Vince book 2

By Eric Bray

Vince, George, Pete, and Trev cross the path of some more of their local low-life, including the IRA and a Tong.
Pete finally falls for Oki. Will their relationship survive the ordeal?
Will the magical disappearing Magnum appear again?
Read on to find out!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Bray
• Release date: Dec 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466065734

Eric Bray

Born in 1950, after school,I served my country in the Royal Navy, the least said about which the better. Since then I have made plastic drain-pipes, driven a fork truck, worked as a courier in the multi-drop rip-off game, and for the last two years have watched a conveyor belt going around. I have now achieved retirement. I began writing for amusement during my lunch-breaks, and rose to the challenge of becoming published when I commented on a book I had purchased, saying something along the lines of - "I could do better than that!" - when someone said - "Go on, then!" My other hobbies are scuba-diving, designing, building, and flying radio-controlled model aircraft, ham radio, photography, and avoiding gardening.

Book preview

Chapter one.

Now.

Blackness.

Blackness, all around, except up.

Upwards, a faint, silvery, sparkly layer twinkled.

Silence.

Silence, apart from a quiet multiplicity of ticking sounds, as thousands of shrimps chattered.

He listened, not moving. He would have to breathe, soon.

There! A sudden rattly gurgle was followed by a sharp hiss of in-drawn breath, to his left. He exhaled, slowly, and then drew in a fresh breath. Gurgle-gurgle, hiss! He pedaled his feet, in a gentle bicycling action, for a few cycles, and then stopped again, listening.

Gurgle-gurgle, hiss!

He bicycled again, angling a bit more to his left, breathing gently, knowing his exhaust gases gave away his location, as his partner's breathing did the same for her. A few more kicks of his feet, and he piled slowly into a large rock that was covered in slime which phosphoresced dimly at the disturbance.

A hand grabbed him, spun him around, and was gone, before he could catch it. Disoriented, he breathed hard three or four times, and then flicked on a tiny torch so that he could check the instruments on his console. They showed that he was at a depth of fourty feet, and had one hundred atmospheres of air remaining. The time, according to his watch, was three twenty, a.m. The instruments told him it was time to go. He turned the tiny torch off before switching on a large hand-lantern, which he waved around in a circle. Off to his right, a dim green light flashed on, as his partner examined the readings on her dive computer. She then switched on her own lantern, hunted for, found him, and closed in. He held his right hand out, and illuminated it with his lantern. In moments, a slim hand gripped his, fingers intertwining. Together, they finned slowly upwards. They had been playing a silly game of their own devising, a variation of hide and seek, in three dimensions. Technically, they were breaking every rule in the British Sub Aqua Club hand-book by diving alone, and at night. But both of them knew the rules, and trusted each other implicitly. Their equipment was as reliable as any mechanical thing could be. If a torch came on, it was ‘game over’, and they would meet up.

As they rose, a gentle tinkling, hissing, sound became audible over the noise of their breathing. Their heads popped above the surface, and something was tapping them gently on their hooded scalps.

He released her hand, removed his demand valve, and said, Bloody hell, it’s raining! We’re going to get soaked!

She laughed at the inane remark, as they were up to their necks in sea-water, and couldn’t get wetter if they tried. She looked around, seeking land-marks.

The Landie is just to the left of straight behind us. He advised, without looking round.

How did you know?

I saw the beam of South Stack light-house, to my right, and the moon is throwing enough light to show the silhouette of the sides of the inlet.

The rain began to fall more heavily. This will wreck my hair-do! She protested.

He chuckled. Her short blonde hair, crunched up inside a neoprene hood similar to his own, was kept short, in a ‘random’ style, during the diving season, which roughly speaking, was from mid February, to late December, depending on the air temperature, and more importantly, the wind and sea conditions. The sea temperature didn’t vary that much, thanks to an eddy off the Gulf Stream, the deep current which brought warm water from the Equator, up past Europe’s west coast, thus past the U.K, then headed off towards the North Pole.

