Trejsi Kidder - The Soul of a New Machine

All the way to the horizon in the last light, the sea was just degreesof gray, rolling and frothy on the surface. From the cockpit of a smallwhite sloopshe was thirty-five feet longthe waves looked like hillscoming up from behind, and most of the crew preferred not to glance atthem. There were no other boats in sight, but off to the south for awhile they could see the reassuring outlines of the coast. Then it gotdark. Running under shortened sails in front of the northeaster, theboat rocked one way, gave a thump, and then it rolled the other. Thepots and pans in the galley clanged. A six-pack of beer, which someonehad forgotten to stow away, slid back and forth across the cabin floor,over and over again. Sometime late that night, one of the crew raised avoice against the wind and asked, What are we trying to prove?

All of them were adults. The owner and captain was a lawyer in hissixties. There were a psychologist and a physician and a professor, allof them in their late thirties, and also a man named Tom West. West wasrather mysterious, being the merest acquaintance to one of them and astranger to the others. They were bound for New York from Portland,Maine, on yachtsmans business, which is to say, primarily for sport.And when they had set sail in sheltered Casco Bay earlier that evening,decked out bravely in slickers and sou westers, all of them had felt atleast a little bit romantic. But when they cleared the lee of the landand entered the seaway, and the boat suddenly began to lurch, theygrabbed the nearest sturdy things and thought about their suppers, whichby the time it got dark, several of them had lost.

Most of the crew now fell into that half-autistic state that themonotony of storms at sea occasionally induces. You find a place to sitand getting a good hold of it, you try not to move again. The boat rollsthis way and you flex the muscles around your stomach, then relax; sherolls that way and you flex again. Just staying in one place isexercise. For a while your mind may rebel: Why did you come, idiot? Youdont have to be out here. You may feel remorse for having cursed somepart of life on land. After a time, though, phrases start falling fromyour memorysnatches of song or prayer or nursery rhymesand you repeatthem silently. A little shot of spray in the face, however, or anespecially loud and dangerous-sounding thump from the hull, usuallybreaks the trance and puts you back at sea again. You feel like a lonelychild. The ocean doesnt care about you. It makes your boat feel tiny.The oceans are great promoters of religion, or at least of humilitybutnot in everyone.

In the glow of the running lights, most of the crew looked likerefugees, huddled, wearing blank faces. Among them, Tom West appeared asa thin figure under a watch cap, in nearly constant motion. High spiritshad apparently possessed him from the moment they set sail, and thelonger they were out in the storm, the heavier the weather got, thelivelier he grew. You could see him grinning in the dark. West did allthat the captain asked, so cheerfully, unquestioningly and fast, thatone might have thought the ghost of an old-fashioned virtuous seaman hadjoined them. Only West never confessed to a queasy stomach. When one ofthe others asked him if he felt seasick too, he replied, in a completelyserious voice, that he would not let himself. A little later, he madehis way down to the cabin, moving like a veteran conductor in a rocking,rolling railroad car, and got himself a beer.

West was at the helm, the tiller in both hands, riding the waves; he wasstanding under a swaying lantern in the cabin studying the chart, he wasnimbly climbing out onto the foredeck to wrestle in a jib and replace itwith a smaller one. And when the captain decided to make for shelter,very late that night, at a little harbor with a passage into it that wastwisty, narrow and full of tide, it was West, standing up in the bow,who spotted each unlighted channel marker and guided them safely in.

By dawn, the wind had moderated slightly and everyone felt better. Theywent out and raised their spinnaker. West gazed up at the largebillowing sail and said, The spinnaker looks like a win. He said,Hey, were haulin ass. There was something faintly ridiculous abouthis exclamations, but also something childlike that made his companionssmile. He was grinning most of the day, a cockeyed little smile thatcollected in one corner of his mouth. When the captain remarkedworriedly that his boat had never gone so fast before, West laughed. Hemade the sound mostly in his throat. It was a low and even noise. Odd initself and oddly provoked, the kind of laughter that ghost storiesinspire, it seemed to say, Heres something thats not ordinary.

A snapshot taken of the cockpit in the afternoon shows West sitting inthe stern. The dark shadow of a days growth of beard reveals that hepassed adolescence some years ago, though just how many would beimpossible to say. In fact, he is just forty. He wears glasses withflesh-colored rims, and a heavy gray sweater that must have given himlong faithful service hangs loosely on his frame. He looks as if he mustsmell of wool. He looks thin, with a long narrow face that on a womanwould be called horsey. A mane of brown hair, swept back behind hisears, reaches almost to his collar. His face is lifted, his lips pursed.He appears to be the person in command.

One of the crew would remember being alone with him on watch one night.They were sailing under clear skies with a gentle breeze. Suddenly, atthe slackening of the tide, the wind fell away, some clouds rolled in,and then just as suddenly, when the tide began to run, the sky clearedup and the breeze returned. In a low and throaty voice, West madeexclamations: Did you see that? He made his low and spooky laugh.His companion was about to say, Well, Ive seen this happen before.The tone of Wests voice prevented him, however. He thought it would berude to describe this event as ordinary. Besides, West was right, wasnthe? It was strange and wonderful the way the pieces of the weathersometimes played in concert. At any rate, it was fun to think that theyhad just encountered a natural mystery, and, somewhat surprised athimself, Wests companion suggested that events like that madesuperstitions seem respectable. West gave his low laugh, apparentlysignifying agreement.

The psychologist, meanwhile, was waiting for West to go to sleep. He hadnot done so for more than a few hours altogether. By the third day, whenthey were sailing in sunshine with a gentle breeze, the psychologistexpected to see signs of exhaustion appear in West. Instead, West put onhis bathing suit and took a long vigorous swim beside the boat.

Back at a restaurant near Portland before theyd gone out into thestorm, while theyd been sharing the meal that most of them soonregretted, West had told them, I build computers. Although he spoke atsome length about certain extraordinary sounding, new computing systems,the others came away uncertain about what role, if any, he had played intheir construction. They felt only that whatever he did for a living, itwas probably interesting and obviously important.

One time while West was manning the tiller, the psychologist asked himhow he had learned to sail. West didnt answer. A little later on,thinking he hadnt heard the question, the psychologist inquired again.

You already asked me that, West snapped. After a moments silence, hewet his lips and explained that he had taught himself mostly, as a boy.

On another occasion, just to make conversation, one of the crew askedWest what sort of computer he was building now. West made a face andlooked away, and muttered something about how that was work and thiswas his vacation and he would rather not think about that.

The people who shared the journey remembered West. The following winter,describing the nasty northeaster over dinner, the captain remarked,That fellow West is a good man in a storm. The psychologist did notsee West again, but remained curious about him. He didnt sleep forfour nights!