* * *
An hour later, the person who appeared before the passengers and crew of the Miss Mary was an old man, a creature both haggard and wild-eyed whom Kersauson would later refer to as “the heavenly bum.” That person looked at these spectators for a long, long time without saying a word, then burst into tears.
November 19, 1900 hours
The weather had improved, but the seas were still heavy as I resumed rowing. The Miss Mary headed back, bearing with her the Dantesque pictures that the television crews had taken of me earlier. By now, I suspected, they were being shown on television sets the world over. In a few hours, my crossing would no longer be mine alone.
November 20, 1800 hours
The Miss Mary was following me a short distance away. On board, I could see a lot of commotion. I was able to pick out Kersauson and saw that he was pointing to something behind me.
Yes, Olivier, I know, I know. But leave me alone for a few more hours, a few minutes at least; I have to pull my thoughts together… .
A hundred. All I wanted was to count up to a hundred. A hundred strokes, a hundred gentle strokes, the most voluptuous of the entire crossing, in perfect time with the movement of the waves ... 99 ... 100!
I stood up on my seat and looked around. There, directly before me, was the coastline, the wonderful, mountainous coastline, looming clearly on the horizon.
The prison door swung slowly open, but ever so slightly… .
From the Miss Mary, they passed down a bottle of Bordeaux and a real glass. I had landed in heaven!
Despite the heavy swells, the weather was not bad, but Olivieri description of the entrance of the Columbia River was less than encouraging. The waters of the river, whose currents are among the strongest of any river in North America, ran into the groundswells of the Pacific at the river’s mouth and engaged in a mighty combat. Sandbanks surrounded the harbor channels, which were sheltered by reefs that in bad weather were insurmountable and in good could be crossed but only in a very narrow fairway.
Depending on the time of day and the tide, strong currents could raise the level of the sea very suddenly. What was more, the powerful river currents would be working against me because they flowed westward; my progress would be slow, extremely slow, limited to a few hours a day, during which the force of the rising tide would manage to reverse the current. According to the most recent weather reports, we had about twelve hours of good weather ahead of us — a gift we could not turn down.
I made my decision almost immediately. A sailor’s decision. I would row right up to the reefs, then pass a rope to the Miss Mary and have it tow Sector through the danger zone.
I alone had laid down the rules for my crossing: row across the Northern Pacific in complete autonomy. I could, if I wanted to add to the panache, up the stakes and try to reach land myself before the bad weather set in. It was a gamble, not only extremely dangerous for me but also risky for all those who — now that I was in their waters and under their jurisdiction — would be obliged to come out to save me if I ran into trouble: the U.S. Coast Guard, I have said it before, and I think I have amply demonstrated that I practice what I preach: I was willing to put my life on the line, but I had no intention of risking the lives of others.
So the decision was made.
I took out my log, that silent companion who, since the morning over four months ago in Choshi, Japan, had been the patient witness to my laconic observations, and made my final entry.
November 21, 1415 hours.
Passed a towline to the Miss Mary to enter the harbor channels of the Columbia River.
I was fully aware that on board a boat prowling not far off were people who were waiting for the first light of dawn so they could take pictures of Sector in tow, I frankly didn’t care. The sea has its own rules, which are not those of the circus.
One journalist would write: “He didn’t really cross the Pacific. ...” Who knows, maybe he was right.
In the morning the towline broke. The sea was relatively calm, even if there were still persistent groundswells. I took out the oars and resumed rowing.
Oliver came out to join Sector aboard a Zodiac-model sailboat and urged me to cast another line to the Miss Mary and let myself be towed in, since the tide was about to head out. He also pointed seaward to the huge breakers off to starboard. Just imagine, he argued, what they would be like if the winds got any worse. The weather reports were not encouraging; to allow oneself to be caught in this stretch of sea could be a catastrophe.
While Olivier and I were talking, I noted that a large number of boats had joined us. Several of them were signaling to me, telling me to listen to my radio. I obliged, and from a helicopter hovering overhead, I heard my father’s voice. Then it was Guillaume’s, so choked up he could barely talk.
12
One Second Longer …
The sun, which had seemed no longer to exist, reappeared. A bird passed overhead, a odd-looking bird with ridiculously short wings. Ah, a land bird. Off to starboard, a little leaf was swimming, and I took care not to touch it with the blade of my oar as I passed by. A butterfly contemplated alighting on Sector, then changed its mind and flew off. Speaking of Sector, I knew that something was wrong: my boat had become light, so extraordinarily light.
And then I realized it actually hadn’t: I had been dreaming, there must be something strange… .
Say, I hadn’t noticed, the shoreline had moved in, the steep, sloping riverbanks were covered with Oregon pines, a lot like the shores of the Aurey River not far from Kérantré. Then, as in any dream, the most unexpected characters began to appear. To give the illusion of being real, they were setting out on various boats. A while ago it was Bernard, And there were Professor Boissonas and Dr. Chauve. Look, there was one of my sisters, and, over there, someone who looked like François, talking to Louis-Noel… . And a whole host of others — what a nice group! They were holding a sign that said WELCOME TO 1LWACO. What an odd name! They looked as if they were having a celebration; no, that wasn’t quite right. They were all looking at something, as if they were trying to understand… .
Strange, this dream, with all those people and all those colors. Make sure to take a close look, so that when I woke up, if I hadn’t forgotten, I would write all this down in my log. What a great collection of memories to be savored tomorrow morning, when it was time to start rowing, alone once again, with my mind in need of a fresh supply of images… .
I had the feeling I was rowing into a dead end. The water was so smooth, I had to be sleeping really soundly, I had to be far away, very far away from reality; this hadn’t happened to me in a long time. How long would it be before I would suddenly be jerked awake by the pull of the sea anchor, by a slightly larger wave than usual, which would break the spell? Or, indeed, had the Pacific granted me a truce; had it at long last taken pity on me?
If this dream had really been perfect— but wasn’t that asking too much? — it would also have Cornelia, Guillaume, and Ann all standing there, at the edge of the dock.
As for me, I was going to glide in to a silent landing, without uttering a word. I would remove my sticky slicker, take off my foul-smelling boots, put my oars back carefully where they belonged. I would try to gain some time, but above all I would make no sudden movement that might wake me up from this dream, this dream in which I felt so good, wanting to make it last a little longer, just one second longer. An eternity.
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