Come on, I’m starving, and Joan’ll be having kittens, soon, if we don’t call her. Joan was their baby-sitter, friend, and Coast-guard alarm, in the event they didn’t call her, via the two-way radio in the Land-Rover, to let her know they were alright.

She put her demand valve back in, as did he, and they finned companionably inshore, towards the flashing strobe-light they’d left in the Land-Rover’s windscreen, together with an ‘A’ flag, which meant ‘Diver in the Water’, and a note requesting that the area be kept unobstructed. Not that there was room for a second vehicle in the tiny lay-by, in the unlikely event that one should pass by at this hour.

As the sea bottom came up to meet them, they threaded their way between clumps of bladder-wrack fastened to boulders, until there was no depth left. She squeezed through a gap between two rocks, forcing him to porpoise over one, and then they ran aground on soft yellow sand. He rolled over and sat up, in one combined, practiced movement, then spat out his demand valve. She curled her knees under, and came upright, reaching behind to unstrap her fins. He was sitting in a foot of water, with a knee raised, when a door-lock snapped, and the interior light of a car came on, just in front of the Landie.

I hope I’m not disturbing you two, down there, is it? But I’ve had a report of lewd behaviour on the beach, and thought I’d better check it out!

Hello, Lew! The girl called. We’ll be with you in a minute!

Alright, Ossifer, we’ll come quietly! The man said, as he stood, then tripped over an unseen obstacle, floundered off-balance for a moment, then fell again, with a mighty splash! He rolled over in the water, sat up again, spat out a mouthful of sand and water, then added, Well, almost!

Clumsy buggers!

Come down here, and give us a hand, then!

Sorry, I’m in uniform, or I would.

Excuses!

You two must be crazy, going diving in the dark! It’s dangerous enough in daylight. Look at what happened to you, three years ago!

That was sabotage, and you know it! She captured her companion’s escaping fin, and clambered up the beach, weighed down by her Scuba equipment.

The man called after her, Hang on a mo’, I’ve lost a fin!

I’ve got it, you dope! I don’t use three at once!

Ah! He splashed through the shallow water, and then clanked up the beach after her. I think I damaged a hose when I tripped, I can hear something hissing.

The hissing stopped, then there was a rustle of cloth, and the sound of a zip.

I thought I heard a leaking hose, the man continued, but it turned out to be a leaking Jose! They’d discovered that Lew’s middle name was Jose, pronounced the Spanish way, after he’d partaken of too much Sake at their wedding reception.

I hope you’ve not made a puddle on the footpath! the girl called, as she splashed through a quarter of an inch of rainwater which gradually deepened into a streamlet, as the rain continued battering down. The man, following behind, was getting the worst of it, as the water spilled from the road and the overgrown banks then onto the track he was plodding up. It was racing down it in a foaming torrent, which gradually increased to a level above his knees, threatening to wash him back down to the small beach.

The girl splashed up to the Land-Rover, fished inside her wet-suit top and pulled out a key on a nylon cord which was hung around her neck. She unlocked the driver’s door, and then reached inside, and under the dashboard, where she felt for, and switched off, a hidden switch. Lew took the weight of her cylinder from her shoulders as she slackened, and shrugged out of, the restraining harness, and then passed it back when she turned. Thanks, Lew! She carried it round to the back of the Landie, unlocked, and opened the rear door, heaved the set inside before turning off the pillar-valve, then pressed the ‘purge’ button on the demand valve, to release the trapped pressure. Come on, Vince, you slow-coach! She called.

Vince was thigh deep, now, and struggling to maintain his footing. Bloody hell! he cursed, whose idea was it, anyway?

Yours!

AH! He fought his way up, onto the flat ground, where the torrent was only ankle deep.

The girl reached into the Land-Rover again, lifting a microphone. She switched on the radio connected to it, then said, Joan, its George! You up? She listened for a moment, and then repeated the phrase. No, either she’s asleep, or we’re out of range, here.

