Stormcatcher

Linda Eketoft

Description

An Argentinian from Buenos Aires, Christian Pereira, sails in Antarctica. It is the end of February and other sailors are heading home as winter approaches the continent.
One sleepless night he picks up a book that he has found in his attic at home. Browsing through the text about the Western Himalayas, his eyes get fixed on the mysterious death of a British explorer and spy who was sent out by the British to influence a commercial treaty by which the entire Central Asia would open for trade. He later identifies a connection between the man and his great grandfather. Knowing the truth turns into an obsession.
The Antarctic landscape slowly starts to influence Christian. Sneaking into a research station in search for food one night, he accidently runs into Fyodor, an unpredictable Russian scientist with a mysterious past who forces Christian to give him a lift on his boat to complete his secret scientific study. This is only the beginning of a journey that turns out to be Christian’s biggest challenge yet. StormCatcher is a Thriller of a journey that leaves the reader breathless.

Sujets

• Thrillers
• Adventure (Guyana)
• Sailing
• Journey
• Adventure
• Antarctica
• Thriller
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Partridge Publishing Singapore
• Date de parution: 26 mai 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781543758078
• Langue: English

Extrait

STORMCATCHER
 
 
 
 
 
 
LINDA EKETOFT
 
 

 
Copyright © 2020 by Linda Eketoft.
 
ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-5437-5808-5

Softcover
978-1-5437-5806-1

eBook
978-1-5437-5807-8

 
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
 
 
 
