From Raft to Raft

by Bengt Danielsson

  Soon afterwards Baquedano came alongside and some cheerfully grinning sailors flung over the heavy tow-rope, which we had the greatest difficulty in picking up and making fast round a bollard in the bows. With beating hearts we watched the revolutions of Baquedano’s propellers increase and the rope slowly stretch. The raft then moved forward with a jerk and began uncertainly to follow the strange tug which was so much larger than herself. For once the weather was kind to us, and all would certainly have gone well if the two vessels had not been so ill-matched. The greatest problem was, of course, to maintain a speed which suited us both. Baquedano’s normal speed was twenty knots and only with the greatest difficulty could she maintain a speed of less than three knots. Our raft, on the other hand, began to creak in all her joints and play at being a submarine as soon as her speed exceeded two knots. But thanks to the Chileans’ admirable patience and care there was no serious accident during the first twenty-four hours’ towing, and our hopes rose.

  They sank again on Thursday, however, as the barometer fell. The sea grew steadily rougher and more disturbed, and the raft shook and creaked horribly. Several large bamboos broke loose both on the starboard and on the port side. Just after midnight the tow-rope broke. But as we could not get hold of the two ends and splice them together before morning came, we all turned in to enjoy a few hours of much needed sleep. On Friday morning Baquedano came alongside, and the captain asked seriously if we really thought it worth while to continue the towing. When we replied that we did, he had a fresh rope flung over to us, but during this difficult manoeuvre our raft suddenly bumped into the ship’s side. The whole of the starboard side was tom up and masses of bamboos came loose. As a result of this misadventure we took a heavy list, but we made the rope fast, nevertheless, and signalled to Baquedano to go ahead. Another day passed slowly. It was not difficult to see that the end was near. But we were now not more than 150 miles from Masafuera, and we could not bring ourselves to abandon our raft so long as a glimmer of hope remained.

  On Sunday morning, May 26th, the tow-rope parted again, and shortly afterwards we received a friendly but firm wireless message from the captain of Baquedano saying that he was sorry, but he could make no further attempts to tow us. The cause was a rather ignominious one: his consumption of oil had been abnormally large on account of the slow towing, and he had only just oil enough left to reach Valparaiso if he proceeded at full speed immediately. He therefore ordered us to get ready to board Baquedano from the raft, as the sea was now too rough for him to send a boat over. With heavy hearts we collected our few belongings in watertight kit-bags. It was our 199th day at sea and evidently the last.

  Baquedano returned, describing a wide curve, and approached slowly from astern on the lee side of the raft. The first rope which the Chileans flung over snapped with a loud crack as soon as we made it fast to one of the side-posts. The next attempt was equally unsuccessful, but the third rope stood the strain, and we were soon tied up to Baquedano by three stout hawsers. Now we had to be quick and get our things on board before we were drawn in and crushed against the pitching steel hull a mere ten yards away. Our rescuers smartly and skilfully flung across a few slender ropes, and we quickly tied these round our kit-bags. One after another they were hauled up over the big neighbour’s rail, till only one remained. Juanito had got hold of this and was fiddling about with it in a comer of the fore-deck. What on earth was he doing? I gave a bellow of anger and rushed over to help him. As I did so I saw that it was not a sack he had between his legs but Chanchita, our sow.

  ‘But you aren’t going to leave her behind on board Tahiti Nui?’ he said reproachfully.

  No, of course we would not. But to tell the truth we had simply forgotten her existence. Juanito had already managed to fasten a life-belt round her stomach, and I helped him to tie it tight. Curiously enough the sow made no resistance, and when I tried to put her on her legs she was as feeble and lifeless as a marzipan pig.

  ‘She’s dying of fright, or there’s something else wrong with her,’ I burst out in astonishment. ‘She was as fit and well as ever only this morning.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with her,’ Juanito replied fiercely. ‘But I gave her our last bottle of wine to quiet her a bit.’

