A Hero for Leanda

1

    As soon as Mike Conway heard that his yacht Tara had been found he hurried down to the steel-pile jetty that was all Accra offered in the way of port facilities and, too worried to bargain, hired a surf boat at the coxswain’s price to take him out to the reef. The young fisherman who had come upon the wreck that morning went with them as guide. The wind was now no more than a gentle breeze from the sea, but once outside the breakwater the African crew had to strain at their paddles to keep the boat head-on to the surf that never ceased to roll on the Ghana coast. Soon their strong black bodies, naked except for loincloths, were glistening with sweat in the warm, moist air. They grunted as they paddled, but that was the only sound they made. From a dozen other surf boats, plying between the jetty and the big cargo ships unloading at anchor, came a steady monotonous chant. But Conway ’s crew were silent, as though out of respect for his trouble.
    In twenty minutes they had reached the coral. The surf boat had stopped pitching now; there was only a slight swell in the lee of the reef and the surface of the water was scarcely ruffled. The fisherman began to call out directions; the coxswain, steering the boat with a long oar, maneuvered cautiously through the maze of coral heads. Conway gazed tensely over the high prow as a telltale patch of flotsam came into view—a floorboard, an empty paraffin can, a sodden chart, a fragment of the flag of Eire on a splintered pole. Suddenly the fisherman cried, “Look, massa , dey she is!” and pointed.
    Conway stared down through the blue, transparent water. As he took in the scene, an involuntary groan escaped him. Until this moment he had never quite lost hope, even when the fisherman had described the wreck to him. He had buoyed himself up with the thought that a salvage operation might be possible, that the yacht might be raised and repaired.... Now he could see that Tara would never sail again. She had pounded herself to bits on the jagged coral and was lying broken-backed on the white sand three fathoms down, her bows stove in and her timbers crushed.
    He stood in grim-faced silence, scarcely able to believe the extent of his ill fortune. He still didn’t know exactly how the disaster had happened. Probably he never would. All he knew was that it had been none of his own making. He had gone ashore for an hour or two after dark, leaving Tara securely tied to one of the mooring rings on the jetty. Someone could have untied the rope to release another boat, and forgotten to make it fast again. Or someone might have loosed the yacht out of mischief, not foreseeing the devilish freak wind from the shore that would drive her out past the breakwater and onto the reef. If so, the prank had cost Conway literally everything he possessed in the world except the shorts and shirt he was wearing, and his passport, and the few pounds in his pocket. The irony of it was almost unbearable. Singlehanded, he had sailed Tara over ten thousand miles of ocean, riding out a score of gales and surviving every kind of hazard. Disaster could have come at any time, but it had passed him by. Till now—in what should have been a safe harbor.
    He turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer. Tara had been more to him than a fine ship. For years she had been his only home; for weeks at a time, his sole companion. He would miss her like hell.
    “All right,” he called to the coxswain roughly, “let’s go.”

    Ashore, he wasted no time in vain regrets. He was a practical man, and there were urgent things to be done. With a bit of luck, he might still salvage some of his belongings before Tara finally broke up. There was an unexpired letter of credit for fifty pounds down in the cabin which, if still decipherable, should pay for the hire of an Aqua-Lung diver and leave something over. There were his references and diplomas, which he’d need if he was to get a decent job quickly. His treasured books would hardly be worth bringing up, but there were his clothes, his compass and sextant, his tools, his spare sails—all worth a bit. A couple of good divers might even be able to raise Tara ’s light engine. If so, he could overhaul it himself, and it would certainly fetch a few pounds.
    With sweat pouring off him in the greenhouse heat of the afternoon, he made his way to the harbor master’s office to seek advice. As a yacht owner, a man of prestige and independence, he had had good and