www.partridgepublishing.com/singapore
CONTENTS
The Wandering Albatross
The Ice
Buenos Aires Memories
Neko Harbour
Sailing
Magic
Real Deception Island
Point Sharp
Curiosity At Spigot Peak
Raise The Sails Flandres Bay
Anvers Island
Cape Errera And Memories
Vernadsky
How Far Can I Go?
Journey Across The Ice
No Man’s Land
Blazing Skies Of Red
The Echo
Exposed Answers
Maps
Calling
THE OCEAN WAS ROARING OUTSIDE HIS WINDOW.
STORMCATCHER
66° 33’ 39” S
ANTARCTICA IS THE EARTH’S SOUTHERNMOST CONTINENT. IT IS, ON AVERAGE, THE COLDEST, DRIEST, AND WINDIEST CONTINENT, WITH STRONG WINDS OVER THE CIRCUMPOLAR RANGE OF THE SOUTHERN OCEAN THAT ALSO GIVE RISE TO THE BIGGEST WAVES ON THE PLANET. THE RECORDED TEMPERATURE IN ANTARCTICA HAS REACHED - 89 DEGREES CELSIUS. ONLY ADAPTED ORGANISMS CAN SURVIVE, INCLUDING ALGAE, BACTERIA, FUNGI, AND CERTAIN PLANTS, ALONG WITH ANIMALS SUCH AS PENGUINS, SEALS, AND MAMMALS SUCH AS WH ALES.
THE WANDERING ALBATROSS
54° 47’ 60 S, 68° 17’ 60 W
The albatross had flown for five days and six nights. Now it was sailing in the Patagonian wind towards a continent covered in ice and snow. It made its way over an ocean of indigo velvet that breathed like a clam, opening and closing, caressing everything in its way. The wind lifted the bird from the ocean’s surface; and it kept gliding for the next mile, up and down through an everlasting lasting quest. It had flown through storms, battling with powerful winds from north and west where the cams of unruly water had sought to get a grip of its wings. Exhausted, it had found rest and ease over the waters of Tierra del Fuego. Through storm-clouded skies that built up such fierce winds, no other bird could fly as well as the albatross.
This morning, it travelled on light winds that brought it into the Lemaire Channel and the Antarctic Peninsula. The bay lay peaceful under its wings. In the stillness of the water, every little feather was retold in its glacial mirror. On both sides of the channel, the ice-covered, mountainous terrain rose high, overpowering everything that sailed through. The water so clear brought confusion as to where the ice cap ended and where the sea began. A man on a sailboat watched the ice with intense fascination. Like pure crystal, it tempted him to get closer for a good look. He knew that coming too near would mean the end before too soon, as his small boat lacked the capacity to travel through ice. Within the mist of the morning, he stood firmly by his navigation board while his boat cut the surface like a sword through silk.
The man, who was in his early forties, stood tensely focused at his wheel, his face torn by doubt. The twilight of the early morning hour imposed on his vision and his judgement. Many were those who would agree that sailing into the peninsula without a plan would be suicidal. He knew. Going in slowly with his motor running at low speed, he watched the scattered ice and the channel ahead. He tried to estimate the distance between bow and ice and the depth of the water, which contained darkness without illusion. Ice closed in from the sides, as the neck of the channel grew narrower in certain sections, making squeaky noises almost amounting to desperate screams. It was the end of February and no other sailboat in sight. Soon the cold would prevent all sailing, and the sea would freeze.
The man had nothing to return to. He doubted that anyone would have noticed that he had taken his boat and sailed away. Gone were those days when he used to seek things. Now everything felt old and worn. His haggard face expressed a strange longing. His bleak eyes did not contain any aspirations. They were always far away in a reality known by people who never return. Their only flame of curiosity would only emerge when he observed himself in a drinking glass. They came alive every time he invited harmful thoughts that inspired him to fantasise about placing himself in a state of emergency.
His existence was like a small piece of tissue that had been torn and scattered in the wind, aimlessly circulating, flying, only to land in an insignificant place. Whenever he would receive new energy from a vibrant day, the black hole of a man he was would only swallow it and render him into his own nothingness.
Sounds from the motor reminded the man of times past. The ship’s name, Victory , held stories of happier days. But he had not been able to remember them very well for a long time. A noise from ahead drew his attention. A humpback whale was feeding with her calf in the bay. He could only distinguish them vaguely through the grey of the morning. He was standing by the steering wheel with a fur hat flapping around his ears, being swept by a quiet wind. Wrapped up in a windproof jacket and holding on to a compass and sea map, he rode through the mist, continuing deep into the peninsula without seeing anyone. The mist gave way for the bow, reminding him of a fine silk veil. He saw ghosts from his past haunting in the still morning breeze. “Come here,” they whispered. “Come here. Let’s play a game.”
He kept watching for sea birds, and soon he saw an albatross flying past. He sighed and held his hands firmly on the steering wheel. She strode for him, flew for him, and remembered for him. “You cannot fly forever,” the albatross whispered. “No, but if I stop,” the man remembered.
The channel did not speak of anything else but the truth of now. It was just as clear as the reflection of the ice against the calm surface of the sea. The past was compressed in ice; and the future lay before him like a confused, fragile mystery. Who was the man to say what the future held for him? All he had ever known was how to run away from himself. How could he ever lower his sail and reflect over things never ventured? He had passed the stage of feeling self-pity or sadness. What remained was a shell of a man filled with emptiness. His memories had flown away to a better place to escape his frozen gesture. He had since become a puppet—his arms, his legs, all on a string. Men he did not see or comprehend pulled him in different directions. They made his feet march in the direction of oblivion. The albatross resting on the winds had whispered strange things. Yet it was too late.
THE ICE
65° 05’ S, 64° 00’ W
OF ANTARCTICA’S AREA 14 MILLION SQUARE KILOMETRES, AN ENTIRE 13.72 MILLION SQUARE KILOMETRES IS COVERED IN ICE, WHICH MAKES THE CONTINENT ABOUT 98 PER CENT COVERED BY ICE THAT AVERAGES AT 1.6 KILOMETRES IN THICKNESS. PUT INTO CONTEXT, THE CONTINENT REPRESENTS 90 PER CENT OF THE GLOBE’S ICE. IF IT WAS TO MELT, SEA LEVELS COULD RISE BY 80 METRES. ANTARCTIC SEA ICE GROWS TO ITS MAXIMUM THICKNESS EACH SEPTEMBER AND MELTS TO ITS MINIMUM IN LATE FEBRUARY, AFTER WHICH IT RESUMES GROWING RAPIDLY. COLD AND DENSE WATER FORMS UNDERNEATH THE SEA ICE WHERE IT SINKS AND GRADUALLY FLOWS NORTHWARD TOWARDS THE EQU ATOR.
The man had steered his sailboat through the Lemaire Channel. He had managed to navigate through it without knowing how far his luck would take him. The ice started to look dense in places, and patches had already merged to form smaller icebergs. Miniature islands of tightly compressed ice crystals showed him the way along the shoreline of each bay. Observing the powerful elements all around him made him feel entrenched. He relished it in an utterly morbid way. He had brought himself here. As far as his eye could see, there was no one. The albatross from the other day still pursued his boat. He looked up on the mountainous faces of both sides of the channel. He knew that the ocean’s sway would have set the sea moving enough to keep the way clear for his boat to pass through. Once he had reached the other side, he would be in a safer position. He was planning to continue his journey and swiftly push on; but ever since he had departed from Patagonia, questions about his motive filled his mind, and he was aware of his ignorance of his destination. Aimlessly wandering as he was—would it have made any difference to him if he had a determined goal? His mind torn from life had thrown him in all directions. Could he have felt any more settled? Where could he go to forget? The faces of his late wife and daughter that November morning on the side of the twisting road glazed by frost still played like a repeat film. He believed that it would never abandon him. Through iron curtains of heavy fog and dew, the broken faces of his lifelong love and their baby were etched in his mind like a horrific still-life painting of the most precise brushstrokes an artist could have ca