The collision of these two systems would produce a narrow trough between a tropical high and a southern low, a condition known as a squeeze. The weather would become horribly dangerous, and the seas would become incredibly violent and unpredictable.
The same sort of weather that killed 9 people in the 1998 Sydney to Hobart Race, and crippled another 39 yachts.
These were precisely the conditions for which Second Chance had been built to withstand; not to fight. Sam had learned long ago that you never fought with the powers of the sea, unless you wished to be crushed by them. Instead, your aim should be to follow the sea's commands by making simple adjustments.
As he looked up at the clear blue skies, Sam knew how close these conditions were to those which he and his brother had faced during that terrible day more than ten years ago. He had been lucky. That’s all it was. It had never been a question of skill under the circumstances, just dumb luck. His brother, Danny, had sadly not been so lucky.
Sam had spent a long time frightened by the sea; he had even told his mother that he would not enter the family business, but as time passed, he knew that there was only one way to beat the nightmares from his past. He could never avoid it. He had to return to where he belonged. Where, deep down, he knew it was the only place he felt truly comfortable.
The ocean didn’t care who your father was, or how rich you were. Out on the ocean, you were only as safe as the sea allowed you to be. Out there, you were just another one of the sea's trillion lifeforms, no more or less important than any other.
As Manly harbor came into view, Sam made his final tack before leaving Sydney Harbor and then he turned due south, toward a cold hell.
Sam sailed alone.
There was no way he could explain to anyone why he chose to sail solo. His father, the only person to whom he didn’t have to explain it, understood exactly why he made this choice, as would only a fellow solo yachtsman. His mother never would understand, and he himself didn’t quite understand it either. It was something he was driven to do. He had to do it, just like the salmon returning to the same creek of its birth to spawn; he was searching for a resolution to a problem which he’d spent the better half of his life trying to fix.
It would take Second Chance two days to reach Bass Strait. Then, when the storm was at its worst, he would take her through the strait, south around Tasmania, before returning. All told, he would be gone for no more than a week.
Will I find the answer in this one or at the bottom of the sea? He didn’t take the question lightly.
He loved these trips as much as he feared them.
The challenge of solo sailing was rewarded by the sole ownership of the achievement. A yacht, with its sails trimmed to perfection, its course correctly synchronized with the swell and the current, was the easiest thing in the world to manage as a solo sailor. Second Chance was 68 feet in length and carried more than a thousand feet of sail. A head sail, stay sail, main sail, and mizzen, could be controlled by a six-year-old child, if managed correctly.
In truth, if he had done his job as skipper, he would have little else to do but enjoy the journey.
The sea, he knew, was as kind as it was unforgiving.
Over the course of the next twenty-four hours, little changed. The swell had risen to fifteen feet, but it was a following sea and comfortable enough to sail with. The wind then increased to 35 knots. It was enough to worry a weekend sailor, but only just enough to start to see the full potential for which Second Chance had been engineered.
Not enough to create any misgivings in his mind.
Sam wasn’t one of those sailors who felt that he needed to round the Cape of Good Hope in a dingy using traditional methods of navigation and hand steering the entire way, simply in order to prove his seamanship. For him, it was all about being there, in the middle of one of nature’s most violent spectacles, sharing in its power without being overcome by it.
Sam had no misgivings about using all the wonders provided by modern science. Second Chance certainly wasn’t a production yacht. She was built for one purpose only, chasing storms.
She was the product of years of development by the finest shipwrights, naval architects, engineers, and actual sailors. Built with the kind of money that could hardly be spent in a single lifetime; the sort of family wealth into which Sam had been born.
Her hull was fiberglass with carbon fiber chine and a full keel, making her exceptionally light, strong, and stable. Equipped with state-of-the-art autopilot, GPS navigation, IAS, radar and satellite phone and internet, some might argue that Sam wasn’t a real sailor.
Fortunately, as his eyes carefully perused the advanced instruments at his navigation table, he really didn’t give a shit what people thought he was doing out here; as far as he was concerned, this journey was for him alone.
It was 8p.m., and although the sun had set more than an hour ago, the bright full moon gave a seductively clear view of the ocean around him.
This was his real home.
The swell, already reasonably large, was flowing in a consistent direction, and had none of the usual roughness to it. Tonight, he would sleep soundly.
He climbed down the stairs and into the main cabin. Still wide awake, he flicked open his laptop. It was connected to the main information and satellite system which had cost him a fortune to have installed onboard Second Chance.
On the top of his computer screen, there was a picture of a mailbox and to the right of it appeared the number 3.
He clicked on the icon.
At times, he was unsure whether or not he loved or hated having access to such communications while at sea. He found three letters in his inbox and about a dozen more in his spam filter. Two messages were from Deep Sea Expeditions. He hit skip — they were probably after him, and with this storm coming in, they were going to need everyone they could get, and they were probably trying to rescind his leave. He was on holiday, so it was not his problem. This storm was for him.
The last email was from Kevin Reed.
Sam had studied at MIT with Kevin, but had never had any particular relationship with him. Kevin had been studying Geometric Variances, while Sam had been studying Oceanography, before moving on to get his Master’s in Microbiology. He couldn’t for the life of him come up with a reason why the man would be emailing him now. He was pretty certain he hadn’t signed up for any alumni. Besides, he wasn’t old enough for a reunion anyway.
The very thought of it made him laugh.
He opened the message and started reading.
Dear Sam,
My wife and I have been in Europe on a six month climbing holiday. You will never believe what we found! This was the only one, although we continued to search the area for two weeks before we were willing to let it go.
I was wondering if you could tell me where it could have come from, and whether or not you think we might find more like it?
Attached was a Jpeg file showing a small gold ingot bearing at its center, the impression of a letter G and a letter O, separated by an artistically designed infinity symbol.
Any advice you could impart would be much appreciated.
Kind regards, Kevin and Sally.
At the bottom of the letter, were the words: do you want to come on a treasure hunt?