Run Before the Wind (38 page)

"How about yourself?" I asked.

She lay her head against my bare shoulder.

"Oh, so much better, so much better. I think if I'd had to spend another day in Plymouth I'd have gone mad. I don't care if I never see another doctor or hospital or whirlpool bath or brace again."

"I guess your days have been full of nothing else the last couple of months." She was still working with Mark twice a day, exercising the leg.

"I'd never have made a nurse," she sighed.

"I'm having a hard enough time with wife."

I didn't know quite what to say to that.

"When we're back, and the boat's laid up for the winter, and Mark's leg is as good as I can help him get it, I'm going to have to get away. I need some time for myself." She looked up at me.

"I'm a selfish person, did you know that?"

"No," I said, honestly.

"I didn't know that."

"It's true. More than most people, I mean. When I have to be unselfish for a long time I get resentful and petty. You've seen it happen."

I remembered what she was like just before the occasions when she had packed up and left for a week and ten days at a time.

"I

guess I just didn't know why it happened," I said.

"I know that Mark got pretty demanding at times, and I'm sure I didn't help much."

"You helped more than you know. If I hadn't had you around to talk to I might not have made it through the Irish experience."

"I'm glad if I helped," I said, "even though I didn't know I was helping at the time."

"Next time I'll let you know when you're helping," she said and put her head on my shoulder again.

We sailed on into the dark and fabulous night.

Late in the afternoon of our ninth day at sea I came on deck.

Mark was at the helm. He looked over my shoulder, and his expression changed.

"Have a look at that," he said, grinning.

I turned and saw nothing at first. Then I saw a greenish-gray lump on the horizon.

"Land?"

"The Island of Graciosa, situated in the Azores archipelago, a group of islands lying eight hundred miles off the coast of Portugal."

"Annie!" I shouted below.

"Land ho!"

Annie scrambled into the cockpit and looked out at our landfall.

"And on the nose! Well done. Mark!"

"He's done pretty well, too," Mark said, nodding off to port.

I looked and saw what was unmistakably a sail.

"Who is it?"

"The big, yellow tri. Three Cheers, I expect. And we're being freed by the wind right now. So is she."

I took the helm, and Mark went through his tuning routine yet again, getting every ounce of speed from Wave. At nightfall the lighthouse on Graciosa began blinking its signal, and the navigating lights of the trimaran showed that she was overtaking us. Suddenly I found myself as heated as Mark about our race.

By morning, the tri was slightly ahead, but we were in the channel between Graciosa and St. Jorge, a neighboring island, and hard on the wind again. Additionally, there was a good-sized sea running in one direction, and a chop on top of that from another.

The trimaran was being buffeted a lot, now, and Wave was in her element. We began to overtake Three Cheers.

We weren't overtaking her very fast, though. The island of Faial, our destination, was looming before us, now, high and green, and we were running out of time. We redoubled our efforts, concentrating madly on sailing the big yacht to windward. Three Cheers sailed across our bows, not much more than a boat length ahead of us. Mark took the helm, and I kept a wary eye on our competition.

We put in our last tack.

Wave and Three Cheers were widely separated, now, she on the starboard tack, we on port, on different sides of the channel, sailing for the same point, an imaginary line between a red marker in the water and the mast of the committee boat, perhaps a mile ahead.

We slipped through the chop, making nine, sometimes nine and a half knots, going for all we were worth. The big trimaran was bearing down fast, too. The trouble was, she was on the starboard tack, and we were on port. Under the racing rules, she had the right of way.

If we tacked onto starboard at the last minute, the time lost tacking would cost us the race.

"I'm damned if I'm tacking!" Mark shouted.

"If I lose this race it'll be on a protest! I'm crossing that line first!"

The two yachts plunged on toward the line and each other. I was transfixed, now, unable to take my eyes from the other boat, trying to judge who was ahead. Finally, I could take it no more.

"Mark, I don't think we can make it past her. Come on, let's do a super-fast tack."

"Forget it!" he shouted.

"I'm going for it!"

And go for it he did. Wave roared across the trimaran's bows with not ten feet to spare. We were over the line, finished. We had won by less than ten seconds after a race of more than 1200 miles.

If I had ever doubted the necessity of getting everything out of a racing boat at every moment, I never doubted it again.

WE PICKED UP a mooring in Horta Harbor and, immediately, were under a happy siege of well wishers most talking rapidly in Portuguese, and all bearing gifts of wine, fruit, brandy and such.

Customs hardly bothered, which suited me, because the illegal weapons were still in the bilges, which we kept half-full for the purpose of hiding them.

The commodore of the Club Nautico, a sort of yacht fishing swimming organization, made a welcoming speech on deck, and a Commander Poster, of the Royal Western Yacht Club and chairman of the race committee, was aboard, too, with a welcoming bottle of champagne. After an hour or so, the crowd drifted away, and Commander Foster asked if he might have a word with us below.

"I'm afraid I have some rather bad news, which I know will mar your victory, and I'm sorry it can't wait any longer."

We all sat down. I wondered what new bad news we could now have.

"An hour or so after the start of the race, Andrew and Roz Portescue were killed in a car bomb explosion in Plymouth."

He was quiet for a moment, but none of us broke the silence.

Blank disbelief was all he got from us.

"I'll give you what details I have," he said, "but I'm afraid there's not much. The Royal Marine installation at Poole received a car bomb on the day before the start of the race; perhaps you heard about that before leaving."

