their feet.

“Bucket parade,” he said to Madeleine and handed her one.

“I thought we are pumping?”

“There is too much for now. These rubber buckets were
designed to squeeze into the corners. They will do a better job. We catch it
when the boat tilts. Do you want to be down below or upstairs?”

“We can take turns,” she said generously, “but why don’t you
do something about your nose. It’s bleeding.”

“Let’s first get make some progress here. You get up and
empty the buckets into the cockpit. I will pass them on. Open the hatch to the
cockpit but stay aware of the pitch of the boat. When the rear goes down,
better slam it shut.”

“I get it. It’s an open-shut routine.”

The water continued sloshing to and fro as the boat pitched
and rolled. Grant stood in one spot with outspread legs to balance himself but
Madeleine got thrown several times against the sides of the doghouse and picked
up bruises of her own.

“Got to get your sea-legs,” said Grant.

“No surfboard acts like this,” said Madeleine, “and the
bumps have become worse.”

“You know what it is?” asked Grant. “The sea-anchor is
taking. We are no longer sailing backward. The boat gives less, so we get
slapped harder by the waves. Are you going to cook?”

“I will try to. We are in need of something warm since we
are both soaked.”

“Just take care when you do. Better stand away from the
cooker.”

“I’ll take care. Where are you going?”

“I’m getting a plug for my nose and I’m putting on some
music.  We have to do something about the noise from upstairs.”

“Who’s that?” Madeleine asked when the hidden but powerful
speakers of the yacht came to life.

“Bryan Adams.”

“Very old fashioned. I know the name but I’ve never listened
to him.”

“It’s good for the nerves. I need some soothing right now.
Anyway, I think you can come down. Most of it is under the sole. It is time for
the pump. ”

Grant did the pumping while Madeleine handled the hoses and
Bryan Adams in full voice competed with the shrieks in the rigging. They were
still far from finished when they both stood up. Grant stopped the music. They
heard a rush of waves but the howling was gone.

“We’re inside the eye!” they said together.

“How many people can say that?” asked Grant.

“How many people have
lived
to be able to say that?”
asked Madeleine.

“We’ve survived the right-hand quadrant!” said Grant, “And I
think we’ve done well. I must say that I’m not too surprised. This boat was
built for conditions such as these. My specs to the builders were that it must
be able to withstand a full Cape storm, heavy waves and all.”

“I was wondering,” said Madeleine. “I was a bit surprised
that the water did not come in more when we were knocked down.”

“To be honest, we’re getting a bit more inside than I
bargained for but it’s not a train smash. Everything has been built in order to
withstand a knockdown. This is the first time it is being tested though. We
tried her out in near-gale force conditions in Table Bay but we never simulated
an actual knockdown.”

“That would’ve been taking it a bit too far.”

“I think so, yes. Which means that there are some items that
I will have to improve on but it is mostly small stuff. She’s the best. People
sometimes mock me because I have extra shrouds and double stays in the rigging.
They say I have too much windage but I know that it’s there for a reason.
Today, she’s proven herself. When I looked up earlier, her masts were standing
proud. How many boats can go through a thrashing like that without dismasting?”

“Good ship!”

“Good ship indeed.”

“If only it wasn’t for the engine.”

“Yes, the engine. I’m afraid we’ll be washing dishes by hand
until we’ve got that fixed, but that’s not essential. The essential thing is
the integrity of the hull. It must keep the water out and so far it has done
that.”

“What about the rudder.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Grant. “I’d better go check again. Why
don’t you continue pumping so long?”

He engaged the useless autopilot and studied all visible
parts of the steering carefully as they moved. When he came back he had a frown
on his face. “We are in a spot of bother,” he said, after lowering the volume
of the music, which Madeleine had turned up more, once he had disappeared aft.
“It can only be one thing. The rudder stock has given in.”

“Which means what?”

“It means that I cannot fix it. That is plan B out of the
way. Neither will the emergency tiller work. That is plan C also out of the
way. Which leaves plan D.”

“Do we have a plan D?”

“Oh yes, we have. I have redundancy plans for everything
that I could think of. We have to put on another rudder.”

“Don’t tell me you have one.”

“Yes, I have one. It’ smaller and we put on from the
outside, but it will get us into harbour. I need about a day of really calm
weather to hang it and then we will be right as rain.”

“So I don’t need to be pessimistic about our chances?”

