Like all the athletes, I made a lot less money but I made up for it in having fun. I was an extra in movies like The Hunchback of Notre Dame, with Charles Laughton. I’m a street urchin. I still have the leotards they made me wear—but I stayed to the back of the scene because I didn’t want anyone to see me in that getup. I also met Maureen O’Hara and got to dance with her at a party.
Now Harry had a 60-foot, two-masted schooner, the Flyaway. It needed work to be seaworthy and Harry paid for it to be refit for a voyage.
We replaced rotted planks on the starboard bow and fixed other woodwork. We bought a brand-new surplus landing barge—what the military used to get troops to shore—for $200. It had a 225-horsepower diesel motor, which we unhooked, hoisted out on a crane, and installed in the Flyaway. We repainted, varnished, and inspected every inch of the boat, and laid on new sails, a new refrigerator, and a new radio. We lashed on two fifty-gallon drums for reserve fuel.
As we worked I kept asking myself if I really wanted to make the trip. Why? I never actually liked being on the water—and that was before being stuck in a life raft for forty-seven days. On the other hand, we weren’t going to sea ill-equipped, so maybe I was comparing apples and oranges.
Harry announced the trip in the newspapers. We couldn’t handle the boat ourselves, so we advertised for crew members. The plan was to fish, hunt, and explore on the way to Acapulco. Under a big photo of the Flyaway in the Pasadena Star News ran the caption: “WANT A VACATION? Harry Read, Eagle Rock sportsman, and Lou Zamperini, former USC national distance championship runner, are planning a leisure trip to romantic Acapulco in old Mejeeco … several berths are open and anybody wishing to make the jaunt may do so by getting in touch …”
Another story said, “A couple of intrepid amateur sailors undaunted by previous harrowing experiences at sea, are about to test their luck again …”
A third cut right to the chase: “Zamperini goes fishing. Takes two life rafts.”
More than a few people wondered if I was crazy. Hadn’t I had enough of the sea?
WE GOT LOTS of interest, and chose a crew. Originally we wanted eight USC students, but we needed to share expenses and the students couldn’t afford the $500 ante each. Instead we took on John Elliott, who in 1952 became the governor of American Samoa, and a businessman named Robinson. Another was the guy who inherited the Fisher Body Company—and he spoke a little Spanish. There was a gentleman with lots of money, and three others who managed to scrape together the fee. And a cook.
Lee Tracy, a Broadway and film actor, wanted to get away from his wife and come with us. We said yes, but then we heard from the Mexican consulate. “If you take Lee Tracy you will never enter Mexico. You won’t be allowed to land.”
“What? Why?”
Turned out that Tracy had recently been in Mexico City for a film directed by Howard Hawks. One day a military parade went by the hotel and a drunk Tracy went out on his balcony to watch. Then Tracy either urinated on the parade or maybe just returned an obscene gesture made by a Mexican standing in the street. Either way, Tracy had insulted Mexico, Mexicans, and the Mexican flag. Tracy was forced to leave Mexico and was replaced on the movie. We replaced Tracy on the boat with a 19-year-old kid from Long Beach named Steve.
THE PLAN WAS to take a shakedown cruise to train the mostly green crew, and to eliminate those who couldn’t adjust physically or mentally to the discipline and rough life of sailing. They needed to learn the handling characteristics of the ship, to become familiar with the pitch and yaw of the Flyaway, to learn the sailor’s jargon, the name and function of each sail. But in order to make our announced departure date, we scrubbed the shakedown. Harry filled two padded and insulated five-gallon containers with layers of dry ice and steaks. We loaded up with fresh water, beer, fruit and vegetables, bottled goods and lots of distilled spirits, and sailed out of San Pedro, just south of Los Angeles, on the afternoon of Sunday, February 8. We stopped first at Ensenada, two hundred miles south, where we discovered that Harry had forgotten to fill one of the spare diesel fuel tanks. Also, the cook complained of nausea all the way down, and he nibbled only on bread and vegetables, like a pantry mouse. Hardly an auspicious beginning, especially for the guy who was supposed to prepare our meals.
