A Twist of Sand

"Course one-oh-five degrees," I ordered. The helmsman made a minute adjustment. Beyond the seething water straight ahead I could see the strange three-topped hill. I only had to steer for that until the high hill to the north bore sixty degrees, when I would make my first great change of course as the channel turned back on itself.

Trout crept slowly towards the bearing. I swivelled the periscope round -- Simon's Rock had been lost in the whiteness on the starboard quarter. One of my lifelines was gone. I must have enough light to keep the high northern hill and the three-topped hill in view just till the moon rose.

The bearing neared.

Here it was.

"Course three-two-oh," I said without expression.

John jumped like a scalded cat.

"Three-two -- oh."  Very slowly:  "Aye, aye, sir."

"Helmsman, course three-two-oh."

Trout swung round. I waited without breathing for the tell-tale bump which meant the end. It did not come.

The control room was tense. By the unknown grapevine the buzz had gone around the boat and most of the men, of their own accord, had taken up action stations.

The sweat poured off me. Up above, the maelstrom of white water was more terrifying than ever. Nowhere could I see unbroken sea. It was lashed to foam, aided by the strong south-westerly gale. I was getting to know my Skeleton Coast. I was also getting to know what courage it had taken the old sailor to sail a ship in there, and take soundings. Trout edged back almost the way she had come in the new channel. The light was dying on the three-topped hill, and its outlines were blurred. God, for that moon which would silhouette it for me, I prayed.

She came on to the bearing for the next wide, shallow turn to the north; the channel then veered almost due east, and again towards the south and west for the final entry into the anchorage.

The hill was more blurred and my heart sank as I decided to change course.

"Steer three-oh," I said. The rank sweat coursed down inside my clothes.

"Three-oh, aye, aye, sir," said John. But his tone reflected the growing anxiety of every man on board as Trout swung and veered down the channel.

"Sir. ..." he came forward anxiously.

I could spare him this moment. And, by God, I thought, I'll teach him to think I'm crazy.

I stood back from the eyepieces, wiping the sweat on a stinking towel. I gestured to him to look.

He bent down. Every eye was upon him. At last, I thought, they're saying Jimmy the One is getting a look in and, if the skipper's crazy, at least he'll get us out of this mess -- whatever it is.

I watched his face. I saw the white bracket form round his mouth as he saw the inferno of breaking water. The crew saw it too. Under his tan, his face went deadly pale. He slowly turned the periscope through a full circle, and then back again. I touched him on the shoulder. He pulled back, formal, but his face and lips were bloodless. The effect was not lost on the watching men. It was the face of a man, inwardly terror-struck, who was doing everything in his power to keep his face from showing it.

"Thank you, sir," he said.

I wiped the streaming rubber eyepieces.

I changed the course slightly again, praying for the moon to rise behind the three-topped hill. I would have to wait for that, and the present gentle curve of the channel seemed as easy as any. I reduced speed to bare steerage way. Trout, at only twenty feet, seemed to be making good progress; the tide rip must be deep underneath, I puzzled. Farther on I would call the crew to action stations. There was about another four miles to go to the anchorage after that.

"Dead slow ahead," I ordered. Hoping for the moon, I could pass safely through this section -- with luck. It was only a matter of five minutes. Five minutes, and I would be opposite Galleon Point. The tide was high, so I would not see the spar marked on the chart.

Then Trout struck.

As if an unseen hand had given her a push, she yawed to port and stuck firm. There was no warning, and not much concussion. Her head simply swung and stuck.

I rapped out a rapid command. The engines stopped and there Trout lodged, slightly canted, but not bumping. I swung the periscope round. She didn't seem to be right in among the breakers. Could this be some new obstruction since the days when old Simon had mapped it ?

"Half astern," I ordered. If she came off, she wouldn't slide too far backwards. The engines woke up. Trout remained stuck.

"Full astern!"

No result.