A Ravel of Waters

Chapter 1

Windeater. That should have been her name.

Her sails were six pairs of lips, parted now like a woman's in passion. Six on the main, six on the jib. Each pair seemed to drink in the wind, swallow it and, by some magic of aerodynamics, regurgitate it as energy to thrust the yacht's lean hull through the sea at speeds unheard of by conventional rigs.

Both sails, the main and the jib, were, unlike any others, split into segments lengthwise to the top of the mast. Each strip had transverse battens fixed at intervals to make for easy handling.

This was a space-age rig. Named the Venetian Rig, in memory of the Venetian Republic's great sailing past. Into the design of the wind-filled dacron segments above my head had gone all that man had learned of aerodynamics. Solar energy, in the form of wind, was being converted into thrust in a way which made the conventional sail as out of date as the Wright Brothers' first aeroplane compared to a Concorde.

Those dozen cross-battened strips of dacron had gunned me from Cape Horn to the Cape of Good Hope in record time for a single-handed sailor: 4200 sea-miles in twenty-six days — an average speed of seven knots.

Now Albatros and I were at the end of our journey. At about 10.30 in the morning, I looked up, the way I had checked those newfangled sails a thousand times during my race across the world's wildest ocean. Suddenly, the high rocky cliffs of the coast-line, backed by bush-covered hills, opened like a gate. About a mile away, bearing about ten degrees, was my landfall, my home-coming from an epic journey. These were the Heads of Knysna, entrance to the small port on the Cape's southern coast where Albatros had first taken the water. She was the third sailing ship to carry the famous name. The first had been a schooner which had brought a family of boat-builders, the Thesens, from Norway to Knysna over a century before. The second had been a Cape-to-Rio yacht race winner. But my Albatros had proved to be the fastest sailing boat afloat between Cape Horn and the Cape.

The narrow, dangerous entrance needed all my concentration. It would not have done to pile Albatros up on her home cliffs. Ahead lay a tricky outer and inner bar to negotiate, further complicated by the peculiarities of the Venetian Rig. Its principal virtue was excellence in heavy weather. Below the towering cliffs the sails would be blanketed from the fresh southeaster and I marvelled again, as I had done so many times on the voyage, at the paradoxical sight of Albatros's burgee streaming in one direction, forward, while tufts of rope in the lee of the sail streamed in the opposite direction, against the wind. It was the embodiment of the aerodynamic magic of the Venetian Rig.

Breakers threw up a menacing line of white between the towering head-lands guarding the entrance channel. In a moment I was among them. The strong thrust of the wind disappeared below the cliffs. It became fluky, bouncing from high point to high point. I held on, however, and then I was over the inner bar to where the narrow channel led into the lagoon beyond.

I was in the process of lining up the yacht's sea-stained white hull for the last turn into the anchorage when I was deafened by the blast of horns. Hundreds of cars which I had not noticed before because of my concentration lined the eastern head-land and the road flanking my route. It seemed as if the whole population of Knysna had turned out — hooting, shouting, waving, cheering. Then a fleet of motor-boats appeared from nowhere. Men and women in holiday wear came alongside shouting congratulations and gawping at Albatros'*s sea-swept cockpit and the salt stains trailing from the sail battens, mute witnesses to half a dozen furious encounters with the Roaring Forties. In my dark clothes and my unkempt month-old beard, I felt like the Flying Dutchman himself.

The motor-boats began sheep-dogging Albatros down-channel past Leisure Island, a paradise of luxury homes and gardens standing among dark milkwood trees. It seemed to me that not only Albatros's home port but the whole country was waiting when I stepped ashore on the jetty at Thesen's Yard, where Albatros had been built. There was a barrage of press camera flashes, TV and movie cameras. Microphones were thrust in front of my face; I was assaulted by scores of questions. The Venetian Rig — what was its secret? Speed? Best day's run? From all the shaking of well-wishers' hands my arm felt as if I had pumped out Albatros's bilges for a week.