I’ll put the big set on, in a moment, then. The man called Vince took his cylinder off, and laid it in the back, next to hers. What’re you really doing here, Lew?

Like I said, there is a report of a couple cavorting on a beach, making grunting and sighing noises!

This rain will put a damper on their passion! I hate to disappoint you, but it wasn’t us, we only surfaced a few minutes ago. Perhaps they’re in the next cove. I suppose it was that old woman that complained, again. If only she’d do what everyone else does and go to bed at night instead of peeping through - - -. Vince tailed off, as he realized what he was saying.

Lew chuckled. If you’ve dug yourself into a hole, stop digging, Boyo, is it!

Er, I meant -.

Shut up, Vince! Vince shut up, the Boss had spoken. George wiggled the Landie’s gear-shift, to check it was in neutral, and then started the engine. When it had settled, she opened the near-side door for Vince, who switched on the big transceiver he’d mounted under the seat. He checked the frequency it was tuned to, then pressed the transmit button. An earsplitting screech battered their ears as he hastily let go. George casually switched off the little two-way she had used, avoiding his eyes. Vince tried again, and this time, Joan answered.

Lew had splashed across the narrow isthmus of rock and scrub that separated the two little bays, and was waving the beam from George’s borrowed lantern around on the sand. A movement caught his attention, and he aimed the beam at it, picking out the culprits. George, Vince, come and see! He called to them. They went across. There’s your courting couple, is it! he said, flicking on the lantern again. The beam illuminated three seals, two adults and a cub, in a huddle on the sand. The bull barked a challenge, while the cub whistled Come and play!

Lew switched off the lantern, and squelched back to his car to call in the report, carefully choosing his phrases to give the radio room crew a laugh. - Cautioned a vagrant family of seals, with no permanent address - No. - Cautioned a vagrant family, of no permanent address, and no visible income or finances. When asked if they understood the charge, they replied, Honk! Yes, that’ll do!

How about including, ah, - Smelled something fishy about their reply? George suggested, as she wiped the worst of the rain from her diving suit with a saturated rag, before climbing into the driving seat of her Landie.

Vince was standing by the police car, waiting for Lew to finish his call, ready to invite him home for a cuppa. Lew ran on cups of tea, preferably free ones, but this time he refused, as he was en-route to Holyhead.

Well, next time you are passing, then. You know where we are! Vince waved, and paddled back to the Landie. George had the heater on, and the wipers flogging across the windscreen, now. She shifted into four-wheel drive, for insurance, then they trundled off at a leisurely pace, the headlights about as effective as candles in the downpour.

D.I. Lew Jones shook his head at their crazy life-style, then cranked up his car, and went on his way.

Joan listened to the tyres crunch up the shingle drive, the garage door rattle, the engine note booming as it became enclosed, the door rattled again, and then the engine fell silent. After a minute, the gas water heater popped into roaring life, and she knew they were using the showers that Vince had installed in the double garage. Until it was explained to her, she thought it a stupid idea, but it made washing the salt off the gear easy, avoiding the mess caused by carting it through the house, into the bathroom. There wouldn’t be much salt on the outside, tonight, but there may be plenty of mud! Vince had also added short spurs of hose, controlled by taps, onto the shower pipes. Originally intended for washing the kit, they’d soon found that stuffing the hose up a sleeve of the wet-suit, while still wearing it, turned the suit into a one person-sized hot water bottle, perfect for a quick warm-up after a chilly dive.

When they finally came through into the kitchen, Joan had two coffees and two buttered scones ready for them

Oh, thanks, Joan! Just what we needed! Was there any bother from the beastie? George asked.

You’re welcome. No, none whatsoever. He’s slept right through, and never even realized that you’d gone.

That’s good, it makes it easy for you. I suppose you fell asleep in the chair, again?

No, I found an American station on Vince’s scanner, and listened to that when the film had finished.

Yeuk! I can’t stand their silly chatter!

