Free Rocky Island by Jim Newell Page B

finally reaching the Atlantic, the helmsman turned the bow west until the ship cleared the island of Jamaica, and then northerly toward Canadian waters, being careful to remain clear of the territorial waters of the United States. The Captain didn’t want to meet the U.S. Coast Guard.
    By the third week in February, the Helen of Troy entered Canadian waters two hundred miles south west of Rocky Island. The Captain didn’t know his ship had picked up a tail at that point. A Canadian navy submarine followed the Helen of Troy as it slowly made its way through the rough waters of a rising February storm. The heading had changed once the vessel was in Canadian waters, and when the submarine commander worked out the course, he found that he was heading for the south coast of Newfoundland. This was reported to the Canadian Navy’s Atlantic Command and forwarded to the RCMP antidrug squad in Halifax.
    The storm had increased in size, considerably beyond the original meteorological forecast. Toby had to curtail his morning walks as the waves grew large enough to send spray well beyond the limits of his path. He was glad for the hand line, because the walkway to the lighthouse was not only slippery, but also even more dangerous from the high winds. He had once more turned the windmill gears into neutral so the huge sails turned at great speed but with no strain from the gusts that continuously rocked the island from the east. The diesel kept the turbine producing the necessary electricity for the lighthouse and as otherwise required, supplementing the solar panels on the house.
    The storm was one of those winter storms that passed fairly quickly, dangerous while it lasted but heading east after a couple of days. The weather frontal system that followed in its path was a cold front followed by a warm front with an associated low pressure area that hung around, bringing thick fog all along the southwestern shore of the province—typical Nova Scotia late winter weather.
    On the second fog-shrouded night, Toby and Allison were in bed, part way through what had begun as an evening of love making, when the signal sounded telling Toby that he was wanted on the satellite telephone.
    “Ignore it,” grunted Toby, his arms wound tight around his wife, his mouth on her breast. Allison pushed him away.
    “No, no. Answer it. At this time of night, it has to be important. We can get back to this later.” And she kissed him.
    The signal kept sounding and Toby, without bothering to put on any clothes, grumped his way to the office to answer the summons. Corporal Brock was on the other end.
    “Guess I caught you in bed. Sorry about that. Something’s up you need to know about.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like the Helen of Troy is about seven miles off the southeastern shore of Rocky Island, heading full steam, straight for you.”
    Toby chuckled. “What’s full steam for that old tub?”
    “About five knots.”
    “And it’s so foggy here that I can hardly see my hand in front of my face. I can’t even see the lighthouse from the window.”
    “The sub commander is on full alert because it doesn’t appear that the vessel’s captain is aware of the danger he’s heading for. There isn’t much we can do until the fog lifts. The helicopter’s grounded. Will you keep watch and let us know if and when the thing runs aground?”
    “You bet. Do you have any forecast on when this fog is due to start lifting? I won’t be able to see what’s happening as it is now.”
    “‘Tomorrow sometime is the best I can get from the met guy. How far off shore is she likely to hit rocks?”
    “Quarter mile or so. Depends on how far out the tide is, if and when she hits. Low tide will likely be about an hour and some from now.”
    “Just about the time she’s likely to run aground unless he changes course.”
    “Doesn’t he have a GPS for navigating?”
    “Don’t ask me. At the cost of one, you’d think even an old tub like that would have one,