Chapter 13

We headed west, more or less along Latitude fifty-nine degrees, twenty seven minutes north. As I said, well clear of the Bore Roost. With the wind a steady force five from the south west and settled weather, we either had to beat into the wind, or head far enough west that we could close reach to our way-point off Hoy Mouth; that meant thirty miles of westing and thirty five miles heading to Hoy mouth. As long as the wind held, we'd have only one change of course before the complicated entrance to Hoy mouth.

Bridget dragged Eric off to bed at nine in the evening, leaving Grace and me the first watch. We reached our waypoint a few minutes after eleven, and turned south; actually one-eighty degrees magnetic, one-seven-five true, on a close reach. By the time Eric appeared on deck, however, we were close-hauled on the same course. The barometer was falling, though not fast; the wind was almost certain to continue to back.

Eric and I agreed to continue on the same tack, as close to the wind as possible. I left it to his discretion to tack if he thought it necessary, and Grace and I took ourselves off to bed, where we were asleep almost immediately; Grace spooned in front of me, holding my hand to her breast.

I woke at five and managed to slip out of bed without disturbing Grace. We were heading almost south-east and about eight miles off Mainland.

"Let's tack before you go to bed, Eric," I suggested.

"Good thinking. We ought to be able to lay south-west," he agreed, "Do you want to take down a reef?"

"We probably ought to play safe," I answered. With Bridget at the wheel, Eric and I made short work of reefing the main. I didn't think it necessary to change the staysail, just furled it a little, and reefed the mizzen. Then we tacked, and the couple went below to sleep ... maybe.

I'd been at the wheel almost two hours when Grace emerged, yawning. "You should have woken me," she said, with a suspicion of a whine in her voice.

I held out my arm and, pouting a little, she tucked in beside me. "You needed to sleep," I told her, "or you'd have woken when I got out of bed."

"Are you tired of me already?"

I squeezed her to me. "Of course not."

After a few minutes silence, in quite a different tone of voice, "Where are we?"

"About six miles off Marwick Head. You could check the GPS if you'd like to know exactly."

"The wind changed?"

"Yes. It backed about forty-five degrees as we slept. Veered a bit since I took over, though."

"You took down a single reef?"

"Seemed like a good idea."

"What's the wind? Six? Seven?"

"A good six. We could have got away without the reef, really, but 'never be afraid to reef a small boat in the dark'."

"I don't think of Serendipity as small."

"Believe it, though; the America's Cup racers are about twice the length, or more, and the Volvo Trophy boats are seventy feet. Of course, Serendipity is beamier and much slower because her hull is designed for comfort and seaworthyness rather than speed, so there may not be too much difference in the internal space."

"I love her, though..." she paused and I nearly said something, but she went on, "nearly as much as I love you." She detached herself from me and went to the nav station. When she returned, it was to inform me that our position was actually ten miles off Marwick Point. Another hour's sailing, during which the wind veered a little more, Bridget preceded Eric into the cockpit, and we were ready to tack again.

I have often joked about a boat as if she had sentience; sometimes reluctant to finish a voyage, sometimes keen to. The last ten miles or so into Hoy mouth, Serendipity covered in less than two hours, which meant we were sailing in just about at high water; perfect, with minimum tidal flow and maximum water depth, and rounding up into our anchorage in Bay of Ireland near Stromness just after mid-day. Bridget called a friend to arrange a lift into Kirkwall and we shared our mid-day meal for the last time – for a while at least. We'd got so close, the four of us, that it was inconceivable that we should not meet again. Anyway, late afternoon, we landed Eric and Bridget and waved them off before returning to Serendipity, which suddenly seemed larger and empty.

After tea, we sat and listened to 'Farewell to Stromness' by Peter Maxwell Davies. In fact, we listened to several versions, played on guitar, piano and organ. As the last finished, Grace said, "Remember the first time we made love?"

You might think me strange, but I wasn't sure how to respond to that. I mean, how could I forget an occasion that turned my life upside down? In the end, I resorted to simple truth.

"Of course I remember. I'll remember to my dying day and, if there's an after-life, probably for eternity too."

"Could we ... could we do the same again? Wash each other, and then go to bed and make love?"

I stood and lit the little oil heater and went to the galley to start boiling kettles.

"Of course, Sweetheart. Do you want to use the same cabin?"

She came up and hugged me from behind. "No ... the... our... cabin will do fine. I just want, well, to enjoy washing you and being washed..."

Perhaps I ought to explain that Orkney is at quite a high latitude. Thanks to the Gulf Stream, the climate is mild, but the average summer temperature is fifteen degrees Celsius. With the depression we'd just been sailing through bringing a cold front, the outside temperature that evening, sixteenth May, was eight degrees. We'd been wrapped up well, but the heater was a necessity if we were going to strip off and wash! I am not sure to this day which was the most pleasurable; my hands on her, or hers on me; perhaps the combination was greater than either.

Once we were satisfied that we were both clean and thoroughly dry, we slipped on fleece trousers and tops, turned off the heater, and moved as quickly as possible through the cockpit and into our cabin. You can be sure we wasted no time, having removed our single layer, in diving into our chilly bed and clinging together until the bed began to warm up. From there, matters proceeded quite naturally.

Monday morning, we landed and were kindly given a lift to Kirkwall, where we made arrangements to marry. There is, in fact, an hourly bus service, which we could have caught a few minutes later, but we had a pleasant ride with a garrulous elderly lady who wanted to know all about us and became very excited when we told her we were on our way to the Registrar to make arrangements for our wedding. She was not the most confidence-inspiring driver I have ever met and I was relieved to arrive safely in Kirkwall.

The Registrar's office had our documents from Lerwick and the formalities were relatively brief. Grace insisted, then, that we call in on the Balfour hospital to have my operation site checked. I didn't see the point, but ... why argue? As it happened, it was a good thing, as they gave me a program of exercises.

We caught the bus back after lunch, then had a look round to see what Stromness had to offer ... basically, anything any small town could need. There was also a marina, which might have been a better bet than anchoring 'round the corner'. Of course, being a little out of the way had its advantages, too.

Not able to use Serendipity. We took the ferry to Hoy, a half-hour trip, taking bags with us; we found a most congenial B. & B., the proprietress, Mrs. Kilpatrick, looked after us very well. I'm not going to describe the week we spent there, except to say Hoy has the Lyness Royal Naval Cemetery where Grace found her grandfather's grave without difficulty. I wasn't sure about ... well, would she want me there? I offered to leave, but she clung to me.

We found much to occupy us, besides the obvious, and returned to Stromness on Tuesday 26^th. Theoretically, I was allowed to lift, but obeying the instruction to build up slowly, we had arranged for Eric to come on Wednesday, and we moved Serendipity to Scapa Bay. That placed us about a mile across the island from Kirkwall, so we were able to land and walk to the town on Thursday with no great strain. That in turn meant Grace was able to pick up her emails. She went very quiet.

"You okay, love?"

Nearly two months on board Serendipity had given her, or at least her face, a tan, but under the tan she'd gone very pale. It left her looking rather sickly. "My father ... is in Kirkwall ... and wants to see me ... alone."

It was obvious that this was not good news to Grace, though I didn't know the ins and outs of why that should be. "Do you have to do that, Grace? I ... you know I want to support you however you want..."

"He is my father, so I suppose I owe him that much."
"After he tried to push you into marrying Rupert?"

"It probably looks perfectly reasonable to him..."

"Well..." I wound down before saying what I thought; 'If he cared for his daughter, he wouldn't try to force her into marrying the arsehole who drugged and raped you.'

"I suppose you do have to meet him, but I wish I could go with you."