We went ashore in shifts and headed directly for Hussong’s Cantina for tequila and beer. A few drinks later, Harry had to take a leak but there was only one toilet and a long line. Harry had followed some locals who were relieving themselves at the curb outside and did the same, when two policemen grabbed him and took him off to jail. I followed closely behind. They tossed him into the cell and when he saw a great big rat come through a hole in the wall, Harry started screaming: “Louie! Get me outta here!”
The police said we had to wait for the judge. “When’s the judge going to get here?” I asked.
“Oh, maybe one, two, three, four days.” I could hear Harry screaming again.
I figured it was a racket so I asked, “How much is the bail?”
“Ten dollars.”
So simple. I gave them ten dollars and Harry got out.
WE SAILED ANOTHER 270 miles to Cedros Island, about halfway down the Baja Peninsula.
When we anchored, two locals in a rowboat approached. They had lobster for sale. We bought twenty for twenty-five cents each, and two lemons. A couple of hours later they came back with a pile of coconuts. We gave them gifts for their families, and they came back again, this time with buckets of lobsters, which they tossed on the deck. Dinner was terrific.
We managed to find 100 gallons of syrupy, low-grade diesel about forty miles away in Puerto San Bartolomé and then set course for the approximately 500-mile sail to Cabo San Lucas, where I sent a telegram to Cynthia telling her all was well.
On the way, I was also looking forward to visiting the Tres Marias Islands (Isla Maria Madre, Isla Maria Magdalena, Isla Maria Cleofas), about sixty-two miles off the coast, between Mazatlan and Puerto Vallarta, and 250 miles or so from Cabo.
The first stop was Maria Madre, site of a large prison camp. The Mexican government was quite proud of the prison, built in 1905, but at the time it was a feared place, full of violence, disease, and forced labor. It was also supposed to be escape-proof—the Alcatraz of Mexico—but turned out to be more porous than expected.
The seas had been surprisingly calm so we motored into the island’s harbor. By moonlight we could see a large two-story building and a pier. We anchored at 9 p.m. Shortly afterward, a rowboat pulled up with three men. We asked them to board and come below. One was a lieutenant from the army barracks that provided security for the prison; another, his sidekick. The third, their oarsman, was a prisoner and stayed on deck. They were pleasant and we shared Canadian Club and cigarettes. I cooked them a T-bone steak and fried potatoes. Tears came to their eyes because it had been a very long time since they’d had such good food. We didn’t expect that kind of reaction.
I took the oarsman some food and a pack of cigarettes, and they rowed back to the island.
We were up at 6 a.m., lowered the outboard, and went ashore. One guard stood on the dock. Some of the locals tried to sell us souvenirs and sundries, and we said we’d buy later. A ragged, unshaven, but well-tanned man, probably in his early 30s, approached. He spoke good English, which made sense because he was an American who’d gotten in trouble in Mexico City just after the war started. “My name’s Dan,” he said. “Prisoner number 5005. They call me Dirty Dan.” Again, obvious. “My time is up in four months.”
Dan showed us around. The island was run by a state official who was both the governor and the chief judge. He lived in a beautiful mansion. The prisoners lived in a collection of “fishing villages.” In other words, no cells with bars. It was more Papillon than Alacatraz—unless you were uncooperative.
We invited the governor, the prison officials, and the officers in charge back to the Flyaway for lunch. At their request Dan came as the interpreter, and sat with us during the meal.
A
fter a couple of Vat 69s and sodas, we fed them our best steaks, Waldorf salad, canned spaghetti, green string beans, lemon Jell-O, and coffee. Appetizers consisted of cherries, pickles, salami, Ritz and soda crackers, and dates. Dan told us that the governor was quite thoughtful. “He’s new to the island and has done much for the prisoners, and is now trying to do much more.” Dan was smart. And canny. The governor patted Dan on the back and talked and laughed with us as he would with old buddies.
We were invited to dine the next evening at the governor’s home, the large building we had seen in the moonlight when we first moored. Drinks and dinner promptly at 6 p.m. We all combed our hair and shaved. They served us Bacardi rum and Pepsi with lime. Steve played boogie-woogie on the governor’s spinet.
