In the Wake of Heroes by Tom Cunliffe

Author:Tom Cunliffe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

Those thoughts marched, counter-marched, jostled in confused, increasing circles, both sublime and ridiculous, but mostly my thoughts were of Otilia herself. She had acted, in a most original and courageous manner, to further her ambition. My admiration for her was great, even though her scheme had interfered with my own plans. Nonetheless, I commended her to the special department of Guardian Angels who must surely look with benevolence on such a fearless soul.

At the first chill light of dawn I banged energetically on the deck, and after a time Otilia took over the helm, with scarcely a word. I went below to snatch a few hours’ sleep. Cold and weary I turned into my bunk to find it warm. Otilia evidently had forsaken the damp focsle and retired into my bunk. To come down from a cold watch to a warm bunk was by far the best arrangement. The matter was not mentioned between us; but what would they have said at Horta, I wondered.

It was Otilia’s second day at sea, and her diary recorded:

I have a feeling of non-existence in mid-ocean in a boat only a hand and a half long, which is taking me to a faraway land with an unknown man. I must say that in spite of his most unattractive beard I feel far more reassured when he is by my side...

A quiet night followed. Temptress slipped through the pale darkness under the first light of a new moon. With the tracery of rigging swinging gently past the stars we sat in the cockpit talking until late. Indeed the romantic setting was conducive to confidences, but by noon the next day we had only managed a run of forty-two miles. All during the night the swell had been rising from the south-east; the barometer dropped. Darkness faded. A streak of red sandwiched between clouds and sea indicated a sunrise stillborn. Bad weather was imminent, and soon a strong southerly wind forced us to heave to.

Two days passed, with Temptress drifting away to the north-east. Water breaking over the foredeck flooded the focsle. Otilia moved her belongings into the saloon. She was sea-sick, but after a while recovered sufficiently to cope with the cooking. On the third day she said, with a little nod of conviction, ‘If I had known it was going to be like this I would still have come.’

Thank God, she had a sense of humour too.

Alas, for my hopes for a fair wind, this was one of the very rare depressions that pass well south of the Azores. We had completed no less than ninety-six hours of being hove to, and still the wind blew viciously from the east. A large sea caught the boat unawares, knocking the bow round up to windward, causing a thunderous flogging of the mainsail and boom as they lashed furiously from side to side. The boat rolled in great sweeps to port and starboard. Otilia was chucked off the saloon settee on to the floor, and hung on with an expression on her face as if she thought the end of the world was at hand.

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