Davy took his time plotting their course via the Straits to Malaga. To confirm his calculations, he checked the distance twice. They should complete the journey of one thousand two hundred miles in six days. A phone call to the shop in the marina topped up their bottled water and frozen bread supplies. 

***

That morning, Harman-Smith listened to a breakfast radio phone-in. A caller stated that London's reported explosion was a government cover-up, the actual cause being an unexploded World War two bomb.

Later that day, the Armed Forces Minister made a Parliament statement, declaring they were aware of those UXB's which remained in the Greater London Area.

In the Centre, Harman-Smith sat at his desk listening to a verbal report from his two operatives. He nodded and smiled, knowing the public always trusted BBC News. He needed time but wondered where the man who smashed the Red Mafia's chain of command had gone. A search for a Mercedes driven by a man dressed as a tramp was in full swing.

***

When he was ready, Davy visited the Harbour Master's Office, advising him of his intentions. Hobson's Choice slipped her mooring one hour before high tide and proceeded along the marked passage and into the English Channel.

Once out of the harbour, he set the sails and stopped the engine; ahead ships of varying sizes criss-crossed the sea. He knew that crossing the English Channel could be dangerous until they reached the French side's coastal zone.

The heaving deck forced Tracey into the cabin; her head spun, and her stomach churned. Seasickness assaulted her mind and body. She lay on her back with her knees bent and stared unseeing through the open hatch.

At the helm, Davy was in his element. The sails filled, and Hobson's Choice came alive. She rode the swell, her decks covered by spray bursting over the bow.

A few hours later, Tracey made it onto the deck. Although pale, when the wind caught her red hair, she radiated that something special.

Hungry, Davy ate the corned beef sandwiches made before sailing. Tracy, her stomach queasy nibbled a slice of dry bread. 

At nine in the evening, he took a fix and found the Alderney Light to be ten miles distant. The wind held fair as he set the autopilot to steer 225 degrees.

Davy settled in the cockpit for the night. "Tracey, go and rest. It would help more if you had time to recover. She kissed him and disappeared.

The night seemed endless as he struggled to stay awake. At last, the sun rose from astern. Today, he decided, Tracey must help. He descended the ladder into the main cabin and made two cups of tea.

Tracy, in her bra and knickers, followed Davy up on deck. Recharged by eight hours of sleep she appeared almost human

He attempted a wolf whistle but failed. "I'd get your clothes on if I were you."

She giggled, shrugged her shoulders and dropped into the cabin.

On her return, he said, "I need to sleep. Take the helm and keep a lookout for anything that floats. Moreover, remember the golden rule. Always one hand for you. I reckon we'll be on this course for a good few hours. If something starts to get near, wake me. I set the autopilot, so don't touch a thing."

She placed her hand on his. "Don't you trust me?"

"When my head hits that pillow, I'll be dead to the world. If that's not trusting, I don't know what is."

He left her glancing towards vessels on the horizon

Sat in the stern, she gazed at the clear blue sky and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on her face. Today, unlike yesterday, the sea breeze exhilarated.

Five hours later, Davy woke as if suffering from a hangover. He pulled himself up into the cockpit. "How we doing?"

"Okay, nothing's changed." The wind wafted her hair across her face.

He eyed the sky and then the sea and frowned. "We might be in for a storm."

He did a quick dead reckoning of their position; they were due west of Guernsey. Although they were making a good ten knots, a great distance remained.

Keen to help, Tracey asked questions: He dozed whilst she gained experience. The night came, and having entered the main shipping channel, they avoided large tankers and fishing boats, which either did not see them or appeared not to give a damn. The sun broke, and daylight revealed many more ships.

"Your beat," he said. "Go and rest."

"You're just as knackered. If you don't mind, I'll stay on deck."

"You're right, but one of us must sleep. I'll stay on auto-pilot, which will help, but the mark one eyeball is the best way to stop us bumping into other vessels."

The hours dragged by, tiredness sapped his energy, and, as much as he needed to sleep, he stayed alert to any danger.

Four hours later, Tracey emerged from the cabin and took the helm.

With the aid of a spare life jacket as a pillow, he lay in the cockpit and slept. Much later, he awoke. A pitch-black sky greeted him along with a rough sea.

"When did this start?"

"An hour or so. I did think of waking you, but the sails tight, and we're making terrific speed."

"Bloody hell, you should have woken me." At once, he became conscious that she was trying. "I know you didn't realise, but more speed means the wind's stronger. Still, no damage. I'll reef the mainsail."

