The Poseidon Adventure (3 page)

Robin Shelby was playing a game. He poised his bread roll and when the ship began to lean to port, he released it so that it went tumbling end-over-end until stopped by the fiddles at the edge of the table.

The Poseidon, which had been sailing level for a moment, now canted over to port in a slow, continuing roll that for the first time seemed as though it would never end. Robin's bread leaped on to the floor. Everything began to go. To the musical sound of plates, knives, forks and glasses colliding with the wooden racks at the ends of the tables, was added the gentle jingling of the ornaments as the fifteen-foot Christmas tree, planted in a tub of sand affixed to the floor of the dining-room, leaned over alarmingly. Far over on her side, farther it seemed than she had ever been before, the ship appeared to hang there as though she were never coming back.

Belle Rosen gasped, 'Manny, look!' For outside their window that blue and innocent, sun-gilded sea seemed to be directly beneath them as they were tilted over in their chairs. Her plump white hands gripped the table so hard that her rings cut into the flesh of her stubby fingers.

It was no longer a game to young Robin. He was frightened and did not shout, 'Yay!' or 'Wow!', but held on tightly and looked anxiously across the table at his father. A silence gripped them all and Muller, pale, half rose, bracing himself against the glass pane. He was convinced that they were going over.

The two stewards had both been serving at the time, and Peters, the taller, balancing hard against the tilt of the ship, said, 'That's all right, sir,' while Acre, forced to cling to the back of one of the chairs, added, 'She'll be all right. She always comes back.'

It appeared that the big ship had never creaked or groaned or agonized so as she laboured to right herself and slowly pulled out of the roll. The sea which had come so menacingly close receded from the port windows and now showed blue sky, striated with cirrus clouds, as the vessel leant over on her starboard oscillation. She continued to oscillate diminishingly; plates and cutlery slid back into place again.

A steward appeared with a dustpan and brush and swept up the gold and silver shards of some of the tree decorations that had broken.

'Christ!' said Rogo, and then, 'That was a stinker.'

Plump Mr Rosen and his fat wife looked up at Peters in alarm.

'Listen,' continued Rosen, 'That was dangerous, wasn't it?'

The steward replied, 'Not really, sir. I've seen her do worse than this in the North Atlantic.'

Acre added, 'She can't go over, sir, not the way she's built,' and he removed a dish of cold tongue that he had just put down before Mr Rosen, who said, 'Hey! Wait, I haven't had it to eat yet.'

James Martin, whose eyes were quite bright behind his rimmed spectacles, noted the incident and saw as well that in that moment where the ship had seemed to hang fire for an eternity, both stewards had gone white. 'My God,' he said to himself, 'they're rattled.' He asked dryly, 'Were you praying, Frank?'

Scott replied, 'Actually I was too busy trying to hold her up with my stomach muscles.'

The general laughter relieved the tension. Shelby leaned over and said, 'If anybody can do it, you can.'

Miss Kinsale looked faintly disapproving at the Minister's remark.

Hubie Muller said irritably to Peters, 'Who are you kidding? You may have seen her lay over like that before, but I never have. What the hell is going on here? Why doesn't the Skipper slow down or change course, or something?' He was a spoiled man unused to any kind of enduring discomfort and rich enough not to be compelled to put up with it. Whenever he found himself in a situation that was not to his liking, either in the line of accommodation or company, he simply departed and went elsewhere. However, there was no getting away from the antics of the Poseidon.

Martin said, 'I think he's in a hurry. We're a day late now.'

Robin Shelby piped up, 'I bet the Captain was scared too.'

Scott answered, 'Captains are never scared.'

But Miss Kinsale murmured half to herself, 'Out of the mouths of babes.'

The Beamer said to his waiter, 'Phew! I'll have another double dry . . . No, hold on! Make it a whisky.'

'I'll have the same,' said Pamela.

The Beamer turned his seraphic glance upon her, 'That's my girl!'

The luncheon group on the port side began to break up. Manny Rosen helped his wife and said, 'Hold on to me, Mamma,' and then said to Rogo, 'You dressing for dinner tonight?'

Rogo split half of his thin mouth to reply, 'Rawthaw,' in direct mockery of the two men he did not like.

Rosen said, 'Maybe Linda will come. We missed her.'

'Yeah,' said Rogo, 'maybe she will.'

