by Roald Dahl
‘Everybody in the hotel searching high and low,’ she said. ‘And a police car just arrived.’
‘Maybe he just got up early and went for a climb on the rocks,’ I said.
Her large dark haunted-looking eyes rested a moment on my face, then travelled away. ‘I do not think so,’ she said, and out she went.
I slipped on some clothes and hurried down to the beach. On the beach itself, two native policemen in khaki uniforms were standing with Mr Edwards, the manager. Mr Edwards was doing the talking. The policemen were listening patiently. In the distance, at both ends of the beach, I could see small groups of people, hotel servants as well as hotel guests, spreading out and heading for the rocks. The morning was beautiful. The sky was smoke-blue, faintly glazed with yellow. The sun was up and making diamonds all over the smooth sea. And Mr Edwards was talking loudly to the two native policemen, and waving his arms.
I wanted to help. What should I do? Which way should I go? It would be pointless simply to follow the others. So I just kept walking towards Mr Edwards.
About then, I saw the fishing-boat. The long wooden canoe with a single mast and a flapping brown sail was still some way out to sea, but it was heading for the beach. The two natives aboard, one at either end, were paddling hard. They were paddling very hard. The paddles rose and fell at such a terrific speed they might have been in a race. I stopped and watched them. Why the great rush to reach the shore? Quite obviously they had something to tell. I kept my eyes on the boat. Over to my left, I could hear Mr Edwards saying to the two policemen, ‘It is perfectly ridiculous. I can’t have people disappearing just like that from the hotel. You’d better find him fast, you understand me? He’s either wandered off somewhere and got lost or he’s been kidnapped. Either way, it’s the responsibility of the police …’
The fishing-boat skimmed over the sea and came gliding up on to the sand at the water’s edge. Both men dropped their paddles and jumped out. They started running up the beach. I recognized the one in front as Willy. When he caught sight of the manager and the two policemen, he made straight for them.
‘Hey, Mr Edwards!’ Willy called out. ‘We just seen a crazy thing!’
The manager stiffened and jerked back his neck. The two policemen remained impassive. They were used to excitable people. They met them every day.
Willy stopped in front of the group, his chest heaving in and out with heavy breathing. The other fisherman was close behind him. They were both naked except for a tiny loincloth, their black skins shining with sweat.
‘We been paddling full speed for a long way,’ Willy said, excusing his out-of-breathness. ‘We thought we ought to come back and tell it as quick as we can.’
‘Tell what?’ the manager said. ‘What did you see?’
‘It was crazy, man! Absolutely crazy!’
‘Get on with it, Willy, for heaven’s sake.’
‘You won’t believe it,’ Willy said. ‘There ain’t nobody going to believe it. Isn’t that right, Tom?’
‘That’s right,’ the other fisherman said, nodding vigorously. ‘If Willy here hadn’t been with me to prove it, I wouldn’t have believed it myself!’
‘Believed what?’ Mr Edwards said. ‘Just tell us what you saw.’
‘We’d gone off early,’ Willy said, ‘about four o’clock this morning, and we must’ve been a couple of miles out before it got light enough to see anything properly. Suddenly, as the sun comes up, we see right ahead of us, not more’n fifty yards away, we see something we couldn’t believe not even with our eyes …’
‘What?’ snapped Mr Edwards. ‘For heaven’s sake get on!’
‘We sees that old monster turtle swimming away out there, the one on the beach yesterday, and we sees the boy sitting high up on the turtle’s back and riding him over the sea like a horse!’
‘You gotta believe it!’ the other fisherman cried. ‘I sees it too, so you gotta believe it!’
Mr Edwards looked at the two policemen. The two policemen looked at the fishermen. ‘You wouldn’t be having us on, would you?’ one of the policemen said.
‘I swear it!’ cried Willy. ‘It’s the gospel truth! There’s this little boy riding high up on the old turtle’s back and his feet isn’t even touching the water! He’s dry as a bone and sitting there comfy and easy as could be! So we go after them. Of course we go after them. At first we try creeping up on them very quietly, like we always do when we’re catching a turtle, but the boy sees us. We aren’t very far away at this time, you understand. No more than from here to the edge of the water. And when the boy sees us, he sort of leans forwards as if he’s saying something to that old turtle, and the turtle’s head comes up and he starts swimming like the clappers of hell! Man, could that turtle go! Tom and me can paddle pretty quick when we want to, but we’ve no chance against that monster! No chance at all! He’s going at least twice as fast as we are! Easy twice as fast, what you say, Tom?’