Then Dan brought a long, narrow box to the verandah. He opened it and a nine-foot boa slithered out. A prison officer picked it up and put it around his neck, then passed it on to someone else. I looked at its muscular body contracting back and forth. When I was offered a turn at holding the snake, I declined.
After dinner we told the governor that we were setting off for Isla Magdalena in a few hours, to hunt. “They’re short on food,” he said, and asked if we’d mind delivering 1,000 pounds of corn. We agreed. He also said two of his officials could go with us to lead the hunt.
We shoved off at midnight and ninety minutes later were at Isla Magdalena. Though it was the middle of the night, the two officials who’d come with us started yelling: “Antonio! Antonio!” Seems they wanted Antonio to row out and get them—and the corn. We joined in. “Antonio! Antonio!” After twenty minutes a dugout canoe with a single man pulled up broadside. He loaded two sacks of corn and took one of the officials—leaving the other to watch the rest of the corn. They said they would return at 5 a.m. to go hunting.
Antonio came back as promised and a couple of men began off-loading the corn while we went ashore. Antonio explained that the island had an abundance of key deer, small even when fully grown. I had my high-powered .30-40 Krag, but to get the key deer all you need is a .22 rifle. I had two.
Antonio introduced us to his wife and their three little kids half dangling from her arms and legs, and then we men split into two groups. Harry, Steve, and I went with one of the guards from Maria Madre, and Elliott and a guy named Johnstone went with Antonio. We hiked about three miles but saw no deer. Steve and I watched by a water hole while Harry and the guard took off. Again, no thirsty deer, so we kept moving. After another mile we spotted Antonio and Elliott working the crest of a hill, and climbed to meet them.
Then everyone spotted the same deer. I leveled my gun as one of the prison guards raised his. I waited for him to fire first, but he hesitated, so I aimed for the shoulder and pulled the trigger. The deer rolled about fifty feet to the stream. It was a small doe. I gutted it on the spot and Antonio tied its legs and slung it over his shoulder.
Antonio’s wife made us coffee and eggs. We gave them the deer and several doves we’d also bagged. I also gave Antonio one of my .22s and five hundred bullets.
So far the trip had gone well. But the poverty we encountered in the Tres Marias Islands, their meager supplies and primitive conditions, were surprising and upsetting. It was easy to forget how good we had it in the United States and how poorly some of the rest of the world lived. We gave whoever we encountered portions of our supplies and were unexpectedly, but happily, as much humanitarians as sportsmen and adventurers.
We all got in the dinghy, said farewell to Antonio, and headed back to the Flyaway. We motored to the other side of the island and raised the sails. The wind was sharp—and so was our new crew member, a parrot that Antonio had gifted to us in exchange for the deer. We named the bird Hogan. But every time someone moved on deck the damn parrot spit out a line of squawks and yells that would put a holy roller speaking in tongues to shame. When we got close to him he snapped at us with his little beak.
The wind was good and smooth and we were enjoying the sail on a beautiful afternoon when the boom and the main sheet swung quickly from one side to the other, and Hogan was damn near thrown over the rail. Harry watched, agape, at the wheel while the rest of us laughed as the parrot clawed and dug in his talons for life. Then we hit a large ground swell. Hogan’s grip failed and he went sailing over the rail squawking all the way.
Once in the water, Hogan flapped his wings desperately to keep afloat. Johnstone and I lowered the dinghy. Steve, who had taken an immediate liking to the bird, came running up and wouldn’t let anyone else man the boat. He climbed into the dinghy in a hurry while we towed it, but he didn’t lie flat enough and the dinghy capsized from the boat’s wake. Steve hung on, swallowing a bit of water, while Harry made a pass at him. I was on the bow giving directions. On the next pass Johnstone and I both shouted out directions while Harry came within ten yards of Steve. We could easily have swung broadside, but Harry—who was a nice guy on land, but could be officious and arrogant at sea—never listened to us.
We made the next pass for the parrot. I swung from the bow on a chain. I caught the bird but was unable to hold him. Johnstone had better luck. Then we got Steve. I grabbed the dinghy line and handed it to Johnstone, who pulled Steve aboard. Steve was cold and in shock. His stomach took a while to settle as he lay in a bunk below.