The members of the grab-bag table got up. The Poseidon heeled again. 'Oh dear!' cried Miss Kinsale.

'Here, take my arm,' Scott offered.

Miss Kinsale fluttered, 'Oh, thank you!' but he took hers instead. They were a grotesque-looking pair, the huge man and the tiny, doll-like figure of the spinster, he practically lifting her off the floor to climb the slope of inclination and then holding her tightly against the anti-roll.

Muller said, watching them go, 'Funny guy,' and then, 'What would have happened if we hadn't snapped back, and gone right over that time?'

Martin dabbed his lips with his napkin and said, 'I reckon we'd all be dead by now. Be seeing you.'

The Shelbys arose en masse and clung to one another for the march to the grand staircase.

CHAPTER II

Disaster

But Robin Shelby had been right. The Greek Captain was not only a badly frightened man, but when during lunch-time his ship had heeled over and it seemed as though her normal righting mechanism would never come into operation, he had been close to panic.

For in addition to a number of other sins of omission and commission, he had known that ever since they had crossed the bar of the Tagus upon leaving Lisbon, through inexperience in handling such a vast ship he had misused the stabilizers in the shallow flurry and had to all intents and purposes impaired their usefulness and efficiency. That he had been so fortunate as not to need them through- out a good weather voyage did not alter the fact that now when he did, they were functioning inadequately.

The S.S. Poseidon was as high as an apartment building, and as wide as a football field. Set down in New York she would have stretched from 42nd Street to 46th Street -- four city blocks -- or in London from Charing Cross station to the Savoy. A third of her 81,000 gross tonnage was below the waterline, crammed with propulsion and refrigeration machinery, boilers, pumps, reduction gear, dynamos, oil, ballast tanks and cargo space.

At this particular time the Poseidon was light, riding too high out of the water, improperly ballasted and technically unseaworthy. The Captain had been led into this trap through a series of strokes of ill luck and timing and a bad decision on his part based upon strictly commercial considerations.

The International Consortium that had purchased the liner had converted her for a freight-cruise combination, sailing out of Lisbon, visiting some fifteen countries in Africa and South America in a period of thirty days. They had tripled her cargo space by knocking out the tourist and cabin classes fore and aft, along with much of the crew quarters, limiting passenger space to first-class, while retaining her original speed of thirty-one knots. The amount of freight carried enabled them to bring the cruise price of these accommodations within the reach of those who had never before been able to afford such a holiday.

When she had steamed into La Guaira, Venezuela, the next to last leg of her highly successful maiden voyage, Christmas cruise, her cargo holds were all but empty, having discharged at Georgetown, British Guiana, and her oil bunkers only a third full. She was due to replenish these with Venezuelan oil and take on a full shipment of freight.

Unfortunately at La Guaira they ran into a wildcat dock strike. After waiting thirty-six hours, the Poseidon was compelled by her tight schedule -- she was due to leave again from Lisbon on December 30th on a New Year's cruise -- to sail with her cargo holds empty and no replacement of fuel.

She had sufficient to reach Lisbon but it was the Captain's decision not to compensate for the missing oil from her double bottom tanks with water ballast that made his ship dangerously tender and landed him in his fix.

To have filled this space with salt water, as he should have done, meant that the time required to flush and clean them in Lisbon would have wrecked the turn-around schedule already tightened by the delay.

For the record the Consortium sent him a cable, 'Use your own judgement.' For his private information they bombarded him with coded messages that he was inviting financial catastrophe for them. Five hundred arriving passengers would be living at company expense in Lisbon hotels, not to mention the ill will that would be engendered when they missed their promised New Year's Eve party at sea. The cables pointedly referred to a high pressure area over the Middle Atlantic with forecasts of continuing fair weather. It was the Captain's first big command: he gambled.

At Curaçao, the last port of call, collected reports from all weather stations along his route indicated high pressure area holding firm. It confirmed his decision to sail with his ship as she was.

Once at sea and encountering the mysterious swells, the jaws of the trap closed. To have tried to flood the tanks of a ship of low stability while she was rolling would have been to court immediate disaster.

He did what he could to secure his vessel: battened down, strung lifelines, emptied the swimming-pools, placed his crew on double watch alert and kept his radio room crackling, looking for the storm that he was certain lay in his path, in spite of the reassuring weather forecasts. For in his experience, limited to the Eastern Mediterranean, swells indicated the passage of a great disturbance or one to be encountered. Since up to then he had sailed through nothing but smooth water, the trouble must lie ahead. The Captain's mind was centred upon locating that missing storm and avoiding it if he could.