“Not at all,” said Grant. “In fact, we should make it now
with ease. It’s just a matter of sitting it out. The big danger was the right
shoulder and that is now a thing of the past. I have a good feeling about this.
Nobody puts Grant Anderson down that easily and I mean
nobody
.”

***

In a centuries old farmhouse in which there were many dark
corners there was one that was visited on a daily basis. The wall had a
covering of cork. On it, stuck there with pins, were an assortment of items,
mostly pictures and even newspaper clippings. The pins were long and had large,
gaily coloured bubbles of plastic at their ends, which allowed for easy
handling. The extra length of the pins also allowed for thicker objects to be
pinned, of course.  A table was pushed tight against the wall. On it were even
more items, a truly nonsensical collection that included contents of a medicine
cabinet. There were plastic pill bottles all over. Most of them were filled
with pills but some had locks of hair or even a single hair or a nail clipping
in it. There were other rather odd things on the table, such as a sock without
a mate, a single shoe, a hat and an unwashed handkerchief, amongst other
bric-a-brac that looked as if it was looted from a rubbish bin. The casual
passer-by would easily dismiss it as the intimate, chaotic nest of a
deteriorating mind and miss the element of careful choreography that determined
the layout. Such a person, if he or she were allowed into this corner, would,
however, not miss the extra-large full-colour print of a sailing yacht that
took pride of place amongst the photos on the wall. The beautiful lines of its
snowy white body were rounded off by stylish fittings of stainless steel, smoked
Plexiglass and Mahogany. The whole was rather pleasing to the eye.

A finger, dry with age but without a tremor, traced the
lines of the yacht along the deck structure. First the foredeck, then the coach
house, the slight, flared rise for the doghouse and then another flared rise
for the hard dodger of the cockpit. They were in there, he and his mates, the
people whose company he preferred. How were they feeling right now?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Grant and Madeleine had a change of clothes and then danced
madly in the galley while the boat pitched, rocked and rolled equally as madly,
but to a rhythm of its own, which included a surprise lurch every now and then.
The noise of the wind was gone, but the wave action was as violent as ever. They
decided to cook together, taking great care not to get burned.  Their music
choices were playing loudly and no new water came into the cabin, other than a
trickle from the leaking ports in the hull. Madeleine served up a goulash and
vegetable stew in high-sided Tupperware lunch boxes. Knives and forks were
dangerous missiles under current conditions and so she emulated Grant for the
first time and ate with a spoon only. They took their meal standing, with
spring in their knees, pausing when the yacht heeled sharply and continuing when
it recovered.  The hot food made them feel better.

After dinner Grant started checking on the status of their
equipment. The first item on his agenda was the engine.

In the engine room he took out the dipstick to see if there
was any water in the oil. It seemed to be in order. Once he managed to get the
dipstick back into its little hole he bled the fuel lines. Immediately, he
realised from the milky colour that the diesel had water in it.  He kept on
pumping diesel from the tanks and the results stayed the same. The tanks were
contaminated with seawater. It meant that they could no longer use the engine.

The solar panels and the wind charger were still working but
they could not give them the power that they needed. For solar panels you
needed sun but soon they would have none once more. That left it to the wind
charger, which, however, provided only a small percentage of their needs. There
was only one other source of power. Grant rummaged in the bilges until he had
found the meter and a half long cylinder that he was looking for – a turbine.
He slipped it out its plastic sleeve and spun the rotor. It seemed to be in
good order. He took it up in the cockpit, ran the line over a block and
attached it to a socket before he threw it overboard.

Next, he made a note of the battery levels at the navigation
station, which meanwhile showed a slight improvement. He switched on the bilge
pumps and then started on a tour of the whole boat, carefully marking all the
places where water came in.  When he was finished, half an hour had passed and
he monitored the battery levels again. The levels had gone down. He realised that
the turbine was of almost no use and he knew why. The waves passing them by did
not actually take the water with them. They consisted of travelling pulses of energy,
transforming the water surface as they went but leaving most of it behind. The
turbine required them to be sailing, and preferably as fast as possible.

“We have a problem,” he told Madeleine.

“Which one?” she asked.

“Better not pack away the hand pump. The engine is not going
to run again on this trip and my backup plans to charge the batteries are not
working.”

He made a last round on deck, secured the lines that were
loose and checked that all else was secure. Then he took a trysail from its
locker and put it up, in order to assist the mizzen, which was still up.