Once safe and dry, Hogan began to butt heads with Harry. They quickly became mortal enemies. Hogan really liked to squawk—maybe that’s why we got him as a “gift”—and Harry hated it. He kept trying to smack the bird to shut him up. Harry caught a few feathers but mostly missed. From then on, whenever Harry walked by, Hogan would try to peck him. Harry was furious. He treated the bird like a human being, saying, “Shut up! I’m the skipper!” Hogan responded by trying to nip him again. The rest of us got a kick out of the discord. Hogan wouldn’t take any crap from anybody. He wouldn’t back down. I think Harry secretly respected Hogan because they had so much in common. In his dreams, Harry probably pictured Hogan instigating a mutiny and taking command of the ship. Hogan had my vote.
WE MADE A quick stop in Puerto Vallarta for more fuel, and took in the February 24 Dia de Bandera, or Flag Day, parade, courtesy of the mayor. Then we set a course for Acapulco.
This time we didn’t need the motor. The wind became fresher and fresher, until we had to haul in the light jib. Steve was at the helm but, after a couple of minutes, he looked rigid and pale. Harry made me take over. Steve was a fast learner for someone so young, but with the wind pushing and the seas rising we needed experience.
I struggled with the heavy seas for a couple of hours, and then got some sleep. I awoke too soon to a great heaving and twisting. Swells tossed the Flyaway this way and that—and then out of nowhere it felt as if we were hit with a hundred angry cannonballs. It was as if Neptune had risen from the sea to impale us with his trident again and again. We were in the middle of a white squall, a tabasco. It slapped our starboard side and the boat was pelted—no, smothered—in heavy winds and a violent rain.
We had no time to batten down the hatches or bring down the sails. The mainsail was ripping but we could do little about it while trying to keep our balance and not be tossed overboard. Waves broke over the boat. The main cabin took on a foot of water and shorted out the electrical power system. Now we couldn’t start the engine. The bilge pumps stopped and the icebox quit. And the radio was gone. We’d been in regular contact with the Coast Guard, and I realized that we wouldn’t be able to check in.
Try as I could to hold the tiller, I was losing the battle. Then I felt a terrifically hard knock on the tiller shaft. I thought it was one of our large gas cans banging around in the lazarette, where the steering gear is located through a hatch underneath the aft deck. Steve hollered and Harry came over. I moved the tiller to try for a better heading, but it swung freely and was useless. Harry dived into the hatch.
While the boat swayed, rolled, and broached waves, Harry discovered the trouble. The force of the storm had sheered the heavy ¾-inch bolt on the steering universal
joint, leaving us adrift and unable to steer.
I called all hands on deck and rang the hell out of the bell. Harry ordered the jib down immediately as it was slack, swinging back and forth, and would be torn to shreds in another thirty seconds. He ordered the main staysail and forward staysail changed at such a pitch that they would allow us to keep pretty close to our course without rudder control and without hitting a wave broadside and turning turtle. Harry was far calmer at this critical moment than he ever was in lowering a dinghy. He didn’t lose his head and had remarkable aptitude.
The last thing I wanted was to be in trouble on the ocean again.
I hung on to the useless tiller while Harry scrounged around for something, anything, that could replace the bolt for the steering joint. It took him nearly ten minutes before he found a substitute bolt, and another five minutes to get it aligned and shoved through the holes. I was finally able to put the ship into a heading that minimized our exposure.
Our crew was too green to be of much help. They could bail water, and did, but otherwise they were petrified. The life raft was all tangled up. We were driven out to sea. The motor wouldn’t start. The sails were shredding. We just had to reel in and tie down what we could, relax, and wait for the mercy of the sea. (Later, when we hauled in the mainsail, we discovered a one-foot tear in the upper quarter. All the buttons were snapped and the pockets around them shredded.)
Hogan, meanwhile, weaved and swayed and made very little noise, which was a relief from his usual chatter and complaints. And then he lost his footing, went overboard, and we never saw him again. I, for one, missed him. Now who would keep Harry honest?
I stayed on the tiller riding out the seas. I sent Steve below to make sure the toilet window was closed. It wasn’t, and water was pouring in. We checked the bilge. It was full of water and running into the staterooms.
Don't Give Up, Don't Give In Page 7