I could smell the blood, and the sharks sensed it, too. Suddenly, with four pounds of fish within my grasp, I felt uncontrollable terror: driven wild by the scent of blood, the sharks hurled themselves with all their strength against the bottom of the raft. The raft shook. I realized that it could turn over in an instant. I could be torn to pieces by the three rows of steel teeth in the jaws of each shark.
But the pressure of hunger was greater than anything else. I squeezed the fish between my legs and, staggering, began the difficult job of balancing the raft each time it suffered another assault by the sharks. That went on for several minutes. Whenever the raft stabilized, I threw the bloody water overboard. Little by little the water cleared and the beasts calmed down. But I had to be careful: a terrifyingly huge shark fin--the biggest I had ever seen--protruded more than a meter above the water's surface. The shark was swimming peacefully, but I knew that if it caught the scent of blood it would give a shudder that could capsize the raft. With extreme caution I began to try to pull my fish apart.
A creature that's half a meter long is protected by a hard crust of scales: if you try to pull them off, you find that they adhere to the flesh like armor plating. I had no sharp instruments. I tried to shave off the scales with my keys, but they wouldn't budge. Meanwhile, it occurred to me that I had never seen a fish like this one: it was deep green and thickly scaled. From when I was little, I had associated the color green with poison. Incredibly, although my stomach was throbbing painfully at the prospect of even a mouthful of fresh fish, I had trouble deciding whether or not that strange creature might be poisonous.
My poor body
Hunger is bearable when you have no hope of food. But it was never so insistent as when I was trying to slash that shiny green flesh with my keys.
After a few minutes, I realized I would have to use more violent methods if I wanted to eat my victim. I stood up, stepped hard on its tail, and stuck the oar handle into one of its gills. I saw that the fish wasn't dead yet. I hit it on the head again. Then I tried to tear off the hard protective plates that covered the gills. I couldn't tell whether the blood streaming over my fingers was from the fish or from me; my hands were covered with wounds and my fingertips were raw.
The scent of blood once again stirred the sharks' hunger. It seems unbelievable but, furious at the hungry beasts and disgusted by the sight of the bloody fish, I was on the point of throwing it to the sharks, as I had done with the sea gull. I felt utterly frustrated and helpless at the sight of the solid, impenetrable body of the fish.
I examined it meticulously for soft spots. Finally I found a slit between the gills and with my finger I began to pull out the entrails. The innards of a fish are soft and without substance. It is said that if you strike a hard blow to a shark's tail the stomach and intestines fall out of its mouth. In Cartagena, I had seen sharks hanging by their tails, with huge thick masses of dark innards oozing from their mouths.
Luckily the entrails of my fish were as soft as those of the sharks. It didn't take long to remove them with my finger. It was a female: among the entrails I found a string of eggs. When it was completely gutted I took the first bite. I couldn't break through the crust of scales. But on the second try, with renewed strength, I bit down desperately, until my jaw ached. Then I managed to tear off the first mouthful and began to chew the cold, tough flesh.
I chewed with disgust. I had always found the odor of raw fish repulsive, but the flavor is even more repugnant. It tastes vaguely like raw palm, but oilier and less palatable. I couldn't imagine that anyone had ever eaten a live fish, but as I chewed the first food that had reached my lips in seven days, I had the awful certainty that I was in fact eating one.
After the first piece, I felt better immediately. I took a second bite and chewed again. A moment before, I had thought I could eat a whole shark. But now I felt full after the second mouthful. The terrible hunger of seven days was appeased in an instant. I was strong again, as on the first day.
I now know that raw fish slakes your thirst. I hadn't known it before, but I realized that the fish had appeased not only my hunger but my thirst as well. I was sated and optimistic. I still had food for a long time, since I had taken only two small bites of a creature half a meter long.
