Adrift: Seventy-six Days Lost at Sea

by Steven Callahan

  But it seems that the paths of the squalls are bound to differ from mine. Sometimes a long line of clouds passes close by. I watch the wispy edges swirl above me and feel a few drops or a momentary sprinkle coming down. It’s just enough to show me that my new water collection gear is very effective. I’m convinced that I’ll collect several pints, maybe even a gallon, if I can just get directly in the path of a single heavy shower. It’s one thing to have a tool and quite another to be in a position to use it. My eyes wander from the horizon to the sky. I’m so tired of always awaiting something.

  Seventy-five days—April 20. With the drizzle and the salt spray, my dorado sticks have grown pasty rather than drying. I’m astonished that the dried sticks from one of the first dorados that I caught still seem to be fine. Only a slight whitish haze covers the deep amber, woody interior.

  APRIL 20

  DAY 75

  For an hour in late afternoon, I watch a drove of clouds run up from the east. I can tell that they’re traveling a little to the south of my course. As they rise up and charge onward, I ready myself, swallowing frequently, though there is no saliva to swallow. I try to wish them into running me down, but they ignore me and begin to sweep by about a mile away, clattering and flashing with lightning. Four separate heavy columns of rain pour down, so dense that they eclipse the blue sky behind. I watch tons of pure water flowing down like aerial waterfalls. If only I could be just a mile from where I am. No sips, no single mouthfuls, but an overflow of water I could guzzle. If only Ducky could sail instead of waddle. I have missed. My collection devices are bone dry and flutter in the wind.

  Using the aluminum tubing from the radar reflector and the plastic from the last dead solar still, I create an elaborate water collection device—a bonnet that sits on the peak of the arch tube. I bend and lash together the aluminum tubing into a semicircle with an axle that runs across the bottom. All of the ends are well padded to prevent damage to the raft’s canopy or arch tube. This framework keeps the face of the bonnet open and facing the wind. The plastic still is lashed to the framework and blows forward like a small sail. I’ve fitted a piece of tubing into the bottom of the bonnet and led it inside so that when it rains I can keep busy filling containers. The bridle tied to the stern keeps the bonnet upright, but I can adjust the angle so that the face can point directly into the rain. Also note that the water collection cape is beginning to deteriorate and tear. I’ve pulled up the rusty gas bottle and have it tied to the exterior handline. For hours each day I stand and keep watch often gazing ahead hoping for the cloud formations to finally reveal land.

  DEATH

  THE EVENING SKIES of my seventy-fifth day are smudged with clouds migrating westward. A drizzle falls, barely more than a fog, but any amount of saltless moisture causes me to jump into action. For two hours I swing my plastic buckets through the air, collecting a pint and a half. My catchment systems will do the trick.

  As long as the waves are not too large, I do not worry about capsizing, so I curl up and sleep against the bow. These days it takes so long to choke out the pain and fall asleep. When I do, it is only an hour or less before a sharp stab from a wound or sore awakens me.

  I arise to survey the black waters, which occasionally flash with phosphorescent lines from a breaking wave or the flight of a fish. A soft glow looms just to the south of dead ahead. And there, just to the north, is another. A fishing fleet? They do not move. My God, these are no ships! It is the nighttime halo of land that I detect! Standing, I glimpse a flip of light from the side. A lighthouse beam, just over the horizon, sweeps a wide bar of light like a club beating out a rhythm—flash, pause, flash-flash, rest; flash, pause, flash-flash. It is land. “Land!” I shout. “Land ho!” I’m dancing up and down, flinging my arms about, as if hugging an invisible campanion. I can’t believe it!

  This calls for a real celebration! Break out the drinks! In big, healthy swallows, I down two pints. I swagger and feel as lightheaded as if it were pure alcohol. I look out time and again to confirm that this is no illusion. I pinch myself. Ouch! Yes, and I have gotten the water to my lips and down my throat, which I’ve never been able to do in a dream. No, it isn’t any dream. Oh real, how real! I bounce about like an idiot. I’m having quite a time.