They do tend to be garrulous, but if you listen to WHAT they are saying, rather than how they are saying it, they can be amusing, especially when they ask something really stupid, and the link-man knows its stupid, but has to cover up. Did you have a good dive?

They chattered on for a few minutes, until Vince joined them, and then told Joan the embellished story of Lew and the seals. Joan sprayed crumbs everywhere.

Have you anything planned for tomorr - later today? Vince asked.

No, what are you volunteering me for?

Nothing, I’m just asking. As far as I know, we’re just going to sit in the garden, and soak up the sun.

It’s still raining! George offered the observation.

In that case, we won’t be having a barbie, later!

I didn’t know we were?

No, George, love, but it’s nice to keep your options open. We could always light it in the garage!

At least, there’s plenty of water handy, for putting the bangers out! George referred to a previous accident.

You were supposed to be guarding them, while I poured the plonk!

I know, but I had to go and turf that cat out of the pram, where it was cuddling up to Charlie!

Charlie didn’t mind, he is a teddy bear! Titch was on a blanket, on the grass.

I seem to recall that he was under the blanket, eating the grass!

Yes, well!

If you two are going to start arguing, I’m retiring to a safe distance! What cat?

Didn’t we tell you? It’s an occasional guest that wanders in for a feed and a fuss, then wanders off again, to God knows where.

No, you never said, and why can’t it have the pram? You never use it!

We do!

Oh, come on! I don’t think its gone three miles, since you bought it, and now it’s too small!

She’s saving it for you!

I’m too big for it, too!

It doesn’t show yet, who’s the Daddy?

George tossed an imaginary coin, and then caught it. Baker!

Mister, or The? Vince asked.

Ah?

Cheeky buggers!

*****

Chapter two.

Then.

They had sailed from Perth, Australia, nearly four months earlier, and had battled through two gales since, the last one wreaking considerable damage below decks, opening a seam in the hull which they had been unable to locate. It kept the pump-men busy, taking thirty minutes every two hours to pump her dry again.

Any sensible Captain would have put into the nearest safe harbour with a dry-dock, to make repairs, but not Captain Trefarrick. His only love was the depths of his personal coffers, and if he made this trip in time he would gain another thousand Guineas. So what if a few seamen died of exhaustion, there were plenty more for the taking in the shore-side pubs. His Master at Arms was a soldier, not a seaman, and beyond the bare essentials, knew nothing of ships or the sea. His talent was to extract 150% from the men, with the least hassle, and if needed, had a very fast, very hard fist, boot, club, or head, whichever was appropriate. His loyalty lay in his Paymaster, who in this case, and for the last ten years, was Captain Trefarrick.

The Bosun, he was a real seaman. He could sail anything, anywhere, under any conditions. If it broke, he could mend it. If he didn’t have the necessary part, he could make it, from rope, wood, lead, or copper. He could read the sea and sky, and forecast the coming day’s weather with uncanny accuracy, and could tell, within reason, where he was, on which ocean, where the nearest land was, and how far. If he needed to, he could count to twenty without taking his shoes off, because he never wore any. He could read a compass, but struggled with a book, if he’d had one, which he didn’t. He was afraid of three people, the Master at Arms, and the Captain, because they could give him a lot of grief, if they so chose. The other person was Him, and every man alive should be afraid of Him. Right now, the Bosun was crying. Not tears in the eyes, and boo-hoo. He was crying inside, like his ship was. Her pain was his pain, and the Master wouldn’t listen. The Bosun was doing what he could, but he was one, and her hurts were many. The main-mast was splitting. He could push his fist deep into the wound. He had painted hot tar into it, to seal out the weather and the salt, and he had applied a tourniquet by wrapping a stout cord around the split, and pulled it tight with a windlass, to prevent it opening any further. It would hold, for now, providing there were no more gales. The mast step was much more critical. The mast had worked badly when a stay had snapped, and had strained the socket in the keel, in which the mast rested. The mast’s base could now rattle sideways, and with every roll, the damage worsened. The Bosun had done his best to wedge and brace it, but there was too much movement, and there was nothing sufficiently sturdy to brace the wedges against, to stop them creeping out again. The ribs and frames were designed to withstand pressure from outside, not within, and even when new, would not support that kind of load for long. These were old frames, like the hull planking. Even thick English oak couldn’t withstand the marine boring worms forever, and some planks were long overdue for replacement. He suspected that the keel, the main frame the ship was built around, was itself splitting from age but because it was sheathed in more timber, and buried under the cargo, he couldn’t get to it, to see. But, to him, it felt wrong. The ship’s Carpenter called him an ignorant old fool, and claimed that the keel was as sound as a bell, then thumped it with his mallet. He didn’t hear the different timbre, here, and there, or feel that tiny little twist, through his stiff leather boots with the rope soles, as the hull flexed to the motion of the sea. The Bosun was worried, and not a little apprehensive, not that he knew of the word, or what it meant.

