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Read Part One here
A rogue pattern of westerly winds pushed the race fleet further into the Atlantic than expected. For the first few days Oya hoped it may let her find whales, being in the deeper ocean instead of hugging the shoreline was theoretically a better option, but her screens showed nothing. Once there was a contact and she got excited, but it never came up for air. She guessed it was a submarine. For long moments, with paranoia borne of loneliness, she wondered if her barb had sunk deeper into the president than anticipated, and this would be how she disappeared. The contact broke after a few hours and the empty seas continued to roll round under leaden gray skies.
She was sailing through the eight-hundred-mile gap between the Falkland Islands and South Georgia when the storm came. The timing of the race allowed for the competitors to sail the South Atlantic at the height of summer, when storms were fewest and gentlest. This one rolled in late.
The gray sky deepened from lead to cobalt. Waves got bigger, becoming great walls of water which carried the boat up until it felt like sailing in the clouds. From the base of a trough only water was visible, great canyon walls which rippled and shifted. Then the rain started. Thick sheets of water careened from the sky. It assaulted Oya, the impact tangible even through layers of hi-tec clothing. The plexi-screens became a blur but showed the weather system was wide and deep. The storm could rage for days yet, and she needed to rest and eat.
Sango’s sails were already rigged for the weather, now Oya turned the auto-steer system on, unclipped her safety line, and retreated to the small cabin. Her skin was sore and dry from the salty air, the only smell was the saltiness of the ocean, its taste was on her lips, as if she were enveloped by a salty lover. She peered at the internal screen, willing the weather to change, the storm to dissipate, or move away. Cooking was impossible, so the only food was self-heating rations. She clipped one out of the food cupboard and pulled its heating tab. It was warm, hot even, but she’d never eaten chili so bland, or sweet. It didn’t matter. She gulped the grainy meat down and opened another can, which claimed to be stewed peaches and custard. She wished for some of her gramma’s yam porridge.
The sonar pinged as the boat pitched across the top of another wave. Oya scuttled over, braced herself directly in front of the screen, and tapped to the correct interface. There was a group of contacts, but they showed as being at the surface, whales would be down deep in a storm like this, only coming up for air. Something else flashed on the screen. New RIFD tags were being picked up by the boat, they gave consignment numbers and port details.
Understanding struck as the first of the sonar contacts moved by a few hundred meters to starboard. The next was nearer, to port. Oya scrambled to get her jacket fastened, and gloves back on. She opened the cabin door, struggling as the wind snatched it.
She peered into the murk, blinking against the swirling rain. A dull red transport container was sliding down the face of another massive wave. Somewhere a ship had lost part of its consignment, and the containers with enough buoyancy were being swept along by the storm. For them to still be grouped together suggested the ship was up ahead, just over the horizon and out of radar-view. She wondered why it hadn’t shown up on the satellite map, and figured it must be a sanction buster, sneaking goods past the Chinese/US embargo of Argentina or Brazil.
It didn’t matter. The important thing was keeping Sango away from the debris. She pulled the slip cord on her hood so less of her face was exposed. Her heart thudded with fear. Hitting one of the containers would put her out of the race, cripple the boat, and could leave her in mortal danger. Sure, she had distress beacons, and the orange face of her emergency watch was bright in the gloom. But these were the ultimate backstops in case of tragedy and no guarantee of rescue. She gripped the wheel and flicked her eyes between the visible container, and those showing on the rain smeared plexi-screen.
The sky lit with a jagged flash of purple, the waves pulsed in an afterglow that rippled with pearlescent brilliance. Oya blinked to get rid of the after-flash. The crunch of thunder came within the second, a roar that pummelled her ears. She shook her head, gripped the wheel, and muttered a prayer unsaid since sitting on her Gramma’s knee in the outskirts of pre-revolution Lagos.
The next lightning strike hit the mast, overwhelming the boat’s electrical circuits. Oya still had her eyes closed, still trying to shift the first strike from her vision. The thunder felt like it happened in her head and chest, the violence of the sound shuddered her hips and legs, it enveloped her in a blanket of juddering air, forcing her lungs to gasp for oxygen.
She opened her eyes to blank screens. The container on the right loomed large, but only because she’d already seen it. It couldn’t touch her when it was already past. The next one was due to be closer and just to port. She looked but saw nothing. The sky was beginning to lose the little light that struggled through the clouds and storm. In vain hope Oya clicked the switch for the solar spotlights. They failed to come on. She closed her eyes and fought to remember where the containers had appeared on the sonar.
The Sango clipped something in the water, pitching Oya left just as a wave flicked right. Her safety line had remained unclipped in the rush to get topside and, without the tether, she was thrown overboard before being able to grab a handhold.
She swore. A visceral sound drowned out by thunder. She started a three-step process drilled into her by Ana. As she clamped her teeth round the glove’s middle finger and pulled, she wondered how Ana would berate her for forgetting to attach the safety line. The cold water on her skin was a shock and she almost dropped the glove, it drove thoughts of Ana away.
The large emergency beacon knob on her watch felt tiny between chilled fingers and she struggled to twist it from its housing. When deployed the watch face flashed green to say the Personal Locator Beacon had activated. It was a false comfort, pretending that things would be okay. She fought her hand back into the glove.
Now she unzipped an outer pocket and extracted a flare. The pull strip was awkward, but after three attempts it gripped and the flare jumped skywards, a red streak which nearly outshone the lightning flickering all around her. She watched the rocket rise and hoped whatever ship dropped the containers would see it.
Last, she pulled a lanyard which inflated the upper part of her jacket and triggered the release of florescent dye, which spread into the water around her.
Floating over the crest of another wave she saw Sango moving further away, getting smaller. A feeling of disconnection flooded through her, like part of her was leaving and could never return. It hit deep in the belly, just above the groin, and she almost cried out as the wind whipped water across her face.
Seconds became minutes. Minutes tracked together. The sky darkened. Oya floated up and down waves larger than houses. Whatever small heat existed in the Southern Ocean during summer was minimal and even her excellent protection was failing. With nothing left to do weariness and cold over-rode her and shut her down.
text by stuartcturnbull, picture by GB_photo via Pixbay
Part One
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six