El Yacht #214 - Agosto 2018

ñales, ilegibles porque ondeaban hacia su popa,
y haciendo con un reflector unas señales Morse
que nadie lograba interpretar mientras el oficial de
guardia, primero hacía izar el pabellón argentino,
luego ordenaba reducir máquina y recién después
avisaba al capitán. Invariablemente alguien de la
radio llegaba al puente entregando al jefe de guardia
un papelito escrito a lápiz:
–Which ship? Where to?
El capitán, todavía jadeante, siempre exclamaba:
–Pero, ¿esos tipos no saben leer? ¿Para qué habremos
pintado los dos costados? Por favor, Arias, vaya
a la radio y hable con los gringos, a ver qué diablos
quieren. Pabellón al tope, ¿no? La señal M también.
Al rato, el primer oficial llamaba al puente desde el
cuarto de radio. El capitán escuchaba por el teléfono
y respondía con un “OK”. Los demás en el puente
se enteraban de lo que ocurriría según el capitán
ordenara “media máquina avante al rumbo 090”, o si
volvía a refunfuñar y mantenía parado a su buque.
Por suerte, no ocurrió ningún percance así; pero días
después un carguero se desvió desde el horizonte y
se acercó a la estela del Quillén sin comunicarse de
ninguna manera pero con mucho personal observando
con prismáticos desde mástiles y acastillaje.
El capitán ordenó seguir como si el extraño no
existiera y así estuvieron ambos buques navegando
en fila a 10 nudos rumbo al Este por un buen rato
hasta que el otro cayó a una banda y se apartó
siguiendo su rumbo original.
–Radio, ¿alguna novedad?
–Ni mu capitán. Nada.
–Hemos tenido un Dios aparte. Seguro que era
un corsario. Pero de qué bando nunca sabremos.
–En su proa decía Mintaka.
–Jamás muestran su nombre verdadero.
–¿Envío aviso de Raider con nuestras coordenadas?
–¡Ni se le ocurra! Nos hundirían enseguida.
En la octava jornada el barómetro fue cayendo
con rapidez bajo un cielo cubierto que se iba oscureciendo.
La calma opresiva dejaba un mar sin
olas, donde el buque avanzaba como en el aire,
sin cabecear ni rolar. Nadie se hizo ilusiones. La
tormenta se acercaba.
conditions remained under a vast center of
high pressure with no clouds and soft breeze
from the East. During the boreal summer, they
sailed close to the Intertropical Convergence
Zone (ITCZ).
In some occasions, another boat was sighted in
the horizon and the course was automatically
deviated to move away as much as possible,
attained when the other was a merchantman
and did the same.
Some other times, the spotted boat accelerated
and moved closer with collision course, only
showing its front profile, a dense blackened
smoke plume and an enormous foam mustache
under its prow armament.
Ninety times out of a hundred, it was a destroyer
or a light English cruise hoisting signal flags,
that were illegible since they waved to stern, and
giving Morse signals with a reflector that nobody
could understand while the guard officer first
raised the Argentine flag, then ordered to reduce
engine and only then informed the captain.
Invariably, someone from the radio arrived to
the bridge delivering a piece of paper written
in pencil to the guard head officer:
–Which ship? Where to?
The captain, still panting, always exclaimed:
– But do those guys know how to read? Why
have we painted both sides? Please, Arias,
go to the radio and talk to the gringos to
see what the hell they want. Flag to the top,
right? M signal too.
Soon after, the first officer called the bridge from
the radio room. The captain listened through the
telephone and answered with an “OK”. The other
people in the bridge found out what happened
according to what the captain ordered “half
engine forward to course 090”, or if he grumbled
again and kept the ship motionless.
By a stroke of luck, no setback occurred, but
some days after, a freighter took a detour from
the horizon and got closer to the wake of the
Quillén without any communication but with
lots of staff watching through binoculars from
the masts and gear.
The captain ordered to pretend as if the stranger
did not exist and both boats sailed like that in a
row at 10 knots heading to the East for a while
until another ship appeared and went away
following its original course.
–Radio, ¿any news?
–Not a word, captain. Nothing.
–We must have had a guardian angel. It was
a pirate ship for sure. But we will never know
from which side.
– Mintaka was written in its prow.
–They never show their real name.
–Shall I send raider alert with our coordinates?
–Don´t you dare! They’d sink us immediately.
In the eight journey, the barometer quickly begun
to drop under an overcast sky that continued to
go dark. The oppressive calm left a sea with no
waves, where the boat advanced like in the air,
without rocking or keeling. Nobody got excited.
The storm was coming.
To be continued in the next edition
EL YACHT - 39