Dead Sea by Peter Tonkin Page B

then that’s now,’ said Richard. He reached over and grabbed the TV remote. He flipped through the Sky channels until he hit Fox International.
    Suddenly it was as though Richard was looking into a mirror. His face half filled the screen. And Robin was sitting beside him. ‘Of course we have fears,’ she was saying. ‘We’d be stupid not to see the risks.’ The camera panned across to Liberty, scanning over a line of vital young female faces as it swept past the two crews. On the big photo wall behind them were pictures of the girls in younger days. The earnest young adventurers answering the questions were revealed in a range of attractive but alluring beachwear.
    â€˜
Flint
is almost invisible, for example,’ said Liberty, her face serious; the picture behind her showing her in seemingly skintight fencing whites. ‘A polystyrene hull doesn’t give much of an image on radar after all. We’ve had to put extra radar reflectors aboard so that nearby shipping can make us out. We’ll be sailing through some pretty busy waters, certainly to begin with . . .’
    â€˜And how will you all get along, cooped up together for a month and more?’ asked the interviewer.
    â€˜Yes, that’s another fear,’ Liberty admitted. The camera lingered first on her, then on the other members of her crew as she spoke. Each of the others seemed – in younger, less sensible days – to have been beach bunnies and wannabe
Playboy
pin-ups. ‘Maya and I are old shipmates, but Emma and Bella have only sailed with us during the training and the short shakedown voyages.’
    Liberty looked across towards Robin. ‘I’ve actually done more sailing hours with Robin and Flo Weary than I have with them. But I’m sure it’ll all be fine . . .’
    â€˜And what about your crew, Captain Mariner?’
    â€˜The same,’ answered Robin shortly. ‘We’ve trained together. But only Flo and I have done all that many hours together.’ The pictures behind her were like something out of a beachwear catalogue. Or a lingerie directory. Nothing really in criminally bad taste, but enough to raise Richard’s eyebrows. ‘But you have to understand, there was an exhaustive selection and profiling process. Catfights are the least of our worries,’ insisted Robin seriously.
    â€˜What other worries do you have, then Captain? What fears?’ probed the interviewer. And Richard realized. The beachwear backdrop was not designed to make the girls seem sexy. It was to emphasize their vulnerability. And it was doing a good job.
    â€˜Well, obviously, there’s communication. We can’t just pick up a cell phone and call for help if the radio crashes or the computer goes down. And in many ways the North Pacific is more remote than the Amazon rainforest or the African jungle. But I’m experienced with navigation of course, and, like Maya over there, Flo is one of the leading yachts women of her generation. As is Rohini here, in fact. And Akelita has been sailing Oceania since she was born.’ The backdrop changed abruptly. Bikinis were replaced by sailing kit. Suddenly the women looked as competent as they sounded. But still the subtext lingered. Eight girls going out into the great unknown – their lives at the least at risk . . .
    â€˜You getting this?’ Richard asked Nic.
    â€˜Yup. Scary stuff.’
    â€˜It would be,’ Richard agreed, ‘except that they’re all first-rate yachtswomen as Robin says. Even if things get a bit hairy, they can handle it.’ He emphasized the words, not because he needed to convince Nic but because he wished to counteract the message given out by the programme itself.
    â€˜I hope so. Liberty’s mom is worried . . .’
    â€˜But you’re OK yourself?’
    â€˜As calm as I was the day her grandfather celebrated her fifth birthday by letting her sail out alone