  O. K., now, calm down. You aren’t home yet. What lighthouse is that? Antigua doesn’t make sense. Are you north or south? Ducky is aimed down the empty corridor between the two glows that I see. When I get closer maybe I can paddle some, or maybe I can strap the paddles onto Ducky’s tubes to act like center-boards. Even if I can’t hit land, the EPIRB will surely bring help. When the sun rises I’ll flick the switch one last time.

  I can hardly sleep but manage to drop off for a half hour now and again. Each time I awaken, I look out to confirm that this isn’t the ultimate elaborate dream. Another glow begins to emerge dead ahead. Morning, I hope, will reveal the rim of an island down low on the horizon, close enough to reach before nightfall. A landing in daylight will be dangerous enough. If I reach the island tomorrow night … Well, one thing at a time. Rest now.

  APRIL 21

  DAY 76

  Dawn of the seventy-sixth day arrives. I can’t believe the rich panorama that meets my eyes. It is full of green. After months of little other than blue sky, blue fish, and blue sea, the brilliant, verdant green is overwhelming. It is not just the rim of one island that is ahead, as I had expected. To the south a mountainous island as lush as Eden juts out of the sea and reaches up toward the clouds. To the north is another island with a high peak. Directly ahead is a flat-topped isle—no vague outline, but in fall living color. I’m five to ten miles out and headed right for the center. The northern half is composed of vertical cliffs against which the Atlantic smashes to foam. To the south the land slopes down to a long beach above which a few white buildings perch, probably houses.

  Close as I am, I’m not safe yet. A landing is bound to be treacherous. If I hit the northern shore, I run the risk of being crushed against the sharp coral cliffs. To the south I’ll have to rake across wide reefs before I hit the beach. Even if I get that far without being ripped to ribbons, I doubt I’ll be able to walk or even crawl to get help. One way or the other, this voyage will end today, probably by late afternoon.

  I flip on the EPIRB, and for the first time I break out the medical kit. As with all of my supplies, I have been saving it until I absolutely needed it. I take out some cream, smear it all over my sores, and fashion a diaper from the triangular bandage. I’ll try to coerce Ducky to sail around the south side of the island, so I don’t have to land through the breakers on the windward side. If Ducky refuses, I’ll go for the beach. I’ll need all the protection I can get. I’ll wrap the foam cushion around my torso, which will keep me afloat and serve as a buffer against the coral. I’ll cut off Rubber Ducky’s canopy, so that I won’t get trapped inside and so I can wrap my legs and arms with the fabric.

  I’ll try to keep Ducky upright and ride her in, though the bottom tube will certainly be torn to bits. Everything must be orderly and secure. I rummage around, throwing out pieces of junk that I won’t need and making room in my bags for the first aid kit and the other necessities. I gnaw on a couple of fish sticks, but they taste like lumps of tallow. I can survive with no more food. My doggies nudge at me. Yes, my friends, I will soon leave you. On what separate paths will we travel? I pitch the remaining rancid fish sticks and save only a few of the dried amber ones as souvenirs. Ah, yes, another pint of water to fortify myself for the landing.

  As each wave passes, I hear something new. RRrrr … RRrrr … It grows louder. An engine! I leap to my knees. Coming from the island, a couple of hundred yards away, a sharp white bow, flared out at the rail, pitches forward against a wave and then crashes down with a splash. The boat climbs and falls, getting closer and closer. It’s small, maybe twenty feet, and is made of roughhewn wood painted white, with a green stripe around the gunwale. Three incredulous dark faces peer toward me. Jumping to my feet, I wave t
o them and yell, “Hello!” They wave back. This time I have definitely been seen. I am saved! I can’t believe it, just can’t believe … Nearly over. No reef crossing, no anxious awaiting of an airplane. Two of the men are golden mahogany in color, and the third is black. The one at the helm wears a floppy straw hat with a wide brim that flaps up and down. His T-shirt flags out behind him as he rounds his boat ahead of me and slides to a halt. The three of them are about my age and seem perplexed as they loudly babble to one another in a strange tongue. It’s been almost three months since I’ve heard another human voice.

  “Hablar español?” I yell.

  “No, no!” What is it that they say?

  “Parlez-vous français?” I can’t make out their reply. They all talk at the same time. I motion to the islands. “What islands?”