  By our combined efforts we heaved the intoxicated sow into the sea and signed to the sailors on board Baquedano to haul in. They evidently thought she was one of the members of the expedition who had collapsed and needed prompt medical treatment, for we saw the ship’s doctor and two male nurses running up. But a concerted bellow from practically the whole crew of Baquedano soon told us that Chanchita was in safety and that her rescuers had discovered their mistake. Juanito, well content, stuffed the cats into a bag and held it tight under his arm.

  Now it was our turn. As we had no great desire to follow Chanchita’s example, we climbed up on to the cabin roof and bawled to the Chileans to try to haul us closer so that we could jump when a wave lifted us to the level of Baquedano’s deck. This was far from being the best and safest method of rescue, but it was the only one which had any prospect of success.

  We slowly approached the grey hull with its two decks. I could not help being a little uneasy as to what would happen to us if the raft was crushed against the ship’s side, but I quickly dismissed the unpleasant idea from my mind. My next worry was Eric, who was now so weak that I was not at all sure that he could manage the acrobatic feat which boarding the cruiser involved. Michel and I, therefore, kept close to him so as to be at hand if he should require any help. But before we could agree as to how we could best help him we had reached Baquedano, and a few minutes later, as if by request, we were shot up into the air as quickly as if in a lift. I suddenly saw just in front of me a long row of sailors with outstretched hands. At least half a dozen hands caught hold of Eric and dragged him on board. Much relieved, I took a flying leap and was caught by other helping hands.

  While I was still looking round cautiously to see if any of us were missing—which thank heaven was not the case—I heard an ominous crashing behind me. I dashed to the rail. It was of course Tahiti Nui which had run into Baquedano. With the whole of her starboard side smashed in by the violent collision, the raft slid down at an angle into the trough of a wave and the whole deck went under water. There was a succession of sharp cracks as one mooring rope after another snapped. But when the sailors hauled in the ropes it appeared that one of them was still intact, and that it was one of the wooden Polynesian images, used by us as a bollard, that had broken loose. I took it carefully in my arms and patted it affectionately as a dear old friend.

  I had hardly drawn a sigh of relief at our all having been saved when I was struck by a fearful thought. If the raft sank, what would happen to the poor nanue fish which had followed us so faithfully all the way from Tahiti? They were lagoon fish, and without any raft to hide themselves in they could easily he the victims of voracious predatory fish. Or they would go down into the depths with the raft and be crushed to death by the increased pressure. I looked out over the sea again. Tahiti Nui had already fallen far astern and had begun to sink, just as if she was tired and in despair at our cowardly flight and had suddenly lost all power of resistance. It was obviously too late to save the nanue fish. Besides, if I had rushed up on the bridge and asked the captain of Baquedano to launch a boat to save a few wretched fish, he would certainly have thought I was crazy and ignored my prayers. I stood at the rail, silent and all of a sudden curiously tired, and followed the rapidly sinking raft with moist eyes till she was out of sight.

  Chapter 3

  WE START ALL OVER AQAIN

  When I woke next morning in my comfortable, tastefully furnished cabin on board Baquedano, after the best and deepest sleep of my life, I felt as relieved and lively as one who has at last regained his health after a serious illness. Clearly the last days on board the raft had been more tiring and more trying to the nerves than I had realized. Francis, whom I met in the alleyway, seemed as fit and well-rested as
myself, but when we looked in on Eric to say good-morning, to our surprise we found him curled up dismally in a corner of his bunk. The crumpled sheets were a further indication that he had not slept very well.

  ‘It’s terribly hard to be obliged to give up so near the goal,’ he said in a despairing voice. ‘My having failed to prove my theory is bad enough. But of course by far the worst thing is that Tahiti Nui has been lost. It takes a long time to build a new raft—if I even manage to do so. But I’ve no right to complain if you’re sick and tired of raft expeditions and would rather go home by boat or plane as soon as we get to Valparaiso. In other words, you are released from the promise you gave me before we left Tahiti to make the return voyage too.’

