Adrift

by Steven Callahan

  As I nibble my morning meal on the fifteenth day, the battle with the dorados begins again. Their powerful jaws snap at my hands and feet. I try to curl up on my cushion to soften the blows, and occasionally I drive them off. As daylight fills the sky, they dart off to hunt, returning every now and then to group with others and butt the raft. Flying fish burst from the water in the distance. They skitter for a hundred yards or more, weaving this way and that, their wings banking to the turns and their tails flickering like little propellers. Dorados race off and leap after the flyers, their favorite prey, or they shoot out of the waves in high arcs just for the fun of it. At sunset they return as if my raft is the school’s rendezvous point.

  I’m continually faced with hard decisions. Each time I fish, I risk damaging the spear gun and the raft. If that happens and I am not rescued in short order, I may die. On the other hand, I may die if I don’t fish enough. Every time I decide on taking action, I run through the possible results to try to rationally decide on the best thing to do, but I am finding that all decisions are a two-edged sword, that any action may both benefit me and harm me. In the final analysis, everything is a gamble.

  During their attacks, I have speared ten dorados. Some meat from the first dorado I caught still hangs in the butcher shop. I don’t want to kill them needlessly; I wish that they could intuit this and leave me alone. They attack at dawn and dusk. I spear two of them securely and pluck them from the water. Their eyes meet mine as I hold their kicking bodies away from the raft. Frustrated, I yell at them. “There, is that what you want, stupid fish?” They tear free, ripping large holes in their fins and back. It does not seem to faze them. They return. I can feel a small tear in one of the ballast pockets, and I fear that the fish will not stop until they have destroyed me. I try to convince myself that their attacks are more pragmatic, that they are after the barnacles under me.

  Growing on the bottom of the raft are the beginnings of gooseneck barnacles, so named for the long, tough stalks from which hang their lumpy black bodies. The adults are armored with bright white yellow-rimmed multiple shell plates that fit together like a puzzle. The baby barnacles on the raft are only about one-third of an inch long and have no hard shells. Once, Napoleon Solo was heeled over on the same tack for two weeks. Even though Sob sailed like a wizard, a farm of barnacles sprouted on the smooth paint underwater above her antifouling.

  Anything floating in the sea is an island. Flotsam allows barnacles and weeds to grow. These act as nurseries for many animals and plants and attract small fish, which in turn attract larger fish—including sharks—and birds. When Chris and I left the Azores, we found an eight-inch cube of styrofoam floating in the sea with a fourteen-inch fish parked under it. We lifted its home and the fish swam about in circles, completely confused. We picked up fishing floats and lines cast adrift for some months. Every inch of floating paraphernalia housed a cluster of barnacles two inches long, as well as crabs, fish, worms, and shrimp. I’ve seen a mere strand of weed that had been swept out into the Gulf Stream accompanied by reef fish that had drifted with it over a thousand miles from their home. My raft and I are a large island by comparison.

  Anything floating in the sea is an island. Triggerfish eat gooseneck barnacles on a piece of flotsam and investigate some sargasso weed in the background.

  It is heartening to see the ecology develop. Meat, especially the fish sticks of dorado, is very high in protein, but most vitamins are found in photosynthesizing organisms. Plants and the animals that feed on them, such as barnacles and triggerfish, yield more vitamins than the meat of the carnivorous dorados. Organ meats are also higher in vitamins, because they process the food that the fish digest. Experiments have shown that even without any vitamin C, a person shouldn’t get scurvy for forty days, but any number of diseases or organ failures can result from lack of other vitamins. I hope the barnacles, triggers, and fish organs will provide enough. The line that trails to the man-overboard pole is made of twisted strands, with long, spiraled furrows that make a good field for barnacle growth. But every good thing has a price. The growth feeds me but slows me down, and the developing food chain will attract sharks.