  “Aahh.” They seem to get it. “Guadeloupe, Guadeloupe.” French. But it sure isn’t like any French I’ve ever heard. It’s Creole, I learn later, a rapid-fire, pidgin French. In a few minutes I figure out that the blackest of them is speaking English, with a Calypso beat and heavy Caribbean accent. I’d probably have trouble comprehending another New Englander at this point, but I begin to put it all together.

  We sit in our tiny boats, rising and falling on the waves, only yards apart. For several moments we stop talking and stare at one another, not knowing quite what to say. Finally they ask me, “Whatch you doing, man? Whatch you want?”

  “I’m on the sea for seventy-six days.” They turn to each other, chattering away loudly. Perhaps they think I embarked from Europe in Rubber Ducky III as a stunt. “Do you have any fruit?” I ask.

  “No, we have nothing like that with us.” As if confused and not knowing what they should do, the ebony one asks instead, “You want to go to the island now?”

  Yes, oh, definitely yes, I think, but I say nothing immediately. Their boat rolls toward me and then away, empty of fish. The present, the past, and the immediate future suddenly seem to fit together in some inexplicable way. I know that my struggle is over. The door to my escape has been fortuitously flung open by these fishermen. They are offering me the greatest gift possible: life itself. I feel as if I have struggled with a most demanding puzzle, and after fumbling for the key piece for a long time, it has fallen into my fingers. For the first time in two and a half months, my feelings, body, and mind are of one piece.

  The frigates hover high above, drawn to me by my dorados and the flying fish on which they both feed. These fishermen saw the birds, knew there were fish here, and came to find them. They found me; but not me instead of their fish, me and their fish. Dorados. They have sustained me and have been my friends. They nearly killed me, too, and now they are my salvation. I am delivered to the hands of fishermen, my brothers of the sea. They rely on her just as I have. Their hooks, barbs, and bludgeons are similar to my own. Their clothing is as simple. Perhaps their lives are as poor. The puzzle is nearly finished. It is time to fit the last piece.

  “No, I’m O.K. I have plenty of water. I can wait. You fish. Fish!” I yell as if reaching a revelation. “Plenty of fish, big fish, best fish in the sea!” They look at each other, talking. I urge them. “Plenty of fish here, you must fish!”

  One bends over the engine and gives the line a yank. The boat leaps forward. They bait six-inch hooks with silvery fish that look like flyers without big wings. Several lines are tossed overboard, and in a moment, amidst tangled Creole yells and flailing arms, the engine is cut. One of them gives a heave, and a huge dorado jumps through, the air in a wide arc and lands with a thud in the bottom of the boat. They roar off again, and before they’ve gone two hundred yards they stop and yank two more fat fish aboard. Their yelling never stops. Their cacophonous Creole becomes more jumbled and wild, as if short-circuiting from the overload of energy in the fishing frenzy. Repeatedly they open the throttle and the boat leaps forward. They bail frantically, cast out hooks, give their lines a jerk, and stop. The stern wave rushes up, lifts and pats the boat’s rear. More fish are hauled from the sea.

  I calmly open my water tins. Five pints of my hoarded wealth flow down my throat. I watch the dorados below me, calmly swimming about. Yes, we part here, my friends. You do not seem betrayed. Perhaps you do not mind enriching these poor men. They will never again see a catch the likes of you. What secrets do you know that I cannot even guess?

  I wonder why I chanced to pack my spear gun in my emergency bag, why Solo stayed afloat just long enough for me to get my equipment. Why, when I had trouble hunting, did the dorado come closer? Why did they make it increasingly easier for me as I and my weapon became more broken and weak, until in the end they lay on their sides right under my point? Why have they provided me just enough food to hang on for eighteen hundred nautical miles? I know that they are only fish, and I am only a man. We do what we must and only what Nature allows us to do in this life. Yet sometimes the fabric of life is woven into such a fantastic pattern. I needed a miracle and my fish gave it to me. That and more. They’ve shown me that miracles swim and fly and walk, rain down and roll away all around me. I look around at life’s magnificent arena. The dorados seem almost to be leaping into the fishermen’s arms. I have never felt so humble, nor so peaceful, free, and at ease.