The hull pitched as he stared at the darkening sky. Ragged clouds drifted on a strong west wind. With the sails trimmed and with teeth chattering he returned to the cockpit.

"Would you like a cup of soup?" she asked.

"Sounds good."

As a matter of habit, he tapped the barometer and noted it was falling. One minute the skies were a mass of angry clouds, and the next, they disgorged their fury. The rain fell with gruesome violence, and the wind speed increased to forty knots, becoming gale force eight. Visibility reduced to zero. The pitching gave way to a vicious rolling motion; Hobson's Choice climbed a spume capped crest, her bows pointing into the salt drenched air and the next moment diving straight into the troughs. Tons of cold water cascaded inboard.

His thoughts became at odds with common sense. Should he risk fighting the weather? He had survived worse, but that had been in larger vessels. A change of course towards the shore might be for the best. If his dead reckoning was half-right, they were somewhere between Brest and Cape Finisterre. In the middle of nowhere. He raised his fist to the sky and roared, "You can try, but you won't win. I'm a survivor."

Wet and freezing, his ability to stay awake worried him. He wiped the salt spray from his eyes and gazed at a tormented sky. Forked lightning created macabre images across tumbling clouds. The hairs on the back of his neck tingled, and wind made steering hard. Drained, he altered course and headed for the coast and shelter. Anywhere might be better than fighting a sea that was growing wilder by the minute.

Dark green seawater covered the port side and, often, filled the cockpit. The wind altered and came from the north, bleak and wintery. The biting rain miserable.

From their stowage, Tracey removed two life jackets and put one on. The other she passed through the hatch. With one hand fixed to the wheel, he grabbed the orange vest.

The trimmed foresail kept their head to the sea. Now they had no choice but to use the engine. It started at once, and the surge of power from the single propeller gave them much needed reassurance.

With a dogged determination, he viewed the waves, adjusting their course as they crested and fell. His salt-encrusted eyes searched for lights.

A curling wave lifted them high and hurled them forward; waves crashed around them in a roaring mass of foam. Davy clung to the wheel, at war with each wall of water. With every assault, his strength ebbed. The following surge struck like a sledgehammer. More by good fortune, he held her, and she responded, shaking off the deluge.

Steep, solid walls of water fell onto the bows and rushed along the deck before disappearing astern. The engine continued its reassuring beat.

The salt stung his eyes. "I'm knackered. You'll have to come and help,"

Tracy pulled herself from the cabin, clipped her safety harness to the deck and crawled aft.

Cold and exhausted, his arms ached. With her help, they could make it. A harbour, safety and a warm bed could not be far away.

The combination of storm and wind stunned Tracey. Her fingers grabbed the wheel and united, and they fought the sea.

Each wave attempted to destroy this impertinent little craft, which dared to encroach on its domain. The sea was the enemy, and the wind gave it power. Deafening shrieking banshee howls filled the air. A monstrous wave played a game with them, waiting for a mistake. He sensed it coming, aimed the bows at the onslaught and covered her hands with his; together, they gripped the wheel and waited. It broke on top of them. He held her hard against the wheel and struggled for air as the sea wrapped itself around them.

Hobson's Choice rose to meet the onslaught, mounting the foam covered crest. With the stance of a world-class surfer, she careered at breakneck speed into the next wall. The wave assaulted them from every angle.

Davy studied the waves as they came, turning the wheel to attack each one. He laughed at the madness of the wind and sea. The engine drove them on. The throb of its exhaust reassuring. As they turned into the next wave, the engine stopped.

Davy raised his hand to his face, rubbed his eyes, and shouted. "We're fucked."

The sea played as a cat with a mouse, taking them to the point of no return, refraining from its attack giving them hope.

A crack like thunder shook their world. Seconds later, the mainmast crashed as a fallen tree over the side. It acted as a sea anchor, but the continuous buffeting soon parted the wires which tied it to the hull.

They huddled in the cockpit whilst the boat fell apart. He held her close as Hobson's Choice sank lower. Soaked and scared, he held her close.

Davy shouted, "Don't be frightened. I've been in worse. We'll get out of this."

Tracey moved her head to his and gave him a reassuring smile, and kissed him.

With a sharp crack, the keel snapped. Tired of its toy, an indifferent wave capsized Hobsons Choice.

