Ever since the barrage of sound had started, Hans and I had guessed what it was — the Atlantic hurricane waves pounding at the near-thousand-foot cliffs of Fitful Head. We both of us knew what that could mean, but now that we could all of us see the towering mass itself, I do not think there was a man among us who did not believe his last hour had come. But though it seemed so near, we were still out beyond the ten fathom line, and the cliffs were moving, sliding past, the rig being carried south-east by the tide at almost three knots. Soon we could see the headland of Siggar Ness, and when the tide swept us past it, there was open sea, wind and tide with us, both carrying us south-east towards Horse Island and the Sumburgh Roost.
It was almost dark then, and as night fell, nothing to see in the pitch black fury, all our senses were in our ears and in the feel of the rig under our feet. I don't know when we hit the Roost. The rig was like a half-submerged wreck and there was such a pandemonium of breaking waves and crashing gear that it was impossible to tell whether the chaos was the effect of the race or shallows. But I didn't care. We were in the clear, and so long as the pontoons did not strike a reef, I was sure a structure as massive as a rig would survive it. And then, suddenly, Sumburgh light came clear of the land, its revolving beam haloed in the wind-driven spray.
The light bore roughly 20°, and within a very short time it was due north of us. I knew then that we were % in the grip of the great tidal race that streams round the southern tip of Shetland. I remembered reading all about it in the Pilot, and on the Mary Jane I had found an old Admiralty tide book: Ships in it frequently become unmanageable, and sometimes founder. Those words had undoubtedly been written with the fishing boats in mind, but the statement: It should be given a wide berth was as applicable now as then.
When we entered the race the tidal flow was with the wind, so that we were moving eastward at a considerable speed. But the Pilot, which I had brought with me from the barge engineer's office, warned that in the Roost the tide only ran eastward for about three hours. There was then a 'still' of about half an hour, after which the tidal flow was westward for nine hours. Thus, we had only a short period of the eastward thrust left. The 'still' came and there was less sea, the light on Sumburgh head blurred and almost stationary, bearing roughly 350°.
That night I was convinced the rig would break up. Shortly after midnight there was a terrible rending of metal, the whole structure shaking to a series of power-hammer thuds. The mud tanks had broken adrift. They went on rumbling and crashing hour after hour as we lay huddled together for warmth, our bodies soaked and shivering with cold. It was a terrible night, and the pounding went on and on.
They finally smashed a way through and went over the side shortly after four. It suddenly seemed almost quiet. The seas were lessening, too, and Sumburgh Light bore north-east. We were out of the Roost.
An hour later we were back in it again. The tide had turned and was carrying us eastward. No rain now, and with visibility much improved, we could check our progress by the bearing of the light. In the space of just over an hour it moved from north-east through north to almost north-west. That was when we were finally spewed out of the Roost by the eastward flow and came under the lee of the land. The wind died away, and the sea with it.
Dawn found us roughly four miles east of Sumburgh Head, a battered wreck being carried slowly northward on the tide. An RAF Nimrod came over, flying low, and an hour later the first tug was coming up over the horizon. We raised a cheer as it steamed close alongside. But though we cheered the tug's arrival, we were too cold, too dazed to do anything about it. The iron staircase to the derrick floor was gone, the pipe skid our only way down. Nobody had the energy to be lowered on a rope, to struggle through the tangled wreckage and get a towline fixed. We had been inactive so long that we clung to inactivity, immobilized by the long, dreadful night, by the memory of our fear, of death so narrowly averted.
It wasn't for another two hours, when there were three tugs and a navy ship milling around us, that men boarded us and one by one we were got down from our refuge, lowered into boats and taken on board the destroyer. Villiers was with me in the naval pinnace and I remember my surprise at the extraordinary resilience of the man, the sudden return of confidence. His square-jawed face was dark with stubble, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot from the shattering force of the wind, and his right hand, lacerated by a piece of flying metal, was still wrapped in the bandage Lennie had fixed. And yet he could talk about the future, about the huge possibilities of the oilfield North Star had found.
Maybe it was nervous reaction, words pouring out of him as he thought aloud, but I couldn't help admiring him. If he had had phones beside him, he would have been rapping out orders, raising finance. 'The rig doesn't matter. If we lost half a dozen rigs, the cost of them would still be nothing. I'd still have merchant bankers falling over themselves to lend me money.'
'If you lose rigs,' I said, 'you lose lives.'
But he brushed that aside. 'We didn't lose any. Not during the storm, not one. And the rig is covered by Lloyds. How long do you reckon it will take to get it repaired?'
'I've no idea,' I answered tersely. I didn't care about the rig. I was worrying about the Duchess, anxious to check that she hadn't dragged her anchors and been forced to put to sea in that maelstrom of a night.
He pushed his hand up over his face, rubbing at the caked salt. 'I have to think of the future,' he said. 'What this oil strike means to the company. A lot of reorganization, new management.' He looked at me then. 'Room for somebody like you.' And he added, 'I owe you a lot, Randall. And you've got brains, education, financial training, even shipyard experience. The knack of handling men, too.' The boat was slowing now, manoeuvring to come alongside the destroyer, and he leaned forward. 'Would you like to come down to London for a few weeks, get the feel of things?'
'Whatever for?' I asked dully, thinking of Gertrude.
'I don't know yet. The rig for a start. Somebody will have to be cracking the whip. Then there's the Shetland office. That will have to expand fast. It will be first priority, and I'll need somebody with a Shetland background.' He was thinking aloud. And then he said, 'Anyway, you come down to London with me. I'll be needing men like you.'
I looked at him then, realizing he was serious. 'I'll think about it,' I said. But I knew I wouldn't. Not if I had Gertrude. I might be able to handle it, but I couldn't see Gertrude fitting into the sort of life he was offering me. And Gertrude was all I wanted. That's what the night had taught me. She was the rock I was now clinging to. Without Gertrude I would be adrift again. But together, creating something of our own — a service, up here in this wild, beautiful world we both understood. I was thinking of The Taing, that house, the ship lying off and the voe as I had once seen it, in moonlight from the bedroom window. That was what I wanted, my life worthwhile and with purpose. Not something handed to me ready-made and only to be managed, something not my own.
I clambered up the destroyer's side and asked the lieutenant who greeted us if I could use the ship's R/T.
'You're Captain Randall of the Duchess, are you? Your ship will be up with us in about an hour. And I have a message for you. Will you check with Mr Villiers that she is to resume stand-by duty under the terms of the charter.'
I looked at Villiers, and suddenly we were both laughing.
AUTHOR'S NOTE