BLUEBIRD WAKES

On the water, it was almost too cold to live.

He was hunched into the cockpit like an over-dressed gnome. In spite
of the heated suit, he was still freezing. He couldn't feel his
fingers. His toes might well be bitten by frost. He knew his nose would
look like a purple beacon. Under the visor, his eyes were streaming.
Pulling a glove off to rub them was a big mistake - the ends of his
fingers turned blue.

The lake might well look placid and beautiful under a clearing winter
sky, but the stuff of holiday postcards was deceiving. Early on a
January morning nothing moved on the water because parts of it were
frozen. The crew had broken through ice to launch the boat.

They stood in huddles round braziers outside the boathouse, warming
their hands. With the canopy up, from where he sat he could hear them
talking, interpret what they really meant from their careful words and
phrases and identify individuals from theiraccents. They were all
volunteers with minds of their own, not pressed men who carried
grudges. All the same . . . He knew what they thought about him. He was
a disciplinarian and a martinet. He admitted to it. It was his life on
the line.

Looking round he saw no birds on the water or in the sky. Perhaps they
knew something he didn't.

Last night, tossing and turning, he had dreamt of his father. No
matter that the old man was long dead - he still reared out of dreams
like a monster. He had delivered a diatribe against the attempt:
accusing the designers of incompetence, the builders of cutting costs
and corners, the engine manufacturers of cheating. And more, much more,
in a similar vein. Then, full wakefulness. Too much remembered. It
would have been far better if he had properly slept.

He caught himself smiling - and supposed it a nervous reaction. Just
as well nobody else had seen it. On a day like this, it might well be
frozen on his face. He could go into eternity with a grin like a loon.
Perish the thought! Rather, into the record books where he
belonged.

He knew he was thought a dinosaur. He never tried to analyse an
obsession others thought unhealthy. With a father like his, how could
he be anything other than obsessed? It had been instilled in him: 'Beat
the bloody Yanks!' Obsessed? What else other than an obsession would
make him do it? Even his wife thought him mad!

He didn't want to think about anything other than the record attempt.
On a day like this, he needed to be as finely tuned as his boat.

And what a boat! A three-point hydroplane powered by a Bristol
Siddeley Orpheus turbo jet engine capable of developing 500 lbs of
thrust. It burned fuel at the alarming rate of 600 gallons per hour -
but carried just enough of it for six minutes running at
record-breaking speeds. The press called it ' a floating bomb'. He
tried to laugh, but couldn't. Going after records was a serious
business.

He had inherited his father's arrogance. Imagining future sycophancy,
he knew how he would deal with it: by exercising patronage. A number of
so-called friends might find themselves in a wilderness of their own
making . . .

Inside his helmet his radio crackled into a life. His Chief Engineer,
worried about a gauge. He located it, tapped it into working with a
gloved hand.

He couldn't help but look at the chronometer. Only a minute on from
the last time. He wad right to be tense - he needed the
adrenalin.

He supposed he was a fatalist. Hadn't Doris Day sung a song about
whatever will be, will?

Another look at the chronometer. It was as though time was on a
deliberate go-slow. He was tempted to call the shore for a chronometer
check - but imagined the look on faces as they confirmed what he
already knew.

He wondered if his father had ever been troubled by neuroses?

Only minutes to go before the start. The attempt involved building up
speed to the start of the measured mile, two runs in total at maximum
thrust with an average speed being computed from them. As he held the
record, he knew what to expect.

Inside the heated suit, now he was sweating buckets. He was
experiencing something akin to stage fright: his arms felt leaden; his
head hurt; his limbs were paralysed . . .

His visor was misting over. He rubbed it clear of condensation.

The Controller's voice warned him of countdown. A prelude to real
action, it calmed him. The stake boat was cast off and the shore
connection was broken. The Controller was his only contact with the
outside world.
Acting on instructions, he fired up the engine. The boat shook as the
fins of the turbo jet began their rapid rotation. After momentary
roughness, the turbine settled into a low growling sound. It would only
give its full-throated roar when he opened the throttle.

The stake boat circled slowly. He watched as those aboard it visually
checked his craft from stem to stern. He acknowledged their thumbs-up
with a wave.

Engaging the engine at 'Slow Ahead' he moved towards the pre-run
marker, a yellow buoy moored at the end of the lake. Like a
thoroughbred racehorse, the craft trembled under him in what he
imagined an anticipatory way. He settled her at the marker, listening
to the Controller as the countdown proceeded.

He put his hand on the throttle. He could engage the engine in the
blink of an eye, indeed be halfway down the measured mile before that
eye could blink again.

He heard 'Five, Four, Three' and on the mark, engaged the engine.
Through 'Two' and 'One' he felt the turbine blast into furious action
behind him. As the three-point hydroplane surged forward and built up
speed, a thousand cameras focussed on it to record outcomes. Totally
unaware of them, the pilot concentrated on the job in hand. He felt the
spirit of his father in the cockpit with him - and this time, did
laugh.

Like father, like son.

For Queen, and country.

End.