As another gust hit, Vance glanced up at the rigging, praying it would
hang together. Instead of canvas, the wide, shallow square sail was
made of small linen cloths sewn together, like those made on the tiny
looms of ancient times. It was a single-masted reefing sail, invented
just in time for the Trojan War, with an upper yard fitted with a
system of lines whereby it could be furled up and then secured aloft.
When he got south of the island and hove to, he would drop the sea
anchor and reef her, but for now he wanted every square inch.
He was tired and thirsty, but he had no time for even a sip of water.
With the sea rising, waves were pounding over the primitive sideboards
and soaking him to the skin. Next the squalls would come--though maybe a
little rain would feel good, improve the personal hygiene. . . .
He was used to problems. For the past five years he had operated a
three-yacht charter sail business out of Nassau, the Bahamas, living
aboard one of the vessels, a forty-four-foot Bristol two-master
christened _The Ulysses_. In fact, this whole enterprise had begun
there when, after a day of sailing, he and Bill Bates were unwinding
over drinks one hot and humid afternoon at a club near the Hurricane
Hole Marina. Vance, attired in shorts and a T-shirt, his standard
sailing outfit, was sipping his Sauza Tres Generaciones tequila and
feeling great.
"You know, Bill, I've been thinking," he had said. "I want to try
something that's never been done before."
"What? You mean try paying your bills on time?" Bates had laughed,
knowing Vance seemed to have a perennial cash-flow problem.
"Very funny." He had ignored the crack and swirled the ice in his
glass, then pulled out a piece to chew. "No, this is serious. Ever
check out the paintings of the early ships on Greek vases?"
"Can't say as I have." Bates had reached down and was brushing a fleck
of dirt off his perfectly white leather Sperry Top-Siders. As always,
his pale blue Polo blazer remained crisp, his West Marine
"Weatherbeater" cap immaculate.
"Well, hear this out. I think there's enough detail in some of the
pictures I've seen to actually re-create one. And I checked it out:
there's also a pretty good description of one in The
_Odyssey_."
Bates had looked up from his Bacardi and Perrier. "So you want to try
and build--"
"Not just build one; anybody could do that." He had leaned back, hoping
to add a touch of drama to what was next. "I want to sail one through
the Aegean. Do a rerun of the _Odyssey_, the classic quest."
"Get serious." Bates laughed.
"Couldn't be more. I want to build one--single mast, square sail--and go
for it. Recreate Ulysses' _Odyssey_. And no nav gear. Just the stars."
"But what route would you take?" Bill was digging into the pocket of
his blazer for a weathered briar pipe. "Does anybody really know?"
"I've looked into it, and just about everything Homer talked about has
been located, in some place or another. We know exactly where the site
of Troy was, so that'd be the spot to push off. Starting at the
Dardanelles Strait, Ulysses first went north and sacked a city on the
coast of Thrace. Then he took a heading almost due south, passing
through the Cyclades islands and by the north side of Crete, then put
in at the north shore of Africa, where--"
"So, you intend to do it by the book," Bates had interjected.
"Only way." He had sipped his tequila, feeling his excitement growing,
then continued. "From there it's up to the western tip of Sicily,
Polyphemus land, then northwest to Sardinia. Then over to Italy and
down the west coast, where Ulysses ran afoul of Circe. Next it's south,
past the Galli Islands, where the Sirens sang, after which I make the
Straits of Messina and down to Malta, the island of Calypso. Finally
it's northeast to Corfu, and from there it'd be a straight shot on down
to Ithaca. Home plate."
"You'll never make it." Bill was thoughtfully filling his pipe.
"Bet you ten grand I can do it in a fortnight."
"I'll probably never see the money, but you're on." Bates had grabbed
the bet, with a big, winner's grin. . . .
So far, it had gone virtually without a hitch. Using old paintings, he
had worked up precise engineering drawings for the vessel, then engaged
with a small shipyard in Istanbul to build it. The Turkish workers
could scarcely believe their eyes. The ship was a Greek vase come to
life, and already the world press had given him plenty of coverage.
Everybody liked the idea of a long shot.
He had taken plenty of long shots sailing the Caribbean over the last
eight years, but he had no experience with an early October storm in
the Aegean. Tonight was building into a serious problem. All signs
pointed to a typical autumn blowout. He glanced at the low-lying clouds
moving in from the north, darkening the sky and building rapidly. He
knew that in these waters, light autumn breezes could easily whip into
thrashing gales. Yeah, Bill's radar was right. The weather was real.
And it scared him, a lot.
Well, he figured, it was time. He had been lucky so far. The Ross DSC
radio still worked, and the patchwork sail hadn't ripped--yet. . . .
Then it happened. The nightmare. Without warning the winds suddenly
changed around to the north, going from thirty knots to sixty in what
seemed only a second. As the linen sail strained, he threw his weight
against the tiller, hoping to hold his course. Now more than ever, with
the storm on him, he wanted to keep on all his canvas and try to get
into the lee of the island as soon as possible. It was definitely time
to cut the bravado and start thinking about the sea anchor.
"_Odyssey II_, come in," the radio crackled, and he recognized Bates'
voice once more. "Do you read?"
He reached down and picked up the small black mike, then yelled against
the howl of wind. "I copy you, but make this quick. No time to chat."
"I had another look-see at the radar, Mike, and I just noticed
something else you should know about. We show you at almost the same
position as a U.S. Navy ship of some kind. Part of the Sixth Fleet
probably. Take care you miss her."