Up on deck, the wind-speed was gradually increasing again, beginning to moan in the rigging. The hull leaned over a degree or so more under its pressure, then groaned, deep inside.

The Captain demanded more speed. His Officers dashed about, laying their whips across scrawny men’s backs, as they trimmed the sails, seeking to extract another pound of pressure.

The hair on the Boatswain’s arms stood on end when he heard the hull groan, (There was no hair on his head!) as though an electrical storm was about to break, and suddenly he felt an overpowering need to be up on deck, not deep below. He decided to try one more time to persuade the Captain to reduce the sail area, and thus the stresses.

Very slowly, a fibre at a time, the base of the mast was ripping its way through the side of the step. Each roll, each change of wind pressure, added, or subtracted, depending on how you look at it, one fibre to the count. Each fibre that failed added the load it had carried to the remainder, and as the number of load-bearing fibres reduced, the rate of reduction increased exponentially. The Bosun could have drawn a very accurate graph of it, if he had known that graph-drawing was possible. He wouldn’t have known the name of the curve, either, starting very shallow, and then curving up to a very steep angle. Exactly where on the rising curve the final fracture would occur, no-one could say, there being too many variables involved, ranging from the age of the wood, to the way the mast pressed against it, to exactly how deeply some long-forgotten seaman had carved his initials into the timber structure.

The Bosun gave up trying to persuade the Captain to reduce sail, or preferably remove them all, on the ailing main-mast, and set about making his own private preparations. In his cubby-hole up in the bows, he had hidden two fifty-gallon oak casks which used to hold drinking water, but were now empty. These two casks were tightly bunged, so that water couldn’t enter. Onto each, he had lashed a pair of sockets that would accept the two, six feet long, notched planks that lay next to them. The barrels, and the planks, in turn, were lashed together in such a way that a man, namely the Bosun, could fit them together very quickly, and have a workable raft. There was also a sack, with a few tools, a fishing line, with spare hooks, and some dried beef. A smaller cask, one he could lift unaided, was filled with fresh water, (and a splash of rum, to keep it pure and sweet).

The motion of the ship was subtly changing, the pitching and rolling becoming slightly choppier, and every now and then, through the soles of his feet, the Bosun could feel a tiny sideways twitch. This, he knew, was the mast shifting in its socket. He poked one eye out of his cubby, and looked up. The evidence was plain to see. The top of the ailing mast was slightly out of line when compared with the others. The larboard stays hung ever so slightly slack. As the ship rolled over a swell, the mast shifted. Twitch. The top was now in line, and the starboard stays hung slack. Twitch. Twitch.

Hold your course, damnit! You’re swerving all over the damned ocean! the Captain bellowed at the unfortunate helmsmen. The helmsmen, in turn, cursed the damned ship, because it wouldn’t run straight. They were not to know that the rudder was fluttering as it hung on its pintles, and that the moving mast kept changing the balance, and the trim, of the whole vessel.

Twitch. Twitch.

Damnit, man, steer straight, or I’ll have you flogged! The Captain roared again.

