Every time I open my big mouth about the weather, it all goes horribly wrong. The "odd spots of bad weather" we'd been told to expect along the way from Quetzal to Panama appear to have ganged up on us. We go into yet another fierce tropical storm, with head seas bumping us about, and our speed reduced to three knots. It's miserable, painful, and demoralising - suddenly we're not sure any more when we're likely to arrive in Panama, although we have heard that a ship 70 miles ahead of us has reported no wind, so we know we're working our way through it, albeit slowly.

Of course, we cursed the bad weather when it was cold, but it has its problems when it's hot, too. Our top hatches are open to provide some much-needed ventilation. Steve and I turn in quite early (it's dark by 7pm). I'm half asleep as the conditions get a bit more violent, and we take our first wave over the top. Suddenly I have a lapful of sea water. I register my surprise with a single word of Anglo-Saxon, and stagger up to close the hatch. I'm all fingers and thumbs, and Alan gets it down before the next deluge goes over the roof.

It's the next morning when the rest of the story comes out. Steve, lying in the opposite bunk, suffers a similar soaking from above, and feels something slimy land on his bare chest. He flicks it off. When he gets up later, he sees something glowing on the cabin floor. It's a squid, about six inches long.

It is of course a sign. We've recently finished Michael Crichton's "Sphere", which features, amongst other things, a giant malevolent luminous squid. Now that we're eagerly immersed into Crichton's "Timeline", we're fully expecting quantum mechanics (specialists in fixing quantums) to transport us to another universe and another time. In fact, anywhere except here would do very nicely, thankyou . . .

Clive Tully

Copyright Clive Tully ©2002
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