With numb fingers, it took time to release his harness. Seconds ticked away as his lungs craved for air. He had been here before. In the raging sea, he slipped his line, held on to Tracey, and released hers. The buoyancy of their lifejackets forced them into the main cabin. On surfacing, they gulped life-giving air. Floating debris struck heads, and then they realised where they were. Waves pounded the hull as he attempted to sound calm, "Tracey, reach out and hold on to anything."

His hand brushed against his floating mariner's torch. He grabbed and, with a prayer on his lips, pressed the "on" button; it worked.

"We'll stay here," said Davy. "Outside is certain death, but inside we have a chance. Alas, no one knows we're in trouble. Our VHF aerial disappeared hours ago." He checked the time and figured daybreak was an hour away.

"Tracey, it will be a squeeze, but if you get onto the underside of a bunk, you'll be out of the water. Something else, and it's up to you. We must conserve the torch batteries - God knows where the spares are. What do you think?"

She dragged herself into the small space. "Good idea. I'll skip my makeup in the morning.

For the next few hours, they lay wedged tight against the curvature of the hull. With the storm raging outside, an eerie quiet filled the inside. They talked and talked.

At eight in the morning, he slid into the water. "I'm going for a gander. Don't worry. I'll be back. You have the torch. Use it if you have to."

"Be careful," she said.

The motion of the hull lessened, but it still bounced unpredictably. He breathed deeply before swimming towards the open hatch. Once through, he bobbed on the surface. The sea was still high, but the wind had dropped, and the sun, although covered by sparse cloud, was shining. He grabbed a piece of trailing rigging as his eyes searched in every direction. The sea appeared devoid of any other craft. One choice remained, to clamber onto the upturned hull. With the keel gone, this became easier than he imagined. He could not control the shudder that ran through him as he pulled himself up the hull.

The battered hull of Hobson's Choice rose and fell with each passing wave. Now and again, a giant roller broke and swept him off his precarious perch. He clung on and prayed. "I'm not going to die. I've won this game, and I'll do it again."

Optimistic, Davy examined the thin blur in the distance. It had to be land. With hope restored, he returned to the main cabin.

"The wind has dropped, and the sun is trying to shine. I can see land, and it's my guess if we sit on the hull, someone will see us."

Tracey laughed at his eagerness. "Do we have a choice?"

"With luck, we'll be picked up soon. Come on, let's do it."

He went first, securing himself with a line to the moving hull until Tracey surfaced. With his help, she scrambled and dragged her way to the top. In a few moments, he sat alongside her. Hobson's Choice continued to bounce and wallow in the steep sea.

Davy understood their chances as the breeze chilled his body. "This time tomorrow, this will be a bad memory. We're drifting at a fair rate towards land. Soon, we'll be able to swim ashore. A nice hot bath and a good meal are waiting for us."

She clung on in silence.

Time became unimportant. This minute became the same as the next as they struggled to survive the constant drenching. Throughout the day, the drift continued. Through salt caked eyes, vessels appeared to pass, ignoring their plight. Davy realised the chances of being spotted were remote. Though it was not yet twenty-four hours since the disaster, the lack of drinking water and food began to affect them.

"Davy," croaked Tracey. "Apart from being bloody wet and cold, I'm thirsty."

With the spirit of a gallant knight, he took a deep breath, pushed himself under the hull and into the cabin, surfacing in the stale air. He found the torch and pressed the button. Even though everything was upside down, the fridge door had remained closed. On opening, the contents fell out; four cans of Pepsi floated just under the surface. Shoving the cans into his pockets, he plunged under the water and clambered back on the hull. He gave Tracey the four cans. "This is it. Sip, rinse it around your mouth and then swallow."

"Your voice sounds like you've been on the booze."

Shivering, he said, "So does yours," he said.

The fresh west wind and the constant soaking sapped their strength. Davy cut the trailing ropes free and, as best as possible, secured them to the hull. The day dragged with unremitting slowness. Although not religious, he prayed they did not have to spend another night in the open. The battle to hold onto the hull took its toll. They no longer talked. The sea calmed, and gulls screeched as they flew over the surface, searching for food.

His earlier encouragement changed to resignation. The fear of another storm, of drowning, or of being unseen by a ship played on his mind. Well into the night, the wind dropped. With their bodies tied to the hull, they surrendered to the sleep of exhaustion.

The sun rose, and any sign of land had vanished. Now he doubted if it had ever been. Moved by the instinct to survive, they clung to the battered hull as it wallowed in short, steep seas. Hope had gone their will to live nonexistent. They remained tied to a drifting hulk on a calm sea.

Two people never noticed the morning sun as it lit the horizon.