At two o'clock that afternoon he was let off the hook. Sparks brought him a message broadcast from the seismographic station on the Azores to the effect that there had been a mild, rolling, sub-sea earthquake of no great duration registered both there and in the Canaries, resulting in the build-up of the swell affecting vessels to the south. This dismissed the fears of unreported storm centres. Almost simultaneously came a radio message from a Spanish freighter, the Santo Domingo out of Barcelona, to whom they had spoken earlier in the day. She was now a hundred and twenty miles north-east of the Poseidon, had steamed out of the shock area and reported an end to the disturbance of the sea. By six o'clock that evening, even at reduced speed, the Poseidon could be expected to sail out of the range of the swells.

The Captain thereupon ordered an unalarming, watered-down version of the reason for the ship's behaviour to be broadcast to the passengers with a promise that before nightfall it would have abated.

Shortly after six o'clock the swells abruptly ceased and the Poseidon, after overcoming the inertia set up by her rolling, sailed level on a flat, glassy, breathless sea. The relieved Captain lifted restrictions on the kitchens and cabin service, directed a few junior officers to appear at dinner to provide a sprinkling of white uniforms and gold braid, while still holding the rest of his crew and staff on alert. For he was not wholly happy nor his mind entirely at ease. But when the perfect conditions continued to prevail, he ordered maximum possible speed ahead.

The frame of the old liner began to shudder and shake as her four turbines, each propelling a thirty-two-ton screw, thrust her onwards into the gathering dark at some thirty-one knots. Glasses and drinking-water bottles rattled in their racks, things loose vibrated. The great effort the old giantess was making was only too apparent.

To the majority of those who had been miserably ill the pardon came too late. The relief arriving so close to the evening meal inspired very few to come to dinner. At half-past eight there were only a few more than had been present for lunch scattered about the huge dining-saloon. Manny Rosen's Strong Stomach Club was present, augmented by a full complement at the grab-bag table with the appearance of Mr Kyrenos, the Third Engineer, and Mrs Rogo.

Linda Rogo was as usual overdressed in a long, white, silk sheath gown so tight that it showed the indentation of her buttocks and the line of her underpants. From the tremendous cleavage, it was probably an inheritance from the wardrobe of her starlet days, which caused Manny Rosen to whisper to his wife, 'What's holdin' them in?'

Linda was a pretty, girlie-doll blonde with a small mouth which she exaggerated into a bee-stung pout. She somewhat resembled Marilyn Monroe except for the bite of personality. She affected a blue-eyed, baby stare but the eyes were ice cold. She had let everyone know that she had been a Hollywood starlet, appeared in a Broadway play and had given up a theatrical career to marry Rogo. She never let her husband forget it either.

Frank Scott said to her, 'So glad you were able to come tonight, Mrs Rogo. The table wasn't the same without you.'

Linda flirted her head and cooed, 'Oh, Reverend, do you really mean it?' Then dropping her voice, but still sufficiently audible, she said to her husband, 'You, you bastard. you didn't want me to come.'

Rogo looked innocently aggrieved as he always did when Linda abused him and answered, 'Aw now, baby, I just didn't want you to be sick.'

The shivering of the ship was more noticeable in the restaurant, and Muller's glass, touching a carafe, rang like a tuning fork. He clutched at the rim so quickly that Rosen, who was facing him at his neighbouring table for two, was startled and said, 'What happened?'

Muller said, 'Old seagoing superstition. You let a sailor die if you don't stop a glass from ringing.' He added, 'I'm irreligious, but superstitious.' In a moment he had them all clutching at their glasses to stop the tinkling.

This, the last night but one, had brought out the third best evening frocks of the women. Miss Kinsale was in her short, grey taffeta -- she had brought three for the voyage: black for best, a green and a grey which she wore alternately. Belle Rosen was in a black lace, short dress with high-heeled shoes and the inevitable diamond clips and mink cape. Jane Shelby and Susan appeared in a knee-length mother and daughter set of chiffon in contrasting shades of lilac. The men, with the exception of Scott, wore dinner jackets. The Minister was in a dark-blue suit and the flamboyant Princeton orange and black tie. Martin's dinner-jacket was tartan plaid in blue and green. In spite of the perfect fit of Rogo's clothes, his stocky body made him look like a bouncer in a night club. The two stewards, Acre and Peters, as usual were in their stiff shirts and white mess-jackets. Across the room, The Beamer and his girl were at his table, beginning to drink their evening meal. Pamela's mother was still ill.

