“Betty wouldn’t mind, would she?”
“She’s all for it! She says it would do me good.” David was standing at Stormchild’s wheel, which, in the manner of many brilliant dinghy helmsmen who find themselves sailing a larger yacht, he twitched far too frequently. We had left the river long before dawn and flown up-channel in the grip of a bitter east wind that had now gentled and backed into an evening whisper. Stormchild had taken the day’s white-topped waves beautifully, while now, serene and beautiful, she ghosted the evening’s flood tide homeward. “She sails very sweetly,” David said as he glanced up at her towering, sunset-touched main.
“She does,” I agreed, “but I still wouldn’t mind a second pair of hands aboard.”
“Doubtless, doubtless.” David crouched out of the small wind to light his pipe, then chucked the dead match overboard. “Even the bishop said a sabbatical might do me good,” he added wistfully.
“Then come!” I said, exasperated by his refusal.
“It would be sheer irresponsibility,” he said with a touch of irascibility. “Besides, I’m older than you. I don’t think I could cope with the discomforts of long-distance cruising.”
“Balls.”
He shrugged. “If I could find someone to look after the parishes, I would, maybe.” He sounded very uncertain.
“I wish you would come. Think of all the bird life in Alaska!”
“There is that,” he said wistfully. David and Betty were both ardent ornithologists, and their house was filled with bird books and pictures.
“So come!” I urged him.
He shook his head. “You’ve been itching to make a long voyage for years, Tim. It’s been too long since you sailed round the world. But I’m not itching for the same thing. I’ve become a creature of habit. People think I’m a curmudgeonly old clergyman, and that’s exactly what I want to be. You go, and I’ll stay at home and pray for you. And I’ll keep a pastoral eye on the boatyard, too.”
“If you change your mind,” I said, “you can always fly out and join me.”
“That’s true, that’s true.”
Our wake was now just a shimmer of evening light, proof how sea-kindly was Stormchild’s sleek hull. We were hurrying home in an autumn dusk, sliding past a dark shore where the first lights hazed the misted hills yellow. There was a chill in the air, a foretaste of winter, an invitation to follow the migrating birds and turn our boat’s bows south. In front of us the sea was dark, studded by the winking lights of the buoys, while astern of Stormchild the empty sea was touched with the dying sun’s gold so that it looked like a shining path which would lead to the earth’s farthest ends and to where all our secret hopes and wildest dreams might one day come true.
I had Stormchild’s compasses swung professionally, then had a technician give her radar a final service. I had learned that the Alaskan coast was prey to ship-killing fogs, so the radar was more than a frill, it was a necessity. The aerial was mounted at the mast’s upper spreaders and fed its signal to two screens; a main one above the navigation station at the foot of the companionway, and a repeater screen that was mounted in the yacht’s center cockpit.
A new spray hood arrived. It was made from stout blue canvas with clear plastic windows that would shelter the forward section of Stormchild’s cockpit against the bitter northern seas and shrieking winds. Stormchild had a small auxiliary wheel mounted in that forward section of the cockpit, while the main wheel was further aft. Astern of the large main wheel was the teak-planked coach roof over the after cabin. That cabin was the most comfortable aboard, but not in a rough sea when the motion amidships was always easier, so I was using the after cabin as a storeroom. I planned to live, sleep, navigate, and cook in the main living quarters amidships. On the starboard side of those midships quarters was the navigation station, which was equipped with a generous table, good chart stowage, and plenty of space for the radios and instrumentation. Aft of the navigation table was a shower and lavatory, while opposite, on the port side of the companionway, was a large galley. Forward of the galley was the saloon with its two wide sofas, table, and wall of shelves that held books and cassette tapes. The diesel-powered heater looked something like a small and complex woodstove, and gave the saloon a decidedly cozy air, a feeling heightened by the framed pictures and glass-shaded oil lamps.
Forward of the main cabin were two smaller sleeping cabins that shared a common bathroom. I had turned one of the cabins into a engineering workroom, while the other was crammed with stores. Last were two chain lockers, a sail locker, and a watertight compartment that held Stormchild’s small diesel generator, under which one of the two rifles was hidden.
On deck I had a life raft in a container, a dinghy that was lashed to the after-coach roof, and a stout rack filled with boat hooks, whisker poles, and oars. At the stern, on a short staff, I flew the bomb-scarred red ensign which had flown from Slip-Slider and which the navy had rescued from the channel. I would take that ragged flag to my own journey’s end as a symbol of Joanna.
Stormchild had been rerigged, repainted, and replenished. The work had taken me eight weeks exactly, and now she was ready. The sale of my house was progressing smoothly, the boatyard had a new manager and all I needed now was the right weather to slip down channel and round Ushant. That weather arrived in early November, and I topped up Stormchild’s water and fuel tanks, checked her inventory one more time, then went ashore for my last night in England. I stayed with David and Betty, and used their telephone to make a final effort to reach Jackie Potten. There was no answer from Jackie’s telephone, and only the answering machine responded when I called Molly Tetterman’s house. So much for the ladies of Kalamazoo, I thought, and put the phone down without leaving any message.
The next morning, in a cold rain and gusting wind, I carried the last of my luggage down to the boatyard where the heavily laden Stormchild waited at the pontoon. Friends had come to bid me farewell and cheered when David’s wife, Betty, broke a bottle of champagne on Stormchild’s stemhead. David said a prayer of blessing over the boat, then we all trooped below to drink more champagne. David and Betty gave me two parting gifts: a book about Alaskan birds and the Book of Common Prayer. “Not the modern rubbish,” David assured me, “but the 1662 version.” It was a beautiful and ancient book with a morocco leather binding and gilt-edged pages.