A Twist of Sand

"Aye, aye, sir."

The hatch was nicked open and the usual sea, warm it seemed to me, slopped in. I scrambled up and immediately searched the horizon. Everywhere the sea was bathed in bright moonlight. And a good thing too, because neither I nor the men on watch had had time to get their eyes accustomed to the different light.

"Nothing in sight, sir," reported John formally.

"Good," I said, drinking in the beauty of the night, and looking half expectantly ahead, as if to find our lethal fellow-traveller along the line of Trout's forestay. The South Atlantic was as empty as it had ever been.

"Group up," I ordered. "Start the diesels. Full ahead together. Three hundred and twenty revolutions. Course two-five-oh."

Trout veered away at right angles to the previous course  -- NP I's course, leaning to the full power of the massive diesels, and tore away into the silver night.

VIII Curva dos Dunas

the moon's silver began to give way to the first grey of the yet unborn day. Trout tore on. Sleepless and keyed to a high pitch, I remained all night on the bridge. My eyes were red with watching, and they always strayed back to NP I's imaginary track, now well to the north and west of Trout. John had come up during the night in cheerful conversational mood.

"What's all the buzz, Geoffrey?" he asked in his easy, competent way. "Making a real mystery of things, aren't you?"

I regretted to have to do it, but I resorted to that funk-hole of the man in command, rank. I simply said nothing but stared ahead into the night.

John at first did not catch on.

"Brushing up the old navigation all by yourself, too?" he laughed.

I realised that I would rouse some comment by navigating myself, but I simply refused to turn old Simon's maps over to the usual navigator. I said nothing in reply to John's sallies. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him freeze when he realised that we were no longer on the chummy basis on which we which always gone in to the attack. John had always been excellent in giving the crew a loudspeaker appraisal of a tricky situation, and I expect this was his way of putting it to me. He froze into immobility and, except for a few terse, necessary words changing the course after we were well away from NP I's track, there had been silence between us for the rest of the night.

I decided that I would approach Curva dos Dunas from the south, turning north and east once I crossed the seventy-five fathom mark. The more I looked at the ghastly coast, the more thankful I was for old Simon's charts. It was a hopeless conglomeration of broken water, shoals and rocks; everywhere were the terrorising words, "discoloured water." Once across the seventy-five fathom line, I decided to turn Trout north-east and thread my way to within fifteen miles of the coast, and then try and pick up my two only sure landmarks, the ten-foot projection which I had named Simon's Rock, and the distinctive three-topped hill with another high hill about seven miles to the nor'rad. If I could spot the tiny beach marked "sandy, white "on the chart, it would be a great additional help; otherwise the old sailor-man's only direction on the landward side were "dunas moveis" -- shifting dunes.

I crossed to the voice-pipe,

"What depth of water have we under us ?"

"Eighty-seven fathoms, shoaling, sir."

"Call them out as she goes."

"Aye, aye, sir. Eighty-five. Ninety. Seventy-seven. . . ."

God, I thought, what a coastline to be approaching! Rough as an uncut diamond.

"Seventy-five . . . eighty, seventy-four, . . ."

"That'll do," I snapped out. I had crossed my rubicon. Well, here goes, I thought.

I turned to John who, with the exception of the watchmen, was alone with me.

"Clear the bridge," I said. I felt the tremor in my voice.

"Diving stations, sir ?" asked John, shooting me a curious look.

"Clear the bridge," I repeated. "I'll give my orders from up here. Alone."

The ratings on watch glanced nervously at each other ;is they scuttled down the hatch. John followed. He paused as his head was about to disappear. Apparently he thought better of it and I could almost see the shrug of his shoulders.

"Course seven-oh," I ordered and heard John repeat it. "Speed for ten knots."

The shudder died as Trout slowed. I searched the horizon with my glasses, looking every way for the twin sentinels on land which overlooked NP I's hide-out.