I decided to wrap the fish in my shirt and store it in the bottom of the raft to keep it fresh. But first I had to wash it. Absentmindedly I held it by the tail and dunked it once over the side. But blood had coagulated between the scales. It would have to be scrubbed. Naively I submerged it again. And that was when I felt the charge of the violent thrust of the shark's jaws. I hung on to the tail of the fish with all the strength I had. The beast's lunge upset my balance. I was thrown against the side of the raft but I held on to my food supply; I clung to it like a savage. In that fraction of a second, it didn't occur to me that with another bite the shark could have ripped my arm off at the shoulder. I kept pulling with all my strength, but now there was nothing in my hands. The shark had made off with my prey. Infuriated, rabid with frustration, I grabbed an oar and delivered a tremendous blow to the shark's head when it passed by the side of the raft. The beast leaped; it twisted furiously and with one clean, savage bite splintered the oar and swallowed half of it.
9
The Color of the Sea Begins to Change
In a rage, I continued to strike at the water with the broken oar. I had to avenge myself on the shark that had snatched from my hand the only nourishment available. It was almost five in the afternoon of my seventh day at sea. Soon the sharks would arrive en masse. I felt strengthened by the two bites I had managed to eat, and the fury occasioned by the loss of my fish made me want to fight. There were two more oars in the raft. I thought of switching the oar the shark had bitten off for another one, so I could keep battling the monsters. But my instinct for self-preservation was stronger than my rage: I realized I might lose the other two oars and I didn't know when I might need them.
Nightfall was the same as on all the other days, but this night was darker and the sea was stormy. It looked like rain. Thinking some drinking water might be coming my way, I took off my shoes and my shirt to have something in which to catch it. It was what landlubbers call a night that isn't fit for a dog. At sea, it should be called a night that isn't fit for a shark.
After nine, an icy wind began to blow. I tried to escape it by lying in the bottom of the raft, but that didn't work. The chill penetrated to the marrow of my bones. I had to put my shirt and shoes back on and resign myself to the fact that the rain would take me by surprise and I wouldn't have anything to collect it in. The waves were more powerful than they'd been on February 28, the day of the accident. The raft was like an eggshell on the choppy, dirty sea. I couldn't sleep. I had submerged myself in the raft up to my neck because the wind was even icier than the water was. I kept shuddering. At one point I thought I could no longer endure the cold and I tried doing exercises to warm up. But I was too weak. I had to cling tightly to the side to keep from being thrown into the sea by the powerful waves. I rested my head on the oar that had been demolished by the shark. The others lay at the bottom of the raft.
Before midnight the gale got worse, the sky grew dense and turned a deep gray, the air became more humid, and not a single drop of rain fell. But just after midnight an enormous wave--as big as the one that had swept over the deck of the destroyer--lifted the raft like a banana peel, upended it, and in a fraction of a second turned it upside down.
I only realized what had happened when I found myself in the water, swimming toward the surface as I had on the afternoon of the accident. I swam frantically, reached the surface, and then thought I would die of shock: I could not see the raft. I saw the enormous black waves over my head and I remembered Luis Rengifo--strong, a good swimmer, well fed--who hadn't been able to reach the raft from only two meters away. I had become disoriented and was looking in the wrong direction. But behind me, about a meter away, the raft appeared, battered by the waves. I reached it in two str
okes. You can swim two strokes in two seconds, but those two seconds can feel like eternity. I was so terrified that in one leap I found myself panting and dripping in the bottom of the raft. My heart was throbbing in my chest and I couldn't breathe.
My lucky star
I had no quarrel with my luck. If the raft had overturned at five o'clock in the evening, the sharks would have torn me to pieces. But at midnight they're quiet. And even more so when the sea is stirred up.
When I sat down in the raft again, I was clutching the oar that the shark had demolished. Everything had happened so quickly that all my movements had been instinctive. Later I remembered that when I fell in the water the oar hit my head and I grabbed it when I began to sink. It was the only oar left on the raft. The others had disappeared.