His checks being completed, he made a careful approach to
the SSB set and called the router, who responded immediately.

“I was not too surprised when you guys did not keep your
‘sched’,” said Hank. “You must have your hands full.”

“You can say that again,” said Grant. “We had a knock-down.
The rudder failed.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Nope.  The rudder stock has broken. It’s not something we
can fix.”

“So are you abandoning ship?”

“No, not at all. We have an auxiliary rudder. I just need some
fair weather to attach it.”

“All right, but damage like still constitutes a major
emergency that has led to evacuations in the past. I will give your position to
the coast guard just in case. Can you give it to me now? Also, could you
describe conditions?”

Grant gave their position and then the bit of news that he
knew would make Hank sit up. “Our air pressure is eight hundred and ninety five
millibars,” he said.

“Good gracious. It’s only the second sub-nine hundred for
the season. You must be inside the eye. What is it like?”

“We have sunshine but a bank of cloud approaching. The wind
is not really noticeable but wave action is severe. We have the parachute
anchor out and we are getting battered by waves of thirty to forty-five feet.”

“What was it like when you came through the wall?”

“The Garmin recorded a top speed of two hundred and sixty
four kilometres per hour.”

 “That figures. The category four status is official, by the
way. How is your boat holding up otherwise?”

“We have further problems. From the knock-down we now have
seawater in the diesel tanks, so I can’t use the engine. This baby needs a lot
of power to operate everything, which means we have to give up on all our luxuries.”

“I wish you luck. During the next two to three hours the
sidewall on the other side of the eye should reach you. Expect the usual hurricane-strength
winds from the west and confused seas.”

“We are ready for it. The right shoulder is behind us, so
surely we will be able to handle it better.”

Before the day was over Grant realised that he had spoken
too soon.

Two hours after his last communication with the outside
world the rays of the setting sun were replaced by darkness and chaos. Captain
and crew stood together in the doghouse and watched the rim come closer. It was
light grey at the top and black at the bottom where it reached right down to
the level of the sea.

“It’s not something you will see again, not at sea.” said Grant.

“It’s not really something you
want
to see,” said
Madeleine.

 Then they were in it. The chorus in the rigging started up
immediately as if there was never any pause, climbing up and down the register
as it had done before. Rain continued to pummel them. The wind, Grant noticed,
was not from the west as predicted but from the south-west. The wind
immediately pushed on the try-sail and swung the boat beam-on in the face of an
on-rushing wave. They heeled over through sixty degrees. Again there was the
sound of things falling. It was a harbinger of what was to come. Sea and wind
were out of sync. It was a dangerous confusion.

“I think I should take that try-sail off again,” said Grant.

“If we have more sail up in the back, won’t it help to push
the bow into the waves?” asked Madeleine.

“But where do the waves come from?” asked Grant. “They seem
to come from all directions. This is where we need our rudder so we could
respond to these seas.”

“In which direction would we go?”

“Running off like we had done before.”

“And plan B?”

“We get tossed about at the end of the parachute and just
hope that we don’t get a big one running at cross angles with the one that went
before.”

He donned his oilskins and boots and did not forget the diving
mask. Darkness had set in completely but he could still see. Apart from the
faint light shining through the skylights, phosphorescence was boiling brightly
around the boat and clinging to the rigging as well. Contrary to his
expectation the wind did not physically feel less violent. It pushed the
oilskins close his skin and tried to wrench him off the deck as before. Carefully
he brought the trysail down. Then he made his way back into the cockpit in
order to let the mizzen sail down as well. The yacht rolled badly in the
confused seas and both ends disappeared into the water at varying times. The
cockpit shipped a lot of it and he stood up to his knees in water while he
worked. With careful timing, however, he managed to enter the doghouse without
bringing the sea with him. With all sails down they were now truly at mercy of
the waves. And how were they made to know it.

It was a rough day and they were both feeling its effects.
The knowledge that they were passively drifting meant that there was no adrenaline
rush. Grant kept the music playing for the sake of the all-important morale but
even that failed to lift their spirits. It was getting miserable inside the
yacht. Garth had turned the lights down, there was water everywhere and the
place was a soul-destroying mess.

“What do we do now?” asked Madeleine.

“We pump water,” said Grant. “We are getting some more in
again. Now I realise that cutting these through-hull port lights so low was not
a brilliant idea. The things just don’t stop leaking.”