‘I’d say he’s going three times as fast,’ Tom said. ‘And I’ll tell you why. In about ten or fifteen minutes, they’re a mile ahead of us.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you call out to the boy?’ the manager asked. ‘Why didn’t you speak to him earlier on, when you were closer?’
‘We never stop calling out, man!’ Willy cried. ‘As soon as the boy sees us and we’re not trying to creep up on them any longer, then we start yelling. We yell everything under the sun at that boy to try and get him aboard. “Hey, boy!” I yell at him. “You come on back with us! We’ll give you a lift home! That ain’t no good what you’re doing there, boy! Jump off and swim while you got the chance and we’ll pick you up! Go on boy, jump! Your mammy must be waiting for you at home, boy, so why don’t you come on in with us?” And once I shouted at him, “Listen, boy! We’re gonna make you a promise! We promise not to catch that old turtle if you come with us!” ’
‘Did he answer you at all?’ the manager asked.
‘He never even looks round!’ Willy said. ‘He sits high up on that shell and he’s sort of rocking backwards and forwards with his body just like he’s urging the old turtle to go faster and faster! You’re gonna lose that little boy, Mr Edwards, unless someone gets out there real quick and grabs him away!’
The manager’s normally pink face had turned white as paper. ‘Which way were they heading?’ he asked sharply.
‘North,’ Willy answered. ‘Almost due north.’
‘Right!’ the manager said. ‘We’ll take the speed-boat! I want you with us, Willy. And you, Tom.’
The manager, the two policemen and the two fishermen ran down to where the boat that was used for water-skiing lay beached on the sand. They pushed the boat out, and even the manager lent a hand, wading up to his knees in his well-pressed white trousers. Then they all climbed in.
I watched them go zooming off.
Two hours later, I watched them coming back. They had seen nothing.
All through that day, speed-boats and yachts from other hotels along the coast searched the ocean. In the afternoon, the boy’s father hired a helicopter. He rode in it himself and they were up there three hours. They found no trace of the turtle or the boy.
For a week, the search went on, but with no result.
And now, nearly a year has gone by since it happened. In that time, there has been only one significant bit of news. A party of Americans, out from Nassau in the Bahamas, were deep-sea fishing off a large island called Eleuthera. There are literally thousands of coral reefs and small uninhabited islands in this area, and upon one of these tiny islands, the captain of the yacht saw through his binoculars the figure of a small person. There was a sandy beach on the island, and the small person was walking on the beach. The binoculars were passed around, and everyone who looked through them agreed that it was a child of some sort. There was, of course, a lot of excitement on board and the fishing lines were quickly reeled in. The captain steered the yacht straight for the island. When they were half a mile off, they were able, through the binocul
ars, to see clearly that the figure on the beach was a boy, and although sunburnt, he was almost certainly white-skinned, not a native. At that point, the watchers on the yacht also spotted what looked like a giant turtle on the sand near the boy. What happened next happened very quickly. The boy, who had probably caught sight of the approaching yacht, jumped on the turtle’s back and the huge creature entered the water and swam at great speed around the island and out of sight. The yacht searched for two hours, but nothing more was seen either of the boy or the turtle.
There is no reason to disbelieve this report. There were five people on the yacht. Four of them were Americans and the captain was a Bahamian from Nassau. All of them in turn saw the boy and the turtle through the binoculars.
To reach Eleuthera Island from Jamaica by sea, one must first travel north-east for two hundred and fifty miles and pass through the Windward Passage between Cuba and Haiti. Then one must go north-north-west for a farther three hundred miles at least. This is a total distance of five hundred and fifty miles, which is a very long journey for a small boy to make on the shell of a giant turtle.
Who knows what to think of all this?
One day, perhaps, he will come back, though I personally doubt it. I have a feeling he’s quite happy where he is.
Dip in the Pool
First published in The New Yorker (19 January 1952)
On the morning of the third day, the sea calmed. Even the most delicate passengers – those who had not been seen around the ship since sailing time – emerged from their cabins and crept up on to the sun deck, where the deck steward gave them chairs and tucked rugs around their legs and left them lying in rows, their faces upturned to the pale, almost heatless January sun.
It had been moderately rough the first two days, and this sudden calm and the sense of comfort that it brought created a more genial atmosphere over the whole ship. By the time evening came, the passengers, with twelve hours of good weather behind them, were beginning to feel confident, and at eight o’clock that night the main dining-room was filled with people eating and drinking with the assured, complacent air of seasoned sailors.