  Tiny letters on the boat’s quarters spell out her name, Clemence. She roars off one way and then the other, circling around Rubber Ducky, around and around. The men are pulling in a fish a minute. They swing by every so often to see if I’m all right. I wave to them. They come very close, and one of them holds out a bundle of brown paper as Clemence glides by. I unwrap the gift and behold a great prize: a mound of chipped coconut cemented together with raw brown sugar and capped with a dot of red sugar. Red! Even simple colors take on a miraculous significance.

  “Coco sucré,” one yells as they roar off again to continue the hunt. My smile—God, it’s so strange to smile—feels wrapped right around my head. Sugar and fruit at the same time. I peel off a shard of coconut and lay it upon my watering tongue. I carefully chip away at the coco sucré like a sculptor working on a piece of granite, but I eat it all, every last bit of it.

  Slowly the dorados below thin out. The fishermen are slowing down. A doggie comes by every so often as if to say farewell before shooting off after the hook. The sun is getting high, and I am very weary. Stop fishing now. Let’s go in. Within a half hour, I am draped over the bow, trying to stay cool and conscious. Finally the massacre is over. It is time for my voyage to end.

  LIFE

  THE FISHERMEN pull up in front of Ducky. I swing my equipment bag over to them. Then they grab me with helping hands and I clamber aboard. I slip into the bottom of the boat and sit among dozens of dorados and a few kingfish and barracuda. I recognize my doggies. There is the one I plucked from the sea—“There, is that what you want, stupid fish!”—simply in order to scare him away. There is the one that bit through my fishing line ahead of the wire. And there is the lovely female that would coyly brush against the raft, always just to the right of where I was aiming. The emerald elders are nowhere to be seen.

  I raise myself onto the hard wooden thwarts and rock to one side until I find some flesh on my rear to cushion my pelvis. The men haul the raft aboard the bow, put the helm over, and rev the engine. I nearly fall over backward as we take off. Ducky lifts off. The fishermen stop Clemence, and I show them where to pull Ducky’s plugs. Several gallons of water spurt out of the open valve on the bottom tube while Ducky collapses over the bow like a huge black amoeba. She too deserves a rest.

  We take off again in island style, with the forty-five-horse Evinrude wide open. The rapid forward progress feels so strange. Waves come up and we rip down them, cleaving the thick water and peeling it to both sides of the boat. We carve a watery line from the Atlantic into the Caribbean. As the boat rolls, the sea blasts by only a few inches from the gunwale. I hope these guys know what they’re doing.

  Clemence is rustic. The emergency sail is a piece of canvas wrapped around a long stripped sap
ling. A steel blade, its butt wrapped with cloth and tape, is sheathed in the joints between the boat’s planking and frames. The reserve gas tank is a fifteen-gallon plastic jug. When gas runs low, the cap of the jug is pried loose with a piece of rusty rod. The captain, Jules Paquet, sticks a tube in his mouth and sucks fuel up from the reserve. He whips the end out of his mouth and jams it into the engine’s tank as he spits a mouthful of gas overboard. We tear off again for a few minutes before the engine quits. Captain Jules pulls the cover off of the Evinrude and begins to diddle with it.

  Jules’s brother, Jean-Louis, sits beside me. The brothers have sharp noses and dancing eyes. They look Egyptian. Jean-Louis’s hair is short, but Jules’s is a thick bush that surrounds his head like a halo. Jean-Louis’s wide smile is broken amidships by a tiny black cave of missing front teeth. My own smile may never subside.

  Paulinus Williams sits behind me. His broad round muscles seem cast in polished iron. His skin is so black that in shadow it’s difficult to distinguish his features. His teeth flash as he speaks to me in English while the others discuss the engine in hobbling Creole. Paulinus reassures me. “It is not far to go, maybe one hour.”

  Clemence jumps into action again. I ask Paulinus what the mountainous island off our bow and beyond this flat one is.

  “Guadeloupe is the island there. This one is Marie Galante. Named it is for the ship of Columbus.”

  So I have gone one better than Guadeloupe. I have landed on the tiny island farthest to the east in the chain, hardly big enough to show up on my chart.