Robin Shelby ordered, 'I'll have the Lobster Newburg.'

'No you won't!' said his mother. 'Not at night.'

Her husband said, 'Turkey hash is practically obligatory the day after Christmas.'

Miss Kinsale asked for Salmon Timbales, and hoped they would be like the fishcakes she was used to at home. The Rosens opted for the Devilled Chicken; the Rogos never ate anything but steak or hamburgers.

Stewards with their food trays made their way through the aisles of deserted tables of the nearly empty dining-room and in between the shaking of the ship as she drove through the early evening, one could hear the occasional clink of fork and plate. It was rather a silent meal, for denied the covering hum and clatter of a full restaurant, the diners kept their voices and laughter down.

In the engine room, the temporary double watch, their voices drowned out by the thunder of their machinery revolving at top speed, hovered over bearings, dials and gauges and wondered how long the Skipper intended to keep her driving at that pace. One of the oilers was sent to fetch a couple of dozen cokes. The boiler-room crew kept an equally anxious eye on temperature gauges and fuel consumption.

Topside in the radio room on the sun deck, the night wireless operator was getting off a backlog of messages.

On the bridge, the Captain, thanking his stars that he had got off so lightly, nevertheless was still apprehensive. He had discarded as unnecessary as well as dangerous the idea of taking on water ballast under way, even in a calm ocean through which his ship was sailing normally again. Should there be a hurricane warning, there would still be ample time to do so to enable his ship to ride out a storm. But from all reports, high-pressure zones were holding. Once again he made the decision not to ballast. If he pushed his engines to their capacity, he would be able to make up some of the lost time and bring her in no more than a day late already provided for. Yet no skipper is ever truly comfortable when his vessel is going all out. He operated therefore with the sixth sense of the veteran seaman: weather good, forecast holding, sea track clear, nerve ends uncomfortable.

With nightfall, the sky had become overcast and the surface of the flattened sea had an oily quality which was distasteful to the Master, as though a leaden-coloured skin had formed over it. When his ship entered the zone of total darkness he sent a second man up into the Crow's nest and posted two young officers permanently at the radar screen, whose revolving arm lit up not a single blip on a fifty-mile range.

The executive, who was second-in-command and a more stolid person, could not imagine what was bugging the skipper or keeping him striding nervously. Thrice he had asked whether the second lookout had been posted. Each time he passed the radar screen, he glanced into it. He was like a man driving a car who, checking his rear vision mirror before making a turn, does not quite believe it when he sees there is no one behind him.

From time to time he went out on to the port bridge wing, which projected out over the water and looked down upon the oily sea, reflecting the speeding string of lights of his ship keeping pace with him on its surface. The news of the minor quake had made him conscious of what lay below. His charts showed that the submerged mountain peaks of the Mid Atlantic Ridge, extending in a gigantic letter 'S' ten thousand miles from Iceland to the edge of the Antarctic, at that point were a mile and a half beneath his keel.

The charts, however, were not specific seismic maps and hence indicated neither the three volcanoes believed to be active pointing in line towards the top of South America, nor reflected the huge fault known to exist in the Ridge in that area.

At exactly eight minutes past nine, this fault already weakened by the preliminary tremor, now without warning shifted violently and slipped a hundred or so feet, sucking down with it some billions of tons of water.

If the Poseidon had not been shuddering so from the power she was generating, the bridge might have felt the sudden jolt of earthquake shock echoing upwards, though its force was downwards. Indeed, the Captain and his executive did glance at one another sharply for an instant, because of something they thought they felt in the soles of their feet. But when the Poseidon continued to surge forward, they relaxed and by then it was too late.

For a moment they experienced that sickening feeling at the pit of the stomach when an elevator lift drops too quickly, as the ship, sucked into the trough of the sea's sudden depression, lurched downward and began to heel. At the same time there was some babbling from the telephone to the crow's-nest and the Third Officer at the radar screen gave an unbelieving shout of 'Sir!' as, eyes popping from his head, he pointed to the blips which showed them about to run into a solid obstacle that had not been there a minute before.