TWITCH. The hull slewed five degrees, as the wheelmen turned the helm to correct another swerve. The turn checked, and then reversed, as the rudder bit. The roll reversed. TWITCH. Now it slewed the other way, and the men wrestled the wheel round again, chasing the reaction, whilst at the same time, the Officer of the Watch threshed the flat of his sword across their shoulders. The helmsmen’s protests went unheard. Again, the swerve reversed. The hull jolted slightly, as though it had nudged something A few deck-hands looked over the side, but only saw water.

Swerve, Thud. Turn the wheel to correct it. Swerve, thud, turn the wheel, swerve jerk, thud. A sudden desperate wail from above, as a main-top-man lost his grip, when the rigging twanged and thrummed. He fell, arms flailing, legs running, until he hit the main-spar. Unfortunately he was face up. His spine bent backwards and snapped. He slid helplessly round, and fell again, to hit the water, flat, where he sank slowly from view.

Replace that clumsy bastard! The Captain pointed at the helmsman nearest to him.

But-!

Up, or join him over the side. You! He pointed at the nearest deck-hand, on the wheel!

Sir! the boy squeaked. His twelfth birthday was a good year in the future, if he was allowed to have one.

The second wheel-man was struggling to hold the massive double wheel unaided. When the boy scrambled up, his head barely came level with the central boss, and it was impossible for him to see the compass. Do what I do, and look like you know what you are doing! The seaman whispered urgently to the boy. The boy took hold of the lower spokes, facing the man.

Thud, jerk, swerve. The man and the boy strained at the wheel. The boy was a fast learner. His first lesson aboard ship had been to discover that there was no ‘golden spike’ in the main-frame. He had been sore for a week after the big seaman had finished with him, and had passed blood with his stools, the next time, after. As he was facing forwards, and after a while, he noticed the strange movement of the main-mast. He rapidly associated it with the odd handling, but his limited knowledge didn’t tell him why. Remembering beatings resulting from previous silly questions, he was very careful about how he phrased the observation. Have you ever noticed, he asked of the man, how much the main-mast bends, when the ship rolls?

The man, being big in muscle, but small in intellect, had not. He had also not realized that now the wheel wasn’t being turned so much, so fast, the frequency of the thud, swerves had reduced. He was only aware that the Captain and the O.O.D. had stopped yelling at him!

The deposed wheel-man never had, either. He was half-way up the rigging, making for the main-spar. He had never been up the mast when the ship was at sea, being a deck-hand because of his size. Two hundred feet up a mast is no place for a fourteen stone lump of muscle. He looked up, to see how much further he had to go up the jerking, swaying rigging. Then he looked down.

Eh? The wheel-man asked, and then chanced a glance over his shoulder. Roll, swerve. He saw the main-mast lean lazily over. Thud! A whiplash ran up it, rattling the men in the rigging like children’s toys. A tool fell, and another man was hanging by one hand, scrabbling desperately for a purchase. JEEEZUS! The man cried. He knew what it meant. Lieutenant, Sir, the main-mast is loose, Sir!

What?

The main-mast, Sir, it’s flopping about sideways, Sir!

Eh? Watch your course, or I’ll have the skin off your back!

THUD! The ship swerved again, and then there was a brief lull in the wind, at the same time the swells rolled the hull to the left. THUD!

The Captain shouted, Make fast that loose cannon, you lazy -.

The hull rolled back to the right, just as a sharp puff of wind filled the sails with a crack. The mast, forced to the right by the combined actions, snapped the stay. It lashed up into the rigging after it parted at the deck cleat. Three men were flicked, flailing helplessly at the air, from their posts, by its passing. Two cleared the deck, to fall into the water. The third didn’t, landing with a splat/thud on the port waist. The deck turned scarlet.

