Going out to sea again.
Out to sea, in the noise and the dark. Still not knowing why I was there, or for how long. Growing less fit from lack of exercise and less able to deal with mental pressure. Starting last week’s torments all over again.
I sat on the floor with my back against the cabin door, and folded my arms over my knees, and put my head on my arms, and wondered how I could possibly endure it.
Monday I spent in full-blown despair.
On Tuesday, I got out.
5
Monday night the boat was anchored somewhere, but it stopped after I got my supper and started again before Tuesday mid-morning. It rained most of the time, drumming on the hatch. I was glad of the respite from the engine but in general the misery level was a pain.
When he brought the morning food he fixed the hatch open. The extent of my relief was pathetic.
Shortly after, they stopped the engine and put up the sails, and the grey sky outside slowly cleared to blue.
I ate the hard boiled eggs and the apple and thought about the thick slice of bread, upon which, for the first time, he had given me butter. Then I pulled a button off my shirt to use as a scraper, and transferred as much of the butter as I could to the stubborn nuts and bolts on the flushing lever. Then I ate the bread. Then I sat on the floor and one after the other warmed the nuts with my hand in the hope that the butter and ham fat would melt into the screw threads.
After that I ripped a length of the rubberised waist band from my trousers, and fished out of the bottom of one of the sail bins the white net which I had stored there after the storms.
It was activity for activity’s sake, more than any real hope. I wound the waistband twice round the piston-rod nut, because it was the nearest, and fitted over that the chromium hook which had attached the net to the upper berth. Then I tugged the net.
After a second of gripping, the hook slid round on the cloth and fell off. I tried again, folding the waistband so that it had an elasticated side against the hook as well as against the nut. That time the hook stayed in place; but so did the nut.
I tugged several times. If I tugged very hard, hook, waistband and all came off. Nothing else happened. I slung the net back into the sail bin in depression.
After that I sat for ages with my hand on the piston-rod nut, until it was as warm as a handful of pennies clutched by a child. Then I wound the strip of waistband round quickly three times, to make the nut larger to grip, and then I tried it with all my remaining muscle power.
The waistband turned in my hand.
Damn it to hell, I thought hopelessly. I pulled it off and wound it on again, trying to grip it more tightly.
It turned again.
It may seem ridiculous, but it was not until it turned more easily the third time that I realised I was turning the nut on the bolt, not the waistband on the nut.
Unbelievable. I sat there looking idiotic, with my mouth open. Excitement fluttered in my throat like a stifled laugh. If I could get one off, what about the other?
Time hadn’t mattered for the first one. I’d had nothing else to do. For the second one, the hinge, I was feverishly impatient.
I warmed the nut, and wound on the waistband, and heaved; and nothing happened.
Heaved again.
A blob.
It had to move, I thought furiously. It simply had to. After several more useless attempts, I went back to basics.
Perhaps after all the tugging session with the hook had had some effect. I scooped out the net and applied it to the hinge nut, and tugged away with enthusiasm, replacing the hook every time it fell off. Then I made myself warm the nut as thoroughly as I had the other one, so that the heat from my hand was conducted right to the inside, where the melted grease and the minute heat-expansion of the metal could do their work. Then I wound on the waistband again and practically tore all the ligaments in my arm and back with a long and mighty heave.
And that time again, the waistband turned. That time again I couldn’t be sure until the third turn, when the nut started moving more freely, that I’d really done it.
I climbed up on the sail bin and squinted out at the free world. To the left all I could see was sky and a sparkle of sun on water. I turned my head to the right and nearly fell off my perch. To the right there was a sail, and shining below it, green and rocky and moderately close, there was land.
I thought that if he came along at that moment to shut the hatch I would perversely be grateful.
Only desperation made me do what I did next, because I was sure that if he caught me in mid-escape he’d tie my hands and leave me in the dark on starvation rations.
The risk that I wouldn’t get out unseen was appalling. My present conditions were just about bearable; my future afterwards wouldn’t be.
Yet if I hadn’t meant to risk it, why had I laboured so long on the nuts?
I went back to the loo and unscrewed the nuts completely. I knocked the bolts out, and pulled the whole lever free.
Without it, no one could flush the loo. I thought grimly that it would be an added complication if I found myself back in the cabin with it gone.
There was no sign of anyone on deck, and as usual I couldn’t see if the boat was on automatic steering or whether there was anyone at the helm.
Hesitation was only in my mind. Looking back, it seemed as if I did everything very fast.
I pulled the hinged props of the hatch down inside the cabin, which one would do in the normal way if one wanted to shut the hatch oneself from the inside. This had the effect of slackening the guy-rope action of the chains crossed over the top.
Through the much reduced gap, little more than a slit, I poked the lever, aiming at where a link of chain was hooked over the cleat.
Long hours of inspection had given me the impression that those chains had no other fastening. Putting a link over the hook of the cleat must have seemed safe enough, because they were certain I had no means of dislodging them. I stuck the lever into the chain on the right, wedged it securely, and pushed. With almost miraculous elegance the whole chain slid loosely outwards, and the link fell off the cleat.
Without pausing for anything but mental hip-hoorays I applied the lever again, this time to where the fore and aft chain was fastened on the bow side. Again, with no more fuss, the link slid off.
I was committed. I couldn’t get the chains back on again. I had to open the hatch now, and climb out. There was no retreat.
I took the lever with me as a last resort against recapture, putting it out first on to the deck. Then with both hands I released the hatch from the hinged props and pushed it wide. Eased it down gently until it lay flat, fearing to let it crash open and bring them running.
I snaked out onto the deck on my stomach. Rolled to the right, under the jib sail. Reached the railing, grabbed it with both hands, and bunny-hopped fast over the side, going down into the sea straight and feet first, like a pillar.
It wasn’t the safest way of disembarking, but I survived it, staying down under the surface until my lungs protested. Surfacing was one of the most anxious moments of my life, but when I cautiously lifted mouth, nose and eyes above the water, there was the boat a hundred yards away, steadily sailing on.
With a great intake of air I sank down again and began to swim underwater towards the shore; gently, so as to make no notice-attracting splash.
The water was chilly, but not as cold as I’d expected. The shore, when I came up again, looked about a mile away, though distances at sea were deceptive.
The boat sailed on peacefully. It must have had a name on it, I supposed, though in the flurry I hadn’t seen one. I wondered how long it would be before they found I had gone. Supper time, with luck.