  Wait a minute, Eric,’ said Francis eagerly. ‘In the first place I don’t agree with you at all that our expedition has been a failure. Our intention was to prove that it is possible to go on a bamboo raft from Polynesia to South America along a southerly route. But isn’t that just what we have proved by our voyage of over 4000 miles? Surely no sane man can doubt that we should easily have covered the short distance on to Valparaiso if we had not had the extraordinary bad luck to meet the worst gale there has been in these waters for fifty years.’

  ‘And in the second place,’ I added with feeling and conviction, ‘we’re not in the least sick and tired of raft expeditions. We’re all as determined as ever to go back to Tahiti with you on a new raft.’

  Francis nodded agreement. Eric looked at us keenly and in silence for a long time, evidently uncertain whether we were serious or if we were only making a stupid and clumsy attempt to console him. At last a smile appeared on his lips, and he said curtly, with a new determination in his voice:

  ‘Good, then we’ll start again together.’

  This seemed to decide the matter. At any rate we said no more about our new raft plans during the remainder of Baquedano’s two days’ voyage to Valparaiso. This was accomplished in record time, and we arrived early in the afternoon of May 29. The first greeting from land we certainly found rather strange. It came from an aeroplane, which made straight for us as we glided into the harbour and dropped a large parcel attached to a parachute. Unluckily the parcel fell into the water several hundred yards from Baquedano. We gesticulated wildly to the passengers in a large motor-boat to get them to pick up our parcel. Instead of doing this the motor-boat steered straight for Baquedano, and before we could explain more clearly what we wanted the passengers jumped on to the gangway, which had just been lowered, and streamed on board. Next moment we were surrounded by a babbling crowd of men and women armed with notepads or cameras. I did not at once realize that they were journalists and photographers, and when I did my first instinct was to run away and hide. The only one of us who understood anything of the torrent of questions in Spanish was Juanito, and he, like the rest of us, was so taken aback by all the unaccustomed crowd and excitement that he could not utter a syllable. Our interviewers were visibly annoyed at finding us so tongue-tied and became still more aggressive.

  Just at this critical moment we were fortunately rescued by our friend the secretary of the expedition, Carlos Garcia-Palacios, who also had come out in the motor-boat with the French Consul. With his help Carlos swept the whole crowd of pressmen into the saloon and began to interpret for us.

  When the cross-examination was over at last Michel drew a long breath and said faintly: ‘That was the worst strain I’ve ever been through.’

  ‘A good thing the excitement’s all over, so that at any rate we can go ashore now and look round in peace and quiet,’ I added.

  For some reason Carlos grinned broadly at my remark. While I was still wondering why he thought it so funny, the Chilean naval commandant’s own launch arrived to take us off. We felt far from worthy of this honour, especially as we looked incredibly shabby in our unpressed, fusty clothes alongside the imposing, well-dressed officers in the launch: but we jumped down into her all the same, eager to get ashore.

  The quay seen at a distance seemed unusually high and uneven. When we came nearer we saw that this was because it was linked with several close-packed rows of people. I gazed at the huge crowd in curiosity and surprise, and thousands of pairs of eyes gazed back at me and my comrades. But not till we came alongside, and thousands of voices began to shout ‘Viva la Tahiti Nui! Viva Vrancia!’ did I realize that they had all come together to greet us. As soon as we stepped ashore a large military band struck up the Marseillaise, after which the multitude closed about us, and we were slowly dragged by the cheering, laughing, yelling crowd towards a handsome building with a large balcony, which was Valparaiso town hall.

  A couple of men in uniform helped us in through the door and double-locked it behind us. When we went out on to the balcony, where an official reception committee, headed by the mayor, was waiting for us, the square was black with enthusiastic people, and I could not help feeling relieved at being out of their reach. We waved back cheerfully, but curiously enough the crowd did not seem really satisfied. Soon the general noise gave place to one regular, incessantly repeated shout. Much puzzled, we listened attentively. There was no doubt about it. Our admirers were calling, more and more stubbornly and fiercely, for Juanito. It was only natural that Juanito’s countrymen should wish to do honour to him in particular. But why were the cries so impatient and insistent? We looked questioningly at our Chilean comrade, and almost simultaneously we realized the position. Juanito, certainly not more than five feet tall, was completely hidden by the high balustrade, and—a poor compliment to us—his over-enthusiastic countrymen down in the square had certainly concluded that we had forgotten him. We hastened to lift him up on to our shoulders. A terrific shout hailed Juanitos belated appearance, and the remainder of the reception ceremony was completely drowned by the roars of applause, rising and falling like waves, from the square below.