The meal was not half over when the passengers became aware, by a slight friction between their bodies and the seats of their chairs, that the big ship had actually started rolling again. It was very gentle at first, just a slow, lazy leaning to one side, then to the other, but it was enough to cause a subtle, immediate change of mood over the whole room. A few of the passengers glanced up from their food, hesitating, waiting, almost listening for the next roll, smiling nervously, little secret glimmers of apprehension in their eyes. Some were completely unruffled, some were openly smug, a number of the smug ones making jokes about food and weather in order to torture the few who were beginning to suffer. The movement of the ship then became rapidly more and more violent, and only five or six minutes after the first roll had been noticed, she was swinging heavily from side to side, the passengers bracing themselves in their chairs, leaning against the pull as in a car cornering.
At last the really bad roll came, and Mr William Botibol, sitting at the purser’s table, saw his plate of poached turbot with hollandaise sauce sliding suddenly away from under his fork. There was a flutter of excitement, everybody reaching for plates and wine glasses. Mrs Renshaw, seated at the purser’s right, gave a little scream and clutched that gentleman’s arm.
‘Going to be a dirty night,’ the purser said, looking at Mrs Renshaw. ‘I think it’s blowing up a very dirty night.’ There was just the faintest suggestion of relish in the way he said it.
A steward came hurrying up and sprinkled water on the tablecloth between the plates. The excitement subsided. Most of the passengers continued with their meal. A small number, including Mrs Renshaw, got carefully to their feet and threaded their ways with a kind of concealed haste between the tables and through the doorway.
‘Well,’ the purser said, ‘there she goes.’ He glanced around with approval at the remainder of his flock, who were sitting quiet, looking complacent, their faces reflecting openly that extraordinary pride that travellers seem to take in being recognized as ‘good sailors’.
When the eating was finished and the coffee had been served, Mr Botibol, who had been unusually grave and thoughtful since the rolling started, suddenly stood up and carried his cup of coffee around to Mrs Renshaw’s vacant place, next to the purser. He seated himself in her chair, then immediately leaned over and began to whisper urgently in the purser’s ear. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, ‘but could you tell me something, please?’
The purser, small and fat and red, bent forward to listen. ‘What’s the trouble. Mr Botibol?’
‘What I want to know is this.’ The man’s face was anxious and the purser was watching it. ‘What I want to know is will the captain already have made his estimate on the day’s run – you know, for the auction pool? I mean, before it began to get rough like this?’
The purser, who had prepared himself to receive a personal confidence, smiled and leaned back in his seat to relax his full belly. ‘I should say so – yes,’ he answered. He didn’t bother to whisper his reply, although automatically he lowered his voice, as one does when answering a whisperer.
‘About how long ago do you think he did it?’
‘Some time this afternoon. He usually does it in the afternoon.’
‘About what time?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Around four o’clock, I should guess.’
‘Now tell me another thing. How does the captain decide which number it shall be? Does he take a lot of trouble over that?’
The purser looked at the anxious frowning face of Mr Botibol and he smiled, knowing quite well what the man was driving at. ‘Well, you see, the captain has a little conference with the navigating officer, and they study the weather and a lot of other things, and then they make their estimate.’
Mr Botibol nodded, pondering this answer for a moment. Then he said, ‘Do you think the captain knew there was bad weather coming today?’
‘I couldn’t tell you,’ the purser replied. He was looking into the small black eyes of the other man, seeing the two single little sparks of excitement dancing in their centres. ‘I really couldn’t tell you, Mr Botibol. I wouldn’t know.’
‘If this gets any worse it might be worth buying some of the low numbers. What do you think?’ The whispering was more urgent, more anxious now.
‘Perhaps it will,’ the purser said. ‘I doubt the old man allowed for a really rough night. It was pretty calm this afternoon when he made his estimate.’
The others at the table had become silent and were trying to hear, watching the purser with that intent, half-cocked, listening look that you can see also at the race track when they are trying to overhear a trainer talking about his chance: the slightly open lips, the upstretched eyebrows, the head forward and cocked a little to one side – that desperately straining, half-hypnotized, listening look that comes to all of them when they are hearing something straight from the horse’s mouth.
‘Now suppose you were allowed to buy a number, which one would you choose today?’ Mr Botibol whispered.
‘I don’t know what the range is yet,’ the purser patiently answered. ‘They don’t announce the range till the auction starts after dinner. And I’m really not very good at it anyway. I’m only the purser, you know.’
At that point Mr Botibol stood up. ‘Excuse me, all,’