Straining forward over the wheel, able to see no more than the boy whose reflection filled the windscreen from behind his right shoulder, Carlos eased the throttles another couple of centimetres forward. The engine responded without complaint. The twisted shaft remained in its bed. The battered propeller turned faster. The faint signal on his battered old screen seemed to approach more rapidly. He allowed a little hope to trickle in among the prayers. ‘Go down and see how work is coming on the winch, Miguel-Angel,’ he ordered. The reflection of the boy sitting like a good angel on his right shoulder deepened the guilt the old man was feeling at what he was doing and deadened the hope as it threatened the efficacy of the prayers. He half expected to find a devil reflected on his left shoulder prompting him to run faster down the wide, welcoming road to hell, like in the Sunday-school stories of his youth. But when he looked up again the screen was empty of all reflections except for his own. And he wondered for a fleeting, bitter moment whether he was becoming a devil himself.
Miguel-Angel came out of the bridge house and ran down the five steps on to the after deck. At once he found himself wading, almost up to his knees in frothing, writhing water. For a moment he panicked, thinking Pilar must be sinking after all. But then he realized: the rain was coming down so hard that the scuppers and pumps could not get it overboard quickly enough to keep the well of the after deck dry. Especially because, now the net was gone, they had closed the gap in the transom once again. The only thing that stood above the foaming little lake, apart from the main winch which stood beside the five steps down from the wheel house at the forward end of the aft deck, was the top of the main hatch which opened down to the freezers below. Miguel-Angel walked to this and perched on the very edge of it for a moment, watching and waiting for his pulse to slow. He had seen the winch used in long lining before and knew it was designed to pull lines in through the open transom at the rear of the boat, allowing the hooked fish to slide aboard on to the deck area between the side and the raised hatch he was sitting on. He had seen men working there, unhooking the sleek, solid tuna and throwing them into the open hatchway down into the freezers. But he had never seen the equivalent process performed on a net.
Hernan and the others working on the winch at the near end of the little lake of icy rainwater did not seem to be unduly worried by the fact that the surface of rainwater in the low deck area was higher than the tops of their boots. The light Capitan Carlos had grudgingly allowed them — in spite of the fact that it was mid-morning and ought to have been bright enough by now — showed them bent over the winch like so many jaundiced hunchbacks, the yellow brightness gleaming strangely off their yellow oilskins. Miguel-Angel did not have oilskins, though his father’s chandlery on the Malecón had sets of them to spare. And, he thought, pulling himself upright beneath the stunning deluge and wading carefully across towards them, he would not have wasted his time on them in any case. For when he reached Hernan it was clear that the cook was no dryer than Miguel-Angel, in spite of his cumbersome coverings. He had even put on a sou’wester from which the water cascaded like a mask made of golden chains. ‘El capitan wants to know how work on the winch is going,’ he said.
Hernan dragged his hand down over his streaming face and whipped the drops off his finger ends. But no sooner had he done so than rivulets of rain wound down across his forehead once again, pulling locks of thick black hair into his eyes. ‘Tell him it is done,’ he answered. ‘We are just about to put the cover back on. Tell him to thank both San Telmo and San Andreas that it is worked by Pilar’s engine and not by electricity, for nothing electrical would stay alive out here in this. Have you ever seen such rain?’
‘There has never been such rain,’ called one of the crew. ‘If Jesucristo came walking on the water to tell us the world is ending I wouldn’t be surprised.’
‘We don’t need Jesucristo,’ called another. ‘We need el arco de Noa!’
Miguel-Angel chose to disregard the blasphemous byplay which would certainly be bringing the worst of bad luck down on Pilar. ‘Very well. I will tell him,’ he said stiffly. ‘What will you do next? El capitan will want to know.’
‘I will get as dry as I can, then I will prepare the last of the food and coffee. Things will become very busy after we find the net, and we will need to have mustered all our strength.’
‘The capitan will want gorditas, I am sure. Egg and fish. And coffee. I will come down for them.’
Hernan looked over his shoulder at the team of labouring crewmen. They represented about three-quarters of those aboard. Pablo the engineer and his little team were down below, nursing the engine along. For the engine was the heart of the vessel — indeed, of the whole enterprise. If it stopped then all was lost. Hernan and the deck hands would never be able to get the nets aboard without the winch. And even if they did so, the freezers in the holds beneath the raised hatchway would not stay cold for long without power. And Pilar, in any case, would just go drifting helplessly and impotently through the storm. But in the meantime all those busy and hardworking men, above deck and below, would be hungry. ‘You had better be quick, then,’ said Hernan, ‘or there will be nothing left — for Capitan Carlos or for you.’
TWENTY-ONE
Liberty had never before had to consider the weight of water. She had considered its fluidity — its habit of forming currents, tides, waves and races. She had considered its depths and shallows, especially as these affected wave-sets and, consequently, sailing speeds. She had also considered its solidity — even before that very characteristic smashed her pitchpoling multihull to pieces. But she had never considered its simple weight. Even when stocking holiday sail boats with supplies as a girl, she had never really thought about the mass of the one-gallon plastic jugs of fresh drinking water she used to haul aboard her grandfather’s yacht in Hyannis Port. She never really considered the heaviness of a kettle or a teapot filled to overflowing. Of a cup or mug of tea or coffee full to the brim.
But now the weight of water was something of immediate concern to Liberty and to the others as well. Because she felt that — even through her sailing gear — she was being bruised by the weight and clout of the rain cascading relentlessly down on to her. Had she not lashed the cut end of her lifeline to Florence’s harness, which was in turn clipped to the safety toggle attached to the inertia reel system in the groove beside the footholds on the sail, she would have been even more worried, for the water not only had weight that was beating down on her with stunning power, it also had force that was trying to wash her off the slick surface.
Liberty was lying face down, as securely spread as the closeness of the other three would allow. The inflated Gill Marine lifejacket kept her face above the water level, for there was a good solid inch of water on the surface of the sail. The back of it mercifully protected the back of her neck. The hood of her Helly Hansen sailing jacket helped to protect the back of her head. But nothing, it seemed, could protect her shoulders, back or ribs, which felt as though she had just survived a lively boxing bout. And for some reason she could not get out of her head the strange idea that her buttocks, thighs and calves were being tenderized for a cannibalistic feast. Or as toothsome morsels for the sharks she was sure were circling in the depths immediately below.