"Yes," Mark said.

"It's assumed that the same group came to Plymouth and did the job on Andrew's car. It's supposed that, because of Poole, the terrorists would meet difficulties with getting onto the base in Plymouth--quite true of course; security was immediately increased after word of Poole--and, since bombing the base was too difficult, they went after a symbol, the commander of the Royal Marine detachment. Andrew's car was parked overnight at the Cremyi ferry on the Plymouth side--did he and Roz stay aboard with you that night?"

"Yes," Mark said.

"My God," Annie broke in, "Perhaps if we'd gone back to the base with them on Friday night it never would have happened."

"Perhaps," the commander replied, "but it's just as possible that the bomb could have been planted on Friday, and in that case you would have certainly been killed, as well. What's more, the car park was deserted at the time of the explosion; if you'd come off the ferry and gotten into the car, there would have been other passengers all about, and many more people would certainly have been killed. As it was, most of the shops on the street had their windows blown out, and there were twenty-odd people hurt with flying glass and debris."

"They were aboard Wave with us until the fifteen-minute gun," Annie said.

"Yes, and I understand they got a lift back to the ferry port with one of the marine crash boats. They happened to arrive at a time when the ferry was across the river; that was fortunate, I think."

We were all silent again.

"I'm afraid that's everything I know," the commander said.

"The funeral was on Tuesday, just a week ago, so there's nothing much to be done. A detective in the Plymouth police has asked that you telephone him as soon as possible. Since you were the last to spend any time with them, he'd like to ask you some questions."

He handed Mark a piece of paper.

"Andrew's parents' number is there, too. I thought you might like to ring them."

"Yes, thank you. Commander," Mark replied.

"If you'll excuse me, I should stop off on Three Cheers on my way back to the club. I'm very sorry to have to bring you such bad news, but I thought you should know without delay."

Mark thanked him, and he left. It was another hour before we could stir ourselves to move about and go ashore.

Annie and I sat at a table in Peter's Sport Cafe on the Horta waterfront. Mark was talking on the telephone there and, shortly, joined us.

"Nothing new from what the commander told us," he said.

"Except that the same group that did Poole rang up and took credit."

Annie's eyes were red from weeping.

"I still can't believe it," she said.

"Mark, do you think this might have had anything to do with us?"

"No, I discussed that with the detective. I told him we'd had a brush with the bastards, but his attitude was, and I think he's right, if they'd wanted us they'd have gone after the boat, not Andrew's car. He thinks there's no doubt they wanted Andrew because he was C.O. in Plymouth, and Roz was just unlucky enough to be with him. I talked with Andrew's parents. They're crushed, of course, but seem to be bearing up."

We spent the remainder of the day ashore, getting our land legs and shopping for fresh food. We had a subdued dinner and were back on the boat and turned in by ten o'clock.

Mark planned a week in Horta before sailing back. He would sail directly to Cork, now that the legal problems were solved, and leave the boat with Finbar for the winter. He wrote to Pinbar and gave him an ETA. Annie and I would stay on in Horta for a holiday, then fly back in time to meet him. Through the commodore of the club, we found a little flat for our stay and were able to hire a car.

There was a lot to do during that week, and we were all grateful to have our minds occupied. We had had alternator problems and spent a lot of time on that and other minor repairs to the yacht and her sails, working our way through Mark's inevitable lists. As other, slower competitors arrived, the social life picked up markedly. The Azoreans had planned a series of parties and were marvelous hosts. Our spirits improved as the week wore on.

At the end of our week, predictably on schedule. Mark sailed.

We took the last load of fresh stores out to the boat, and I deflated and packed away the rubber dinghy. We had breakfast in the cockpit, enjoying the Azorean sunshine.

"Well," Mark said, "I'm off."

"Nothing else I can do?" I asked.

"Not a thing. You've been great, Willie. Once in Cork we'll get her laid up and her gear stowed, then the job's over. You'll come for the start of the transatlantic next June won't you?"

"Sure I will. Wouldn't miss it. Listen, are you feeling really in control with the leg, now?"

"Absolutely, old chum. Not to worry."

"Mark, can I extract a promise from you?" I asked.

"Depends. What did you have in mind?"

"Don't set a spinnaker on the way home. I've watched you move around the foredeck, and I don't think the leg's ready for that. Oh, you'd get it up and down all right in light weather, but if you got a wrap or something it would be a real problem."

Mark looked at me, but said nothing.

"Come on. Mark, promise him," Annie chimed in.

"He's never tried to tell you what to do on the boat; you owe him this much."

"Save it for next spring," I said.

"The leg will be much stronger by then, and you'll still have time to practice. This is no race home;

just cruise and enjoy yourself."

"All right," he said, finally.

"No spinnakers on the way home.

I'm cruising." He hesitated.

"I promise."

We stood and shook hands. Mark and Annie embraced perfunctorily.

I helped get the main up, then stood by to slip the mooring while Mark started the engine. The club tender took Annie and me off, and we chugged along beside Wave out past the breakwater for a last goodbye.

"And be careful reefing the main," I shouted across to him as he broke out the head sails and started to sail the boat.

"Take your time."

"Yes, sir!" he shouted back, giving me a large, mock salute.

Then he was gone. Wave reaching across toward Pico, the next island, before founding the headland and sailing on" toward Ireland.

Annie and I were left, waving, in the club boat. Finally, the coxswain turned back toward Horta, and we began our holiday.