“And the roof is leaking once more as well,” said Madeleine.

“Yes, that too. I had a choice between this mahogany coach
roof and a solid one with only non-slip paint on top. The rain is actually
removing the grouting between the slats. It’s never happened before. This boat
is being tested for sure. We will pump the bilges empty and then I think we can
retire to our bunks with a bit of rum to cheer us up – until we need to pump
again.”

“So
that
is what rum is for. I always wondered why
the old square rigged sailors drank so much. Each one consumed several litres
of beer every day and then rum on top of it.”

“Now you know.”

“Now I know indeed.”

Grant was vaguely wondering whether he would be sleeping
alone and he knew that Madeleine was probably aware of his thoughts. But it was
not the right time. Apart from the fact that he did not want to make things
difficult for himself on Bermuda by creating expectations, the conditions were
just not right. The boat was shaking and jumping unexpectedly all the time and
besides, there was something more important to focus on. The sea was trying to
kill them.

They were scarcely into the bilge pump routine, with Grant
working the lever and Madeleine manning the hoses when they heard a noise that
sounded exactly like a freight train approaching in the dead of night, a time
when all sounds are amplified by the quiet. This was not the middle of the night,
however and it was not exactly quiet outside. Grant immediately realised that.
The fact that they could hear it so loudly over the sound effects from below
and above meant that something extraordinarily bad was coming their way. “Better
hold on to something,” he said. He stuffed the pump in a corner and grabbed the
leg of the chart table.

They could feel the flexible rode that connected the
parachute to the chain on the boat stretch until it was taut and then hundreds
of tons of pure energy fell on them in thunderous cacophony. The yacht shook as
if she was falling apart. For a moment they had the sensation of being
completely under water. They knew, because the ever-present wind noise
disappeared and all the familiar little water spouts operated at full force. Then
the whole vessel shuddered as it bore upwards, refusing to be buried. The final
sensation was that of a cork popping up on the surface. The water spouts
stopped.

Captain and crew nodded to each other, both wide-eyed. They
have survived a big one.  

There was no time to reflect, since their attention was
immediately directed to their feet which were awash with water. The sea was
trying to get in and they had to get it out! Grant grabbed the pump and worked
furiously while Madeleine played her part, relaying hoses both in and out.

Once more they worked until the water level was under the
floor boards. Grant’s arms were hurting. He stretched them.

“Got to exercise more,” he said and then lifted his head to
listen. Unbelievably, in the distance they heard the unmistakable rush once
more, coming closer and closer. Madeleine crossed herself and threaded both arms
through the steps leading to the companionway. Grant held on to the bilge pump
as if it was a teddy bear while his free arm reached for the navigation table
once more. Frantically he tried to recall tales that he had heard. Has anybody
been able to survive a double onslaught of this nature?  Then the massive wave
hit them. The boat creaked, somewhere things snapped while the sea tried to bury
them again with unbelievably brutal force.

Incredibly, once again they rose, the boat shaking herself
like a dog. Once more they felt like a little piece of driftwood being tossed
about on a raging river. Again, there was no time to think. All their good work
was undone. This time the water was even more.

“I’m afraid that these might not just be isolated rogue
waves,” said Grant ominously as he laboured away furiously with the pump handle.
“It’s the contrary wind that’s causing this. It slows down the waves and so all
that energy just piles up vertically until it rolls forward, breaking from its
base, just like a wave does when it approaches a beach.”

“So they were rollers, proper breaking waves in the middle
of the ocean?”

“That’s right.”

“Then this is not better than what we had before with the
right shoulder,” said Madeleine. “I so hoped that the worse was behind us.”

“Things are once again not going to forecast,” said Grant.
He got up to have a look at the barometer. “It’s rising,” he said, “but conditions
are clearly not better.  How does that happen? This is a strange ocean you got
here.”

“Hopefully the rollers are over. We had the roller and its
twin.”

“Let’s hope so, but as I said, there could be more until we
have had a change in the wind. It’s of no use to wonder what will happen. Let’s
get the sea out of here before it gets too much for us.”

Grant’s prediction proved to be correct. They were given
just enough time to get the water to floor board level before the next big wave
punished them with a blow from above so hard that it felt as if they were going
straight to the bottom of the sea. Grant had a clear feeling that the boat was
breaking up. Once again, however, the yacht had popped up on the surface.