Then, after a brief respite, Knysna's pride in Albatros and its hospitality overflowed at an official luncheon. More interviews. Endless handshakes. The blur of friendly, anonymous, admiring faces. Inevitably a local beauty queen found her way into a picture pose with me.

Finally, in the late afternoon, I was the house guest of the reception committee's chairman, a yachting enthusiast named Don Mackay. I was thankful to be whisked away from the never-ending congratulations to his home on the summit of Eastern Head from which I overlooked the entrance channel I had sailed through that morning. Don was apologetic about the place.

'It's only the old Pilot House,' he explained. 'But I wanted the view. When the harbour was still functioning commercially, it used to be the spot from which the pilots could see what ships were approaching Knysna — from any direction.' It had a wood-panelled room whose octagonal sides consisted entirely of glass as high as the waist. The panorama of ocean and mountain landwards was stupendous. A telescope on a stand, clipper ship prints on the walls, a full-rigged model in a glass case, mounted scenic charts of the coast, and a flagstaff on the so-green lawn beyond the windows made the Pilot House comfortably suburban-nautical.

Don's whisky felt good. I was exhausted. I felt more like ninety years old than twenty-seven. Every muscle, every nerve-endings was tired. My mind was as flat as a sail in the doldrums.

Don, a sunburned, red-headed giant of a man, held out the whisky bottle for me to inspect. 'Like it?' he asked.

I looked at the label in surprise. 'I thought it was genuine Scotch.' *No, South African. Good as the original heather brew. "Three Ships" — the name seemed appropriate for the occasion.'

'I hope the occasion's done. I couldn't stand much more of it.' I wanted more than anything to be alone, like a drunk with his bottle.

I said gruffly, ‘I hope you're not throwing another party for me now.' Don looked uncomfortable and glanced at his watch. 'Not a party. Just one other guest.' 'Friend of yours?'

Don hesitated. 'His name is Axel Thomsen. He jetted in early this morning and motored over to Knysna from the airfield at George. He collected a speeding fine on the way because he was so keen not to miss your arrival. He got here literally in a jib-boom ahead of Albatros.9 'What's the rush?' Don was cagey. 'He'll tell you himself. He's late.'

Sheila, Don's wife, appeared and saved him from further questions. Any woman looks beautiful after you've been a month alone at sea but Sheila didn't need that distorted view to boost her good looks.

'Peter,' she said to me, 'I'll show you to your room if you'd like to clean up before Mr Thomsen arrives.' 'My room?' 'You're staying, surely?'

I tried to laugh off their disappointment. 'A fakir likes to get back to his bed of nails. I think I'd rather sleep aboard Albatros tonight. I'll come some other time5 if I may.' 'We'll keep you to that,' she said. Just then a car drew up on the driveway. There was something in the glance that Don shot in my direction which puzzled me. 'Here comes Axel Thomsen. I hope you'll like him.'

He came forward, and without any preliminaries, took my hand.

'Congratulations, Captain Rainier’ he said. He had the most compelling pair of eyes I had ever seen. He held my hand in a strong grip. There was power in it, power about the man himself. He would draw people to himself like iron filings to a magnet. His scrutiny of me was as keen as a wind off the Drake Passage. He was of medium height only, and looked about forty. The clothes he wore — light blue casual slacks and a kind of matching battle blouse — emphasized his leanness. A Chinese white silk choker was secured at his throat by a yellow diamond pin. He seemed to miss, or simply override, my resentment.

'I was in one of the boats that came to cheer you on completing your magnificent feat. I saw you bring your ship through that tricky entrance. I didn't think it possible to manoeuvre any craft with the mainboom centred without adjustment to the sheets.' ‘I hope you're now satisfied that it's possible,' I retorted.

‘I think it must be because there are vents from the high pressure to the low pressure sides of the sail at such short intervals that the air flow turns round the back and still gives a high degree of lift even when it's well beyond what would be the stall angle in a normal sail.'

I realized how near the limit of fatigue I was when I heard myself rasp, 'What are you trying to prove?'

Thomsen threw me a keen up-and-under glance. His reply was conciliatory. 'Nothing — except one must understand what one is up against. I have a rig which works better.'