  More exhausted than we had been after any of the numerous storms we had encountered during our long voyage on the raft, we succeeded at last in reaching the hotel where Carlos had reserved rooms for us. Here a new surprise awaited us in a form of a soaking wet parcel addressed to Juanito. It was of course the same parcel which the pilot of the aeroplane had dropped into the water when we were arriving on board Baquedano, and it contained a warm overcoat, a particularly welcome gift, for it was already late autumn and the air was quite chilly. Who the kind donor was Juanito never found out, for he had left neither name nor address, and he never made himself known.

  Next day we had another proof of the Chileans’ extraordinary friendliness and interest in the expedition when the president of the largest yacht club in Chile called at the hotel and offered to help us in every imaginable way if we would only do them the honour of building our new raft in the club’s yard in the neighbouring port of Quintero. Everything seemed to be turning out better than we had dared to hope in our wildest dreams. In the highest spirits we crowded into a couple of taxis and drove up to Santiago, the capital, to obtain building material and equipment for our return to the South Seas in, we believed, the near future.

  But hardly had we begun to play in earnest the part, unusual for us, of popular heroes when we encountered a series of misadventures which suddenly brought our plans to nothing. The first thing was that Eric suddenly developed a very high temperature and had to be taken to hospital, where it was found that he had double pneumonia. Even when the doctors had gradually got the better of this, Eric’s general condition was still so bad that they ordered absolute rest for at least a couple of months. Eric’s illness and convalescence led to new and unforeseen difficulties. Our intention had been to build an exact copy of our first raft, so our first need was a thousand bamboos. As the bamboo is a tropical bush, which does not grow in the cool climate of Chile, we had intended to order the bamboos from Peru or Ecuador. Of course this would cost a lot of money, which Eric had promised to obtain by writing articles for one or two American and French illustrated papers. When, a few weeks later, Eric was well enough to write t
hese articles, the papers which had commissioned them were no longer interested. So there we were with no money and no raft.

  Eric, as usual, was completely unmoved. He assured us that he would soon earn several times the sum required from the book which a French publishing firm had commissioned him to write a long time before. We did not doubt for a moment that he would be able to write a readable and saleable book, but how long would it take? To tell the truth, on this point we were all a good deal more pessimistic and impatient than Eric himself. Michel in particular expressed his dissatisfaction in unnecessarily sharp language, which brought a number of old grievances to life again. The primary reason why Michel had found it harder to get on with Eric than the rest of us was that they had incompatible characters. Further, Michel held a master’s certificate, too, and therefore had sometimes considered himself entitled to give Eric advice about navigation. But two captains on board one craft are one captain too many. Finally, if I mention that Michel had been married just after we left Tahiti, and that he had long been tired of being on his honeymoon alone, his impatience will at once become more understandable. At all events, none of us other members of the expedition were particularly surprised or indignant when he returned to Tahiti by air a few weeks after our arrival in Chile.

  Immediately afterwards, Juanito went home to his mother at Puerto Montt, an isolated fishing port far down towards Cape Horn. It was quite natural that he should leave us, for strictly speaking he had only been a passenger with a single ticket, who had preferred to take a rather unusual route of return to his own country. Indeed, up to the last moment he talked of continuing the journey with us, but I was convinced that sooner or later we should be obliged to find a substitute for him too. Still, despite all our reverses, I never doubted for a moment that everything would come right in the end. I suppose it was the long voyage on board Tahiti Nui which had given me this firm confidence and optimistic faith, for one of the most conspicuous lessons we had learnt on it was that not even the most violent contrary wind lasts for ever.