  In addition to the little ecosystem developing around my raft, I am constantly surrounded by a display of natural wonders. The acrobatic dorados perform beneath ballets of fluffy white clouds. The clouds glide across the sky until they join at the horizon to form whirling, flaming sunsets that are slowly doused by nightfall. Then, as if the sun had suddenly crashed, thousands of glistening galaxies are flung out into deep black night. There is no bigger sky country than the sea. But I cannot enjoy the incredible beauty around me. It lies beyond my grasp, taunting me. Knowing it can be stolen from me at any time, by a dorado or shark attack or by a deflating raft, I cannot relax and appreciate it. It is beauty surrounded by ugly fear. I write in my log that it is a view of heaven from a seat in hell.

  My mood follows the sun. The light of each day makes me optimistic that I might last another forty, but the darkness of each night makes me realize that, if any one thing goes wrong, I will not survive. My rapidly shifting moods chase one another until I feel completely confused. Writing helps to keep things in perspective, but I wish for a companion who could tell me if I am dreaming or even sane. If I crack, I may waste my flares, or worse.

  My wandering mind often stumbles upon words from what seems like lifetimes ago. Fragmentary pieces of my past fall snugly into place to form a pattern and give depth to things that at the time were merely whimsical. My mother and I were speaking of the dangers of singlehanded sailing. “No, I only wear a harness if it’s too nasty out to trust my hold on the ship,” I said. “The thing gets in the way, gives me something else to get tangled in or to trip over—right over the side.” “You should at least wear a life jacket,” she scolded. “If I do go over and watch my boat sail off into the sunset,” I told her, “I don’t relish the idea of hanging about for several days while my flesh is slowly picked by fish, like some kind of oceanic bird feeder.” She was not amused and harrumphed. “After all the trouble I had in giving you life, you had better not give up that easily.” Her words haunt me. “You have to promise me to hang on as long as you can.” It was a promise never made, but it is being kept just the same.

  Not long before I left Solo behind, I read a Robert Ruark novel, Poor No More. The grandfather spoke to the book’s hero when he was a boy, something like, “Look, I know I’m goin to die soon. Let’s not make a big fuss about it. It don’t matter. But look at your father. He never took one chance in his life and look at where it’s gotten him. Don’t you do that. Have the balls to kick life around a little bit. Make it hop!” My legs are too weak and wobbly to kick life around. I’ve taken those chances and where have they taken me? This vagabond is bushed. Still, I must try to keep on course until a safe anchorage is reached. When I was sixteen I lay in bed with blood poisoning in my foot. Instead of dwelling on my ailment, I told myself that at least I still had a clear head, strong arms, and one good leg.

  About me lie the remnants of Solo. My equipment is properly secured, vital systems are functioning, and daily priorities are set, priorities not to be argued with. I somehow rise above mutinous apprehension, fear, and pain. I am captain of my tiny ship in treacherous waters. I escaped the confused turmoil following Solo’s loss, and I have finally gotten food and water. I have overcome almost certain death. I now have a choice: to pilot myself to a new life or to give up and watch myself die. I choose to kick as long as I can.

  High noon. The sun sizzling overhead roasts my dry skin. I sponge seawater onto my torso and let small pools collect in its hollows until they disappear. Resting on one side to let my back and upper side heal, I envision myself sprawled on an Antiguan beach. In a moment I will arise and fetch a cold rum punch—no need to yet, plenty of time.

  Strips of fish have been drying on the canopy. Thin layers of fat under the skin glisten in the sun. The outsides are dried to a bronze color. They are slightly salty a
nd spicy, rivaling the best sausage.

  FEBRUARY 21

  DAY 17

  Things seem to be improving. For two and one half days there have been no shark raids. The morning and evening attacks of the dorados have been less ferocious—either that, or I’m noticing them less. A shower broke yesterday’s heat. I opened my mouth as I did when I was a child trying to catch snowflakes. The rain wet my face, and I trapped another six ounces in my Tupperware box. I have begun to rebuild my water stock. When I first saw the squall approaching, I pulled up the painter astern and let the precipitation wash the barnacles clean. With my knife I easily peeled three or four ounces of barnacles from the line. Mixed with rainwater, they made a slightly crunchy soup, which I drank from my Tupperware box. I couldn’t get the idea of a McDonald’s Quarter-Pounder McBarnacle Burger out of my mind. Soaked with salt water in a plastic bag, the remaining raisins had fermented until they bore little resemblance to the original fruit. But they made a final treat for my banquet—they were my last food from terra firma.