So as not to lose even this small stick, half destroyed by the shark, I tied it securely with a loose rope from the mesh flooring. The sea was still raging. This time I had been lucky. If the raft overturned again, I might not be able to reach it. With that in mind, I undid my belt and lashed myself to the mesh floor.
The waves crashed over the side. The raft danced on the turbulent sea, but I was secure, tied to the ropes by my belt. The oar was also secure. As I worked to ensure that the raft wouldn't overturn again, I realized I had nearly lost my shirt and shoes. If I hadn't been so cold, they would have been at the bottom of the raft, together with the other two oars, when it overturned.
It's perfectly normal for a raft to overturn in rough seas. The vessel is made of cork and covered with water-proof fabric painted white. But the bottom isn't rigid; it hangs from the cork frame like a basket. If the raft turns over in the water, the bottom immediately returns to its normal position. The only danger is in losing the raft. For that reason, I figured that as long as I was tied to it, the raft could turn over a thousand times without my losing it.
That was a fact. But there was one thing I hadn't foreseen. A quarter of an hour after the first one, the raft did a second spectacular somersault. First I was suspended in the icy, damp air, whipped by the gale. Then I saw hell right before my eyes: I realized which way the raft would turn over. I tried to move to the opposite side to provide equilibrium, but I was bound to the ropes by the thick leather belt. Instantly I realized what was happening: the raft had overturned completely. I was at the bottom, lashed firmly to the rope webbing. I was drowning; my hands searched frantically for the belt buckle to open it.
Panic-stricken but trying not to become confused, I thought how to undo the buckle. I knew I hadn't wasted much time: in good physical condition I could stay underwater more than eighty seconds. As soon as I had found myself under the raft, I had stopped breathing. That was at least five seconds gone. I ran my hand around my waist and in less than a second, I think, I found the belt. In another second I found the buckle. It was fastened to the ropes in such a way that I had to push myself away from the raft with my other hand to release it. I wasted time looking for a place to grab hold. Then I pushed off with my left hand. My right hand grasped the buckle, oriented itself quickly, and loosened the belt. Keeping the buckle open, I lowered my body toward the bottom, without letting go of the side, and in a fraction of a second I was free of the ropes. I felt my lungs gasping for breath. With one last effort, I grabbed the side with both hands and pulled with all my strength, still not breathing. Bringing my full weight to bear on it, I succeeded in turning the raft over again. But I was still underneath it.
I was swallowing water. My throat, ravaged by thirst, burned terribly. But I barely noticed. The important thing was not to let go of the raft. I managed to raise my head to the surface. I breathed. I was so tired. I didn't think I had the strength to lift myself over the side. But I was terrified to be in the same water that had been infested with sharks only hours before. Absolutely certain it would be the final effort of my life, I called on my last reserves of energy, leaped over the side, and fell exhausted into the bottom of the raft.
I don't know how long I lay there, face up, with my throat burning and my raw fingertips throbbing. But I do know I was concerned with only two things: that my lungs quiet down and that the raft not turn over again.
The sun at day break
That was how my eighth day at sea dawned. The morning was stormy. If it had rained, I wouldn't have had the strength to collect drinking water. I thought rain would revive me, but not a drop fell, even though the humidity in the air was like an announcement of imminent rain. The sea was still choppy at daybreak. It didn't calm down until after eight, but then the sun came out and the sky turned an intense blue again.
Completely spent, I lay down at the side of the raft and took a few swallows of sea water. I now know that it's not harmful to the body. But I didn't know it then, and I only resorted to it when the pain in my throat became unbearable. After seven days at sea, thirst is a feeling unto itself; it's a deep pain in the throat, in the sternum, and especially beneath the clavicles. And it's also the fear of suffocating. The sea water relieved the pain.
After a storm the sea turns blue, as in pictures. Near the shore, tree trunks and roots torn up by the storm float gently along. Gulls emerge to fly over the water. That morning, when the breeze died down, the surface of the water turned metallic and the raft glided along in a straight line. The warm wind felt reassuring to my body and my spirit.