Deep inside the ship, there was a groaning, cracking noise, as the unsupported mast loaded up the side of the socket, a stress it was never designed to support. The base of the mast burst through the side of the box, driven by the massive pressure from above. The mast pivoted around the deck-hole, until its base slid off the keel, and then plunged out through the bottom of the hull like an enormous spear. Another man fell to his death as the desperate crewmen scrambled down the slack, flailing rigging. The blunt mast foot crushed a huge hole in the old planking, allowing the waiting water to rush in, as the mast skewered out. As it speared down, the men who had been scrambling down were now scrambling up, in a desperate attempt to avoid being dashed against the rapidly approaching deck. The lower main-spar, in a tangle of rope-work, smashed through the deck rails, and onto a few individuals who were too petrified to run, a moment before it smashed into the deck. The whole hull shuddered at the impact.

Because the spar was mounted on a slide, to allow it to be turned, the mast didn’t stop. As it dropped, of course, the jack-stays between the three masts, slackened, allowing the foremast to fall forwards, and the after mast to fall aft, as far as the free play in the woodwork permitted, causing the men in their rigging to pay attention as well.

As the main-mast continued it’s downward run, it’s top came level with, then fell below the level of, the fore and mizzen’s, until the rigging came tight again, jerking those masts back upright, snatching taut the fore and aft stays. They ran from the centre of the stern, to the top of the mizzen, and from the top of the fore, to the far end of the bowsprit, and then back to the bow, just above the waterline. The whiplash threw a few more men to their deaths, and snapped the bow stay from its plate. The bowsprit bent upwards, and then snapped, adding to the tangle of ropes as it lashed back at the deck, eliminating a few more unfortunate sailors.

Below decks, the in-rushing sea squeezed the trapped air until, with a sonorous ‘plop!’ the main cargo hatch cover blew off. One side flipped over, squashing some more deck rail, and deck-hands, as it fell back.

In the after-castle, someone started pounding on a door that wouldn’t open, jammed by the increasing mass of debris on the other side. In the forecastle, other sailors were similarly engaged.

As the hull filled, it settled in the water, still with a considerable way on it. A big ship is heavy, and takes a lot of stopping, even with a sixty foot long spear sticking out through the bottom.

The Captain scrambled over the mounting debris, cuffed the helms-man round the ear to get his attention, and yelled, Beach her! pointing at the sands a mile downwind.

Stunned into action, the helms-man dragged at the wheel, and soon had the wreck running down-wind towards the inviting sand. On deck, some of the deck hands struggled with the remaining sails, trying to help her in.

The long swells were now pushing on the hull, and the rudder, as they surged in from aft, rattling it harder on it’s pintles.

Up in the bows, the Bosun finished cutting his way out of the tangle of fallen rope-work, and prepared his instant raft. He had remembered two things that the Captain had forgotten. One of them was a large pole sticking out of the ship’s bottom. The other was --.

In the jerking, flailing rigging, one man saw it, too. For a moment he was too shocked to do anything, but then he dragged in a desperate breath, and screamed, "Rocks! Dead ahead!’

What? an Officer called back.

Rocks! Rocks! the man was too busy hanging on, to point ahead, a short distance.

A dull thudding was heard, as the main-mast lashed forwards again, shedding a few more men.

The Bosun decided that now was the time, heaved his kit-raft over the side, and followed it. The chill water took his breath away, and he came up spluttering, and then floundered over to his barrels, from the comparative safety of which he watched his ship trip over itself as the main-mast hit bottom. The hull tore further as the mass of the ship charged ponderously on. The spear-mast held her back, but the sails on the other masts forced her on. The result was - her bow was pressed down. With a deep, wrenching groan, the weakened keel failed, and she snapped in two like a carrot. The fore part, with sails still drawing, tripped over the rocks, and upended, while the rear, now open to the sea, and unsupported, ruptured like a dropped barrel. When all the rope-work had stopped lashing about, as various pieces failed, there was nothing to be seen other than a patch of foam, filled with debris, and one man sitting on some barrels.

