The Flight of Icarus

The yacht’s auto steering had stopped working. Ruben had come up from the navigator after feeling the hull lurch suddenly to one side. The fifty foot boat was veering as though manned by some mad captain, steering dangerously close to the rocks flanking his path.

Getting the helm back under control Ruben stared, wild eyed ahead of him. His heart was thumping wildly in his chest and he urged it to regain its composure, the irregular beatings made him want to be sick.

In his panic he had left his hat and gloves on the desk by the GPS, and already he could feel the biting south-facing winds at his ears and through the joints in his hands. The wind was strong and the tide was pushing nearly six knots with him, so he didn’t dare leave the helm again. He tried not to think about how precarious his position had become. Maybe he could stop somewhere when it got light. Crinan maybe. There wouldn’t be many people around, not in mid-February, first light. He would be safe to stop, just for a few hours to get his strength up.

Tacking through the islands surrounding Luing on his own had boosted his confidence; it was a sail few would attempt, even with a full crew. Let alone at night. On their own. Rocks and shallow water were everywhere, and it had taken much concentration to meander through, constantly running up and down between the helm and the navigation system below.

Standing at the helm stomping his feet he glared at the maps below, just visible through the thick glass hatch. His toes had lost all sensation and he was trying not to think of frostbite. There was no way to tell if he was on course, he was forced to stay in the middle and hope for the best. The Gulf of Corryvreckan was around here somewhere. That almost mythological whirlpool that haunted so many sailor’s dreams. The realisation that he could die here, alone, sucked into a whirlpool off North-West Scotland dawned on him. His numb toes or stinging ears seemed of little importance. 

Breathing deeply he exhaled, trying to expel the negative feeling as he did so. He was in command of his mind and body. The fear wouldn’t get to him, nor would the cold. As long as the weather stayed as it was he would be fine. It was barely a force five. He was feeling better. He breathed deeply again. Relaxed his hands on the steering. The rocks were opening up a little, he thought, squinting ahead. He couldn’t see properly, his bow light had broken and he could not begin to understand the electronics of the boat. The Naucrate.

“If Icarus’s wings hadn’t caught fire, he would have been fine. Wings can’t catch fire if they are wet.”

Ruben thought back to the old captain’s explanation for naming the boat. He had wanted Icarus, but on account of needing a female name, had opted for Icarus’s mother.

“It was his father that got him killed. His mother will keep us safe.”

Ruben hoped Captain Gordon was right. He tried not to think of what the old man would say, waking up to find the Naucrate no longer docked in the port. His mistress’s colourful cottage in Tobermory overlooked the harbour, and he would notice the absence as soon as he was up.

Not that there was any way to find the Naucrate. Not here, hidden in the Hebrides. Ruben had dismantled the AIS so they couldn’t track him, and no one would assume he would be confident enough to head south through the islands. Especially not old Gordo. He had never really believed in Ruben’s potential as a sailor.

Looking around, Ruben remembered when he had first come aboard as crew, how trapped he had felt in that nauseating prison. 

He wondered how it was possible his view could have changed so dramatically. Once the sickness wore off, his trips to shore had become less and less frequent, until he longed to be on the boat constantly. Being ashore began to feel alien to him, and his discomfort manifested itself unattractively. Drunken arguments, fights, adulterous love affairs and criminal activities sent him running back out to sea, where he felt he could relax again. Everything worked on the ship, especially himself. Like the tightly wound halliards, the clean cockpit, the scrubbed rudder, Ruben was an indispensable piece of the Naucrate. And just like a rudder, on land its use was irrelevant. Ruben’s place was at sea.

His other view that had changed was how he regarded the water. At first he had assumed he would be swimming all the time; hopping in and out on his lunch breaks, snorkeling with the other crew, sunbathing. Of course he had forgotten the climate he would be sailing in; the temperature of the North Atlantic in February is so cold you struggle to breathe. But the cold was by no means the reason he stayed firmly on board. He knew better now. Don’t ever go overboard. Even with a full crew, if you were taking a piss over the side and went over, if no one noticed for ten minutes or less even, you were gone. You don’t see big, bright, orange buoys until they are right on top of you, a small dark head bobbing would be lost like sand on the beach. And scream until your throat is horse and raw from the salt water, no one will hear you. Don’t ever go overboard.

Ruben squinted into the surroundings again. The path was opening up. Jura was off to the starboard, and the wind seemed less offensively south facing; with any luck it may turn and Ruben could leave off tacking for a while and focus on fixing the steering. A small rip had appeared on the main sail, probably from one of his shoddy tacks through the islands. There was nothing to be done but wait and hope. He could reef once the sun was up. Ruben stood in the dark and the cold and tried to imagine himself somewhere else.

After a few hours of silent sailing through the night, the wind had picked up, growing meaner and louder, spitting the black sea into Ruben’s face. By the time he realised he must be close to a hurricane, it was too late to do anything but hold on and stay alive. 

A wave ended its odyssey, its final act the eventual crash over the yacht that Ruben had been expecting. It connected over his shoulder, pummelling him into the steering which he gripped with white, frozen knuckles. Shaking his head to try and stay focused he sprayed salty water across the deck. The waves had been washing overboard for hours. It was hard to tell how long. It felt endless. The sea was so cold every wave felt like the crack of a whip across his back and neck.

The Mull of Kintyre was somewhere up ahead, miles away still. The wind was so strong Ruben had had to pull in the jib, but he could do nothing about the main sail for fear of the hull flying out of control again. It was flapping violently, the tear growing steadily. The wind had risen to a deafening howl, the waves looked to be some thirty feet, causing the Naucrate to rise and then plummet down in a painful relentless attack. Ruben felt less like the sailor he had been hours before, in control and in union with the sea, and more like a spider dropped in the drain, desperately fighting the pull of the escaping water.

Another wave hit, again knocking Ruben forward and this time cracking the bridge of his nose against the helm. The fuzzy, blinding pain exploded in Ruben’s head as his eyes filled up with tears and blood began to pour from his face.

Before he could react another, smaller wave hit, this time from the front. He had not realised he’d let go of the helm and she had spun violently into the oncoming waves. Falling, Ruben groped for the safety leash he had forgotten to latch onto earlier. Cutting his fingers in a desperate scramble to find it he slid painfully over the side, again trying and again failing to grab something solid.

The next few seconds could have been hours. Unable to breathe. Freezing. Panic. Terror. Ruben scrambled and fought with the current to find the surface, time and again failing. Once he managed to bring his head up, only to be hit by another tidal wave, thrusting him under again.

Don’t ever go overboard, you fool.

Just when the pain in his lungs had stretched through his entire body and his limbs could no longer kick as he commanded, he felt the cold whip of the wind at his face, and realised he had breached the surface.

For a merciful moment he was able to stay afloat; he could see another monster wave building up its strength for an attack, no doubt bringing an army in its wake. In the near distance Ruben could make out the Naucrate, banking heavily, shooting away from him, her lone sail hanging limply, torn almost in half and wrapped around itself. It was lighter now, Ruben could see the sun beyond the ship, beginning to rise through the clouds, banishing the night and the fear and the cold. He didn’t feel too cold anymore. He wasn’t afraid. 

Icarus, your wings are wet.

Ruben closed his eyes and accepted the wave’s embrace.