He found his men in the wardroom devouring plates of food and drinking enough water to make each of them look a little green. H. A. took measured sips, allowing his body to adjust. Captain James Kirby stepped into the small room with Charlie and the ship’s engineer just as H. A. took his first bite of stew left over from the officers’ mess.
“H. A. Ryder, you’ve got more lives than a cat,” the captain boomed. He was a great bear of a man with thick dark hair and a beard that reached midway down his chest. “And if it had been anyone other than you making such a damned fool request I would have told them to shove off.”
The two men shook hands warmly. “At the price you’re charging I knew you’d wait until hell froze over.”
“Speaking of price?” One of Kirby’s bushy eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead.
Ryder placed his saddlebag on the floor and made a show of undoing its buckles, drawing out the moment until he could taste the crew’s greed. He opened the flap, rummaged through the bag’s contents until he found a stone he thought appropriate, and set it on the table. There was a collective gasp. The light in the wardroom was just a pair of lanterns hanging from hooks in the ceiling but they caught the diamond’s fire and cast it around so it looked like they were standing inside a rainbow.
“This ought to pay you for your trouble,” H. A. deadpanned.
“With a little change left over,” Captain Kirby breathed, touching the stone for the first time.
A rough hand woke H. A. the following morning at six. He tried to ignore it and turned away on the tiny bunk he was using while Charlie Turnbaugh was on duty. “H. A., damnit. Get up.”
“What is it?”
“We’ve got a problem.”
The grimness in Turnbaugh’s voice brought Ryder instantly awake. He swung off the bunk and reached for his clothes. Dust spilled from the cloth as he struggled into his pants and shirt. “What is it?”
“You have to see it to believe it.”
Ryder was aware that the storm continued to blow stronger than ever. The wind screamed over the ship like an animal trying to claw its way in while even stronger gusts made the entire vessel shudder. Turnbaugh led him up to the bridge. Dun light filtered though the windscreen and it was almost impossible to see the Rove’s bow only a hundred and fifty feet away. H. A. saw the problem immediately. The storm had dumped so much sand on the freighter’s deck that the weight of it pinned her to the bottom despite the rising tide. Furthermore, where once they had a hundred yards of water between them and the beach, now less than fifty separated ship from shore.
The Kalahari and the Atlantic were locked in their eternal struggle for territory, a fight between the erosive actions of waves verses the awesome volume of sand the desert could pour onto the waters. They had fought each other since the dawn of time, constantly reshaping the coastline as sand found weaknesses in the constant scouring of current and tide and struggled to expand the desert a foot or a yard or a mile. And all this played out with little regard to the ship caught in the tumult.