The Bosun rescued a few pieces that might be useful, then, as night fell, he washed up and down the coast, quietly freezing to death, unnoticed and alone. His last coherent thought was that he hoped his grandson would stop playing around with boiling water in sealed containers, causing them to explode, in his futile experiments at making a powerful engine that didn’t need wind. So futile-----.

*****

Chapter three.

Now, part two.

Very late morning came around, lunch-time, really. Vince’s ears were filled with a terrible caterwauling noise, causing him to cringe as he pried open one eyelid. When two brain-cells happened to knock together, he recognized the voice of the offspring demanding breakfast, in-betweens, lunch, changing, and attention, and wanting them all first! He groaned, and prodded George.

Mmm?

Your turn!

Mmm! she agreed, wriggled down a bit, and carried on sleeping.

Vince sighed. He had to get up anyway, his bladder was threatening industrial action.

An hour later, he left the infant bashing a few plastic bricks with a teddy-bear club, while he put the two used cylinders from the earlier dive ‘on charge’. He hooked up hoses from his compressor to the pillar valves, and then clicked a switch on the wall, setting the electric motor that drove the pump into motion. He waited a moment, then slowly opened the pillar valves, checked that the pressure gauge was slowly increasing, then adjusted a trickle of cold water so that it flowed across the necks of the cylinders, to cool them. As he finished, a pair of arms slipped around his waist, and George nibbled his ear.

Morning, Winkle! he jested.

Winkle, as in little snail?

No, as in Rip van. You owe me a turn with the beast.

You should have woken me!

I did, you just burrowed deeper under the duvet!

She glanced through the window, at the purple-coloured leaden sky. There’s a hooley brewing!

A whatta?

Hooley. It probably derived from hooligan, a storm!

Yeah, I noticed. I’m going to lower my radio mast in a minute, to save it being blown halfway to Bangor.

Mmm. And earth your long-wire, too, in case of lightning. I don’t want a smouldering hole where the roof used to be!

Of course. Do you think I’m - don’t answer that!

She smiled at him, the condescending smile that only a woman can do.

Is that the ‘phone? Vince asked.

She cocked her head, listening. I can’t tell, that compressor makes so much noise! The chugging pump was barely audible. Maybe, I’ll go and check.

Vince went outside, and round to the side of the house, to where his tilt-over, hydraulic pump-up aerial mast stood. He pulled the locking pin out, and then opened the valve that allowed the mast to hiss down into itself, until it was a mere eight feet tall, instead of fourty. Then he attached a pulley with a rope threaded through it, to the mast, just below the top, pulled another locking pin, released a catch, and lowered the mast on it's pivot until it lay horizontally on a rest, a mere three feet from the ground. A couple of bricks trapped the aerial wires, to stop them flogging in the coming wind. When he next glanced up, the sky was angrier than ever, the cloud-base much lower, seemingly scraping over the low ridge just to the west. He shivered, suddenly cold, and went back inside.

That was Tommy, asking if he could come down for the weekend. I told him yes, but to bring his lead boots, because -. She gestured at the view through the window, just as God fired his giant flash-gun, and the first Ping-Pong sized raindrops thwacked against the glass.

Good timing! Vince applauded, as George switched on the room lights.

Outside, there was another flash, arriving just as the Kerrump! of the first one arrived.

Coinciding with the next flash, the room-light flared suddenly, then went off. In the kitchen, the ‘fridge and freezer fell silent, as did the faint noise of the compressor. Bloody hell, its hit the power lines! George cursed. The baby started crying, startled.

Vince lifted the ‘phone and listened, hearing silence. "That’s gone too!’ he said, as George came back in, carrying Charlie and the baby.

Oh, great!

Someone was pounding on the front door, so Vince went to it, put a shoulder against it, to take the pressure off the securing bolts, and then eased it open. The wind briskly shoved him backwards, his feet, and the carpet, sliding on the floor. ‘Pimples’ Jones fell in, then helped Vince to shove the door shut again. Bloody hell, it’s windy! It’s even worse just up the road!

"Yes, that’s one reason why we fancied this place. The wind bounces off that hill behind, and goes