A big old dark gull flew over the raft. I had no doubt then that I was near land. The sea gull I had captured a few days earlier was a young bird. At that age they can fly great distances--they can be found many miles into the interior. But an old sea gull, big and heavy like the one I had just seen, couldn't fly a hundred miles from shore. I felt renewed strength. As I had done on the first days, I began to search the horizon again. Vast numbers of sea gulls came from every direction.
I had company and I was happy. I wasn't hungry. More and more frequently I took drinks of sea water. I wasn't lonely in the midst of the immense number of sea gulls circling over my head. I remembered Mary Address. What had become of her? I wondered, remembering her voice when she translated the dialogue for me at the movies. In fact, on that day--the only one on which I had thought of Mary Address for no reason at all, and surely not because the sky was full of sea gulls--Mary was at a Catholic church in Mobile hearing a mass for the eternal rest of my soul. That mass, as Mary later wrote to me in Cartagena, was celebrated on the eighth day of my disappearance. It was for the repose of my soul, but I now think it was also for the repose of my body, for that morning, while I thought about Mary Address and she attended mass in Mobile, I was happy at sea, watching the sea gulls that proved land was near.
I spent almost all day sitting on the side of the raft, searching the horizon. The day was startlingly clear, and I was certain I saw land once from a distance of fifty miles. The raft had assumed a speed that two men with oars couldn't have equaled. It moved in a straight line, as if propelled by a motor along the calm, blue surface.
After spending seven days on a raft one can detect the slightest change in the color of the water. On March 7, at three-thirty in the afternoon, I noticed that the raft had reached an area where the water wasn't blue, but dark green. There was a definite demarcation: on one side was the blue water I had been seeing for seven days; on the other, green water that looked denser. The sky was full of sea gulls flying very low. I could hear them flapping over my head. The signs were unmistakable: the change in the color of the water and the abundance of sea gulls told me I should keep a vigil that night, alert for the first lights of shore.
10
Hope Abandoned ... Until Death
I didn't have to force myself to go to sleep on my eighth night at sea. At nine o'clock the old sea gull perched on the side of the raft and stayed there all night long. I lay down against the only remaining oar. The night was calm and the raft moved forward in a straight line toward a definite point. Where am I going? I asked myself, convinced by all the signs--the color of the ocean, the old sea gull--that I would be ashore the next da
y. I hadn't the slightest idea where the raft was headed, driven by the wind.
I wasn't sure whether the raft had stayed on its original course. If it had followed the route the planes flew, it was likely to end up in Colombia. But without a compass it was impossible to know. If it had traveled south in a straight line, it would undoubtedly land on the Caribbean coast of Colombia. But it was also possible that it had traveled northward. If that was the case, I had no idea of my position at all.
Before midnight, as I was beginning to fall asleep, the old sea gull came over and pecked me on the head. It didn't hurt. The bird pecked me gently, without injuring my scalp. It seemed as if it were caressing me. I remembered the gunnery officer on the destroyer who had told me it was undignified for a sailor to kill a sea gull, and I felt remorseful about the little one that I had killed for no good reason.
I searched the horizon until dawn. It wasn't cold that night. But I saw no lights. There was no sign of the coastline. The raft slipped along on a clear, calm sea, but all around me there were no lights other than the stars. When I remained completely still, the sea gull seemed to be asleep. It lowered its head as it perched on the side and kept perfectly motionless for a long time. But as soon as I moved, it gave a little start and pecked my head.
At dawn I changed position, so that the sea gull was now at my feet. Then I felt it peck my shoes. It moved along the gunwale. I kept still; the sea gull also kept still. Then it perched on my head, still not moving. But as soon as I moved my head, it began to peck my hair, almost tenderly. It became a game. I changed position several times. And each time, the sea gull moved to where my head was. At daybreak, without having to move cautiously, I reached out and grabbed it by the neck.
Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor Page 6