Devil's Rock - Chris Speyer [1]
A wave rolled under the yacht, lifting her stern and then her bow, so that her bowsprit pointed for a moment towards the top of the cliff. There was the dead tree, trunk and branches standing out pale and grey against the wooded hill that sloped to the cliff edge. It was as though boy and boat had lifted their eyes together and searched out the all-important landmark.
His father had taught him how to read charts and tide tables, how to plan a passage and plot their course, but Zaki believed that, left to herself, the old boat could find her way into any creek or harbour on the south-west coast. Morveren had been his grandfather’s boat, built by Zaki’s grandfather long before Zaki was born, always a part of the family, a constant through all the changes of Zaki’s early childhood – the house moves, the different schools, the move from Devon to London and back to Devon again. He lived two lives, the life on Morveren and the life ashore. When he stepped aboard Morveren the complications of life on shore quickly slipped away to be replaced by the slow, easy rhythms of boat-life.
Zaki eased the tiller over so that the dead tree and the edge of Devil’s Rock came into line. He pushed the throttle forward a touch and Morveren picked up speed. Not a good idea to dawdle while attempting to thread through the narrow gap in the reef; a rogue wave from the wrong direction and they would be on the rocks.
Michael and his father busied themselves with the mainsail; neither offered words of advice or warning but Zaki knew they were keeping a close eye on everything he did.
Just four boat lengths to go and the swell running from behind. Perfect. Now they were in a trough between waves. The next wave would lift and carry them through the gap in the reef.
‘Keep her steady,’ Zaki coached himself – slip off course now and the wave could slew the stern on to the waiting fangs; too much speed and the wave would carry them on to Devil’s Rock.
Boy and boat were one as they were lifted on the green, humped back of the following wave. Now they were surging forward, riding the wave, Zaki steering by feel rather than sight, keeping the boat on the wave – one boat length to go – into the gap with foam-flecked rocks passing on either side. Then Zaki let out a long breath as the swell slid from under the boat and raced away to fling itself against the unyielding mass of Devil’s Rock. They had made it through!
But no time to relax. Time to find the next landmark.
To the east of the rock, inside the reef, there appeared to be open water, but Zaki knew he must steer clear of the long sandbank that lurked just below the surface, almost entirely closing off the entrance to the Orme.
Zaki swung the boat through ninety degrees and searched for the ruined cottage on the opposite shore that would give him a bearing clear of the protruding sandbar and The Orphans, a clutter of awkwardly placed, half-submerged rocks.
Morveren rolled heavily in the cross swell and it took all Zaki’s strength to hold the boat on course.
Where was the cottage? Even on a calm day like today, each wave threatened to carry the boat sideways on to Devil’s Rock.
Ah! There! He could make out the remains of the stone chimney and tumbledown walls up on the hillside. A shiver ran down Zaki’s spine as he imagined attempting to make this entrance in a heavy sea. A bit more power from the engine and soon they were safely past The Orphans and under the cliffs on the eastern side.
Zaki turned the boat upstream, keeping within a few metres of the shore, where he knew, was deep water. ‘Looks like the tide’s turned.’ His father’s voice broke through the bubble that seemed to have surrounded Zaki since he began the run into the bay.
The current in the channel hadn’t yet reached any great strength, but it was already enough to slow their progress. Zaki looked around, seeing the gulls that swooped between the rock and the cliffs, hearing their cries above the sounds of the waves and the thud-thud of the boat’s engine.
‘You look pleased