  Grinding hunger is not what plagues me now. It is slow starvation. My body knows what it needs. For hours on end fantasies of sweet ice cream, starchy baked bread, and vitaminrich fruits and vegetables water the mouth in my mind, though my real mouth long ago gave up its vain attempts to salivate. Not an evening passes without dreams of food.

  When I feel confident, I dream of the future. My friends are building homes. We carry long timbers and heave them into place. We stop to lunch from tables piled high with bread and fruit. Often I fantasize about opening an inn in Maine where good food will be served—sherried crab in flaky pie shells, chocolate pies, cold beer. We eat slowly, calmly, overlooking the placid indigo waters of Frenchman Bay, where mountains stubbornly shoulder the cold Atlantic.

  I pool my energies to tend my equipment. I lash mirrors and a small strobe light to the man-overboard pole; I tie up the leaky observation port on the canopy. My navigation puts me about one-fifth of the way to the Caribbean Islands. It’s a sobering realization. Can I last another sixty days? My mind turns to the unbearable suffering the Baileys must have known. I cannot imagine over a hundred days of this. But then, what of those whose whole lives are spent in starvation?

  I envision my own end coming at any moment with the snap of jaws, but somehow I feel fated to survive. I lost everything I owned with Solo, but it is intriguing to think of what it will be like to start over again with no worldly goods, with only experience.

  On calm days I can move my weight away from the windward side without fear of capsizing. I sit across from the butcher shop where my fish hang from their clotheslines. This is the one spot in the raft where I can sit almost upright. From here I can easily tend the still every half hour, watch part of the horizon, write, and navigate. Time and again I plot my possible position. Sixty days … It seems impossible, but many things that are hard to believe do happen.

  George Bracy is a friend of mine back in Maine. He’s one of the old-timers, a lobsterman and clammer in his younger days. Some folks call him the Geezer. Like most men of the sea, George can spin any number of wild and barely believable yarns. There is the one about the time he roller-skated down Cadillac Mountain, back when clumsy steel wheels were advanced technology. Or the one about the man he saw who jumped from a height of a thousand feet without a parachute onto a mattress below, wearing only a jumpsuit with flaps of cloth between the legs and arms. By the time I knew him, George was slowed by arthritis. “Was paralyzed from the waist down for twelve yea’s. Doctors said I’d always be that way. Then, one day I was sittin’ on a log cuttin’ up some stove wood when I fell off, and lo and behold, I could walk just fine.”

  It’s hard to tell when men are remembering things as they were and when they have innocently constructed or elaborated on memories. But every now and then the Geezer would surprise the skeptical. You might get a glimpse of an old newspaper clipping titled, “Local Lobsterman G. Bracy Roller-skates down Cadillac,” or spy an old photo of a barnstorming acrobat clothed only in a baggy jumpsuit, with the caption, “Calls himself the Batman.” Who is to say what is not true and what is not possible?

  Ship ho! I glance up and there she is, close by, a sweetly lined red-hulled freighter with white whale strake and shapely bow slicing her way right for me. It’s incredible that I haven’t seen her sooner. They must have spotted the raft and are headed over to check it out. I load the flare pistol to satisfy their curiosity. As it shoots skyward and pops, the vessel cuts the distance between us at twelve to fourteen knots. The flare isn’t as bright as it would be at night, but the crew can’t miss its smoke and flame hanging in the air. If anyone is looking, it is impossible for him not to see me. The raft isn’t disappearing into any troughs, and I have the full ship continually in view. I light an orange smoke flare that hisses and wafts a tawny genie downwind, close to the water. My eyes search the bridge and deck for signs of life. The ship is now so close that if a deckhand scurries into view I will be able to tell what he is wearing. But the only thing moving is the ship itself. I pull in the man-overboard pole, extend it high over my head, and wave frantically. I shriek above the soft murmur of the raft gliding over the water, the shush of the ship’s bow wave, and the beat of her engine. “Yeoh! Here! Here! Bloody hell can’t you see!” I yell as loud as I can until my throat cracks. I know that my voice must be drowned out by shipboard clamor. Still, it is a relief to break the silence. She steams on. Such a lovely ship … too bad. Within twenty minutes she has disappeared over the horizon.

  How many others can possibly pass so close? Most likely none. How many will pass that I will not see? How many won’t see me? In this century there are few eyes aboard ships. In heavily traveled sea lanes, where collison is an immediate threat, a good watch is kept. Navy ships also have the manpower and the desire to keep a constant lookout. But in the open ocean, the captain of a merchant ship may keep only one of his few crew on the bridge to take a cursory glance about the horizon every now and then. Maybe there’s an eye on the radar. Maybe the VHF radio is flipped on to channel 16 while the vessel charges blindly over the ocean under the automatic pilot’s command. And even if there is a watch, after seeing that no ships are in view he turns his attention back to his novel or girly magazine, or he steps out onto the bridge to take a smoke in the shade. My raft would be hard to spot even if a ship had been notified. A 250-foot red freighter didn’t appear to my eyes until it was almost upon me. What chance does my bubble have of being seen? Perhaps I should stay awake at night when flares are most effective. But I must stay awake in the day to properly tend the still. And a good watch at night would cut my precious water supply. I try to calm my frustrations by repeating, “You are doing the best you can. You can only do the best you can.” One thing is clear. I cannot rely on others to save me. I must save myself.

  The freedom of the sea lures men, yet freedom does not come free. Its cost is the loss of the security of life on land. When a storm is brewing, the sailor cannot simply park his ship and walk away from it. He cannot hide within stone walls until the whole thing blows over. There is no freedom from nature, the power that binds even the dead together. Sailors are exposed to nature’s beauty and her ugliness more intensely than most men ashore. I have chosen the sailor’s life to escape society’s restrictions and I have sacrificed its protection. I have chosen freedom and have paid the price.

  The last wisp of smoke lies faint on the horizon where the ship disappeared. Despite my rationalization, I am bitterly disappointed. I am not angry, but I am ready to be enslaved by shoreside life for a while. Words of The Old Man and the Sea come to me. “If only the boy were here … if only the boy.” I need a rest, another set of eyes, the companionship of another voice. But even a companion would not improve my chances. There would not be enough water for two of us.

  Perhaps flying a kite will increase my visibility. I cut a swatch from the space blanket and make a diamond-shaped bird, using a couple of battens from the piece of mains’l as a c
ross frame. It’s pretty heavy for its size and needs a tail. I can’t get it to fly from the raft, but maybe I can perfect it by the time I get to the shipping lanes. It is quite effective as a water gutter. I tie it up to the back of the tent, where it catches most of the spray that dribbles through the observation port. A proper kite would be a valuable piece of emergency equipment, a bright beacon flying hundreds of feet above the ocean, but mine is destined to assist in keeping things dry, which helps me heal.

  Again the sun sets, the fish attack. I pump up the raft’s slowly deflating tubes, eat my fish sticks, search for rest and find only sleep. Again in the night a shark comes. It rips across the bottom with astounding speed and tears me from comfortable fantasy. As it scrapes under a second time, I strain to detect its form in the depths but cannot. It is gone, and for another windless night the raft flops and awaits the final attack.

  Until now I have referred to my raft simply as “the raft.” I decide that it must have a name. I have owned two inflatable dinghies in the past, and I jokingly named them Rubber Ducky I and Rubber Ducky II. It only makes sense to continue the tradition. Therefore, I dub thee Rubber Ducky III.

  In the morning I crawl around on top of Rubber Ducky, sliding my hands over the rubber, feeling for signs of deterioration. The bottom feels good, at least as far under as I can reach, but there are several divots in the bottom tube around the gas cylinder. Perhaps they’ve been there all along, or perhaps a shark has been chewing on my raft. The gas cylinder hanging under the raft still worries me, but I can’t think of anything to do about it.