Free The Wind and the Spray by Joyce Dingwell Page B

to eat every mouthful, for he ate every mouthful of his with her. When she had finished and drunk a cup of strong coffee she thought reluctantly that perhaps he was right, you did feel stronger and more prepared with something substantial inside you.
    They got into the jeep. Within five minutes they were at the station. It was still dark, but thin shafts of light were stripping the charcoal sky. Laurel looked at them unenthusiastically.
    “Cheer up,” said Nor. “A dismal dawn often grows into a bright day.”
    The whalemen were already on the Clyde. Laurel had met most of them, knew their wives, and she smiled a little tremulously now when they hailed her heartily and promised her a good trip.
    At once they lifted anchor and were under way. The Clyde left the bay, cleared the lee of the island, got into the deep sea.
    Nor stood beside Laurel and shouted into her ear. This was necessary because the wind was really something. Had she ever said she loved wind and spray?
    “We’ll toss just here, little green duck,” he called, “because at the rocky corner s of Humpback the opposing systems of waves, winds and currents all meet. Now you’ll see what a good chaser can do in the way of a war-dance.”
    Laurel scarcely listened to his explanation. All she kept on hearing was her own repetition of that little green duck.” Why had he said it? And w hy did it give her such absurd pleasure? Give her, too, the confidence now to meet the Clyde’s tossing not only with serenity but even open enjoyment. For she was laughing at the weather ... even revelling in it.
    “See what a good breakfast does,” Nor approved.
    After they had cleared the lee they were in vaster and slightly more subdued waters. But it was not to be a cruise by any means. The boat turned its direction again then again without any regard to the moods of either the wind or the sea.
    “A chaser can’t stay on a course like a respectable merchant ship or trawler, it has to head off in any promising direction,” she heard Nor shout. He added, “Stomach where it should be?”
    “Right here.” She patted the oilskin.
    “That seems the right place to me.”
    Dawn was breaking properly now. It was not going to be a bright day, but it was considerably less dismal.
    “You seem to have your legs now,” nodded Nor, “so come up to the gun platform.”
    The gun platform at the bow was no place for a landlubber, but Laurel decided it must be much more comfortable than the crow’s nest, or barrel as Nor called the roost of the look-out man.
    Even as she gazed up, the look-out man yelled, “HVAL - BLAST!” and instantly everyone was at attention.
    “ Better get back, green duck,” ordered Nor peremptorily.
    “Why?” She rather liked it here.
    “It’s on.”
    “What’s on?”
    “Fish’s on.”
    She stared at him and he said impatiently, “The Chase.”
    “How do you know?”
    “You heard the look-out man, didn’t you?”
    “I didn’t hear ‘There she blows.’ ”
    “Here we call ‘HVAL-BLAST!’ ”
    “Why?” she asked again.
    “My father did. His father did. His father before him. Now get back, there’s a good girl.”
    After that it all went so quickly that Laurel could only guess what was happening. Not that she wanted to know what was happening, she felt too sad and sick. Not sick in herself, for she felt wonderful, but sick for that poor helpless, rather lovable leviathan of the deep.
    She knew that Nor was on the gun platform, gesturing his helm orders to the bridge ... that he had become a ruthless hunter, the ship his horse, galloping down a quarry. She heard him yelling, but could not understand his words. The wind blew every syllable away.
    She could hear the look-out man, though, for he had a megaphone.
    “HVAL-BLAST! Straight ahead.”
    “Spout to starboard.”
    “Now he’s blowing to port.”
    The boat seemed to spin in a circle. Once it swung round in such a tight turn that it seemed to be right over on its side. Above