Hobson's Choice

Hobson’s Choice

When he was ready, Davy visited the Harbour Master’s Office and advised him of his intentions. Hobson’s Choice slipped her moorings an hour before high tide, easing along the marked passage and out into the English Channel.

Once clear of the harbour, he set the sails and killed the engine. Ahead, ships of every size crisscrossed the sea. He knew the crossing could be dangerous until they reached the French coastal zone.

The heaving deck forced Tracey below. Her head spun, her stomach churned. Seasickness assaulted her mind and body. She lay on her back, knees bent, staring blankly through the open hatch.

At the helm, Davy was in his element. The sails filled, and Hobson’s Choice came alive, riding the swell with spray bursting over the bow.

A few hours later, Tracey made it back on deck. Pale, but when the wind caught her red hair, she radiated something special.

Hungry, Davy ate the corned‑beef sandwiches he’d made before sailing. Tracey, still queasy, nibbled at dry bread.

At nine in the evening, he took a fix: Alderney Light ten miles distant. The wind held fair. He set the autopilot to steer 225 degrees.

Davy settled in the cockpit for the night. “Tracey, go and rest. You’ll recover faster.”

She kissed him and disappeared below.

The night dragged. He fought to stay awake. At last, the sun rose astern. Today, he decided, Tracey must help. He descended the ladder and made two cups of tea.

Tracey, in her bra and knickers, followed him up. Eight hours of sleep had revived her.

He attempted a wolf whistle but failed. “I’d get your clothes on if I were you.” She giggled and dropped back into the cabin.

When she returned, he said, “I need sleep. Take the helm and keep a lookout for anything that floats. Golden rule: one hand for you. We’ll be on this course for hours. If anything gets too close, wake me. Autopilot’s set don’t touch a thing.”

She placed her hand on his. “Don’t you trust me?”

“When my head hits that pillow, I’ll be dead to the world. If that’s not trusting, I don’t know what is.”

He left her, glancing at vessels on the horizon.

Sat in the stern, she gazed at the clear blue sky, enjoying the warmth on her face. Today, unlike yesterday, the sea breeze exhilarated.

Five hours later, Davy woke with a hangover like fog. He pulled himself into the cockpit. “How are we doing?”

“Okay. Nothing’s changed.” The wind wafted her hair across her face.

He eyed the sky, then the sea, and frowned. “We might be in for a storm.”

A quick dead reckoning put them due west of Guernsey. They were making ten knots, but a great distance remained.

Tracey asked questions, keen to help. He dozed while she learned. Night came, and entering the main shipping channel, they avoided tankers and fishing boats that either didn’t see them or didn’t care. Dawn revealed even more ships.

“Your beat,” he said. “Go and rest.”

“You’re just as knackered. I’ll stay on deck.”

“You’re right, but one of us must sleep. Autopilot helps, but a good lookout is the best way to avoid getting run down.”

The hours dragged. Tiredness sapped Davy, but he stayed alert.

Four hours later, Tracey emerged and took the helm.

Using a spare life jacket as a pillow, he slept in the cockpit. Much later, he woke to a pitch-black sky and a rough sea.

“When did this start?”

“An hour or so. I thought of waking you, but the sails are tight, and we’re making terrific speed.”

“Bloody hell, you should have woken me.” He softened. “I know you didn’t realise, but more speed means stronger wind. Still, no damage. I’ll reef the mainsail.”

The hull pitched as he stared at the darkening sky. Ragged clouds drifted on a strong west wind. With the sails trimmed and his teeth chattering, he returned to the cockpit.

“Soup?” she asked.

“Sounds good.”

He tapped the barometer. Falling.

One moment, the sky was a mass of angry clouds; the next, they disgorged their fury. Rain hammered down. Wind hit forty knots. Visibility vanished. Pitching gave way to vicious rolling. Hobson’s Choice climbed spume‑capped crests, bows pointing into salt‑drenched air, then plunged into troughs. Tons of cold water cascaded inboard.

His thoughts fought common sense. Should he battle the weather? He’d survived worse but in larger vessels. A change of course toward shore might be best. If his reckoning was half‑right, they were somewhere in the middle of the Bay of Biscay.

He raised his fist to the sky and roared, “You can try, but you won’t win. I’m a survivor.”

Wet and freezing, he worried about staying awake. Forked lightning carved macabre shapes across tumbling clouds. The hairs on his neck tingled. Steering grew harder. Drained, he altered course toward shelter. Anywhere was better than fighting a sea growing wilder by the minute.

Dark green water swept the port side, often filling the cockpit. The wind shifted from the north. The rain as cold as ice.

Tracey fetched two life jackets, put one on, and passed the other through the hatch. With one hand on the wheel, he grabbed the orange vest.

The trimmed foresail kept their head to sea. They had no choice but to use the engine. It started at once, the surge of power reassuring.

Dogged, he viewed the waves, adjusting course as they crested and fell. His salt‑encrusted eyes searched for lights.

A curling wave lifted them high and hurled them forward. Waves crashed in a roaring mass of foam. Davy clung to the wheel, fighting each wall of water. His strength ebbed. A following surge struck like a sledgehammer. By good fortune, he held her, and she responded, shaking off the deluge.

Solid walls of water fell on the bows and raced along the deck. The engine throbbed steadily.

“The sea’s winning,” he muttered. “Tracey, I’m knackered. You’ll have to help.”

She crawled aft, clipped her harness, and grabbed the wheel.

Cold and exhausted, he ached. With her help, they might make it. A harbour, safety, a warm bed couldn’t be far.

Storm and wind stunned Tracey. Fingers locked on the wheel, they fought the sea together.

Each wave tried to destroy the impertinent little craft daring to trespass. The sea was the enemy; the wind gave it power. Banshee shrieks filled the air. A monstrous wave waited for a mistake. He sensed it, aimed the bows, covered her hands with his. Together, they braced. It broke over them. He held her hard, struggling for air as the sea wrapped around them.

Hobson’s Choice rose, mounted the foam‑covered crest, then careered at breakneck speed into the next wall. The wave assaulted from every angle.

He studied the waves, turning the wheel to meet each one. He laughed at the madness. The engine drove them on. It’s throbbing reassuringly. Then, as the next wave attacked, the engine died.

He rubbed his eyes and shouted, “We’re fucked.”

The sea toyed with them, giving hope, then snatching it away.

A crack like thunder. The mainmast crashed over the side like a falling tree. It acted as a sea anchor until the wires parted.

They huddled in the cockpit as the boat tore apart. Davy held her close as Hobson’s Choice sank lower.

Wide‑eyed, he shouted, “Don’t be frightened. I’ve been in worse. We’ll get out of this.”

Tracey smiled and kissed him.

A sharp crack. The keel snapped. An indifferent wave capsized Hobson’s Choice.

With numb fingers, he fought his harness. Seconds ticked by as his lungs burned. He’d been here before. In the raging sea, he slipped his line, grabbed Tracey, and released hers. Their lifejackets forced them into the main cabin. They surfaced, gulping air. Floating debris struck their heads. Waves pounded the hull.

“Tracey, reach out and hold anything.”

His hand brushed his floating mariner’s torch. He grabbed it and pressed the button. It worked.

“We’ll stay here,” he said. “Outside is certain death. Inside, we have a chance. No one knows we’re in trouble.” He checked the time. “Daybreak is an hour away.”

“Tracey, if you get onto the underside of a bunk, you’ll be out of the water. We must conserve the torch batteries. God knows where the spares are.”

She dragged herself into the space. “Good idea. I’ll skip my makeup in the morning.”

They lay wedged against the hull’s curvature. Storm raging outside, eerie quiet inside. They talked.

At eight, he slid into the water. “I’m going for a gander. Don’t worry. I’ll be back. You have the torch. Use it if you must.”

“Be careful.”

The hull’s motion had lessened but still bounced unpredictably. He swam toward the open hatch and surfaced. The sea was high, but the wind had dropped. The sun tried to shine. He grabbed trailing rigging and scanned the horizon. No craft. One option: climb onto the upturned hull. With the keel gone, it was easier than expected. A shudder ran through him as he pulled himself up.

The battered hull rose and fell. Now and again, a roller swept him off. He clung on and prayed. “I’m not going to die. I’ve won this game, and I’ll do it again.”

He blinked and rubbed his eyes. The fine line on the horizon was land. Hope restored, he returned below.

“The wind’s dropped. Sun’s out. I can see land. If we sit on the hull, someone will see us.”

Tracey laughed. “It’s got to be better than living in the dark.”

“Luck’s with us. Come on.”

He went first, secured himself, and helped her up. Hobson’s Choice bounced and wallowed.

“We’ll be ashore tomorrow,” he said. “Hot bath, good meal.”

She clung on silently.

Time blurred. Distant vessels passed, and they ignored them. Less than twenty-four hours since the disaster, thirst and hunger gnawed.

“Davy,” Tracey croaked. “I’m thirsty.”

He took a breath, plunged under the hull, and surfaced inside. The torch worked. The fridge door had stayed shut. Four cans of Pepsi were in the door rack. He shoved them into his pockets, returned, and handed them over. “Sip. Rinse. Swallow.”

“Your voice sounds like you’ve been on the booze.”

“So, does yours.”

The west wind and constant soaking drained them. Davy cut trailing ropes and secured them. The day dragged. He prayed they wouldn’t face another night. They no longer talked. The sea calmed. Gulls screeched overhead.

Encouragement faded to resignation. Fear of another storm, of drowning, of being unseen gnawed. Well into the night, the wind dropped. Bodies tied to the hull, they surrendered to exhausted sleep.

The sun climbed into a clear sky. Davy stirred. Salt crust blurred his vision. Everything hurt. He shook his head. A faint, regular beat drifted across the water. He nudged her.

“Tracey, wake up. Can you hear that? It’s an engine.”