Fore and aft, triplets of four-inch diameter nylon lines strained to hold the big American research vessel against her pier as the perfectly ordinary Cape Town summer "breeze" threatened to rip her free. The captain was cautious enough to keep the engines running, with bridge and engine room fully manned. An hour ago, there had been almost no air moving: now it was a full gale, with crystalline blue skies and bright warm sunshine, and a long wake of clouds streaming away downwind from Lion's Head.
The ship's arrival was a major civic occasion: there was a five-man brass band from the Mayor's office leaning into the wind on the dock, striving mightily to be heard over the wind's howl.
The vessel, although purely academic, technically belonged to the US Navy, and would therefore play diplomat: she'd been priddied to the nines to host a fantail 'garden party' for local celebs and dignitaries. The lady guests had all left their homes in the calm, wearing their best, most diaphanous summertime party dresses.
The party's start-time arrived, and instantly, out of nowhere, came this howling breeze. The women were now having a terribly difficult time as the wind whistled along, swirling about the superstructure in vicious twists and gusts, often taking control of fabric and making it billow like rogue sails in a storm - whipping about in ways not amenable to modesty. Flimsy sun-hats had either gone overboard or were tucked awkwardly beneath their owners' arms.
Albert, the senior member of the scientific party, had agreed to help host, as stated on the badge he wore. At opening-time, he had spent a mere five minutes - a very wearying five- on the fantail, standing duty beside the punchbowl, greeting, while also trying to dip and distribute punch without spraying all parties who were momentarily downwind. He was (tragically?!) unable to help as the ladies fought their dresses with one hand and tried to control punch, hats, and purses with the other.
Most people were giving up on the punch. The wind's more violent gusts were striping male guests of hats, the musicians of their scores, and sending piles of paper napkins downwind like the shuffling of some crazed card-sharp. No food could be persuaded to long remain on a plate - or even on the serving table.
During a momentary lull there stepped aboard an unaccompanied, slender, rather buxom young woman in a flowing silk-print skirt. Albert recognized her from yesterday's overly-busy, hurried formal reception at the town hall: she had put in a brief appearance, but they hadn't actually met. Somehow she'd made it up the gangplank without the skirt doing the "Marilyn Monroe on the grating" thing.
He watched as she scanned the crowd, inventorying.
She caught his eye -obvious recognition- and immediately strode over to stand beside him: she had several inches of height advantage. Clearly amused by the developing debacle, she grinned at him from beneath wind-tousled short blond hair, extended her hand. "Disregard yesterday's formalities..." she said: "This is your true welcome to Cape Town! Roaring forties and all that! I'm Victoria Regina, from the local Governing Council, also a biology teacher in the local schools. And you are...?"
She had his full attention instantly - very pretty indeed, about his age, and brilliantly vivacious. The lovely Afrikaans accent didn't hurt a thing, either.
A long, silent, shared, and positively electric glance held them. She turned gently pink, and he followed suit. Finally he managed to reply, "At your service: this is ridiculous, or maybe an omen, but my name is -seriously now - Albert. I'm not, however, the Dowager Queen's consort - I'm just this leg's resident oceanographer. VR - that's quite a name to carry!"
She shrugged, jabbed downwards with both hands, attempting to control her skirt as the gusts resumed. "Nice of you to recognize it, especially since you're a Yank! My Mother is a history professor, hence the choice. And who can say, perhaps your name IS some sort of omen? But of what?"
Albert nodded - an interesting possibility. They stood eying one another as the wind's tone wound up and down the scale, making simple conversation almost impossible.
He shook his head, took her by the hand, guided her into the lab forward of the fantail, out of the wind but not entirely free of its shriek.
She laughed, looked at him piercingly, scanned his nametag, said "God, what a day for a party like this! I've been aboard ships before - engine rooms and bridges and all that, but never a research ship. Is showing guests about the ship a part of your duties as host?"
He nodded, said he'd be happy indeed to take her on a tour. But it would require returning to the fantail and going up one of the steep outdoors steel ladders - all access to the ship's interior from the lab was blocked for the moment.
"Let's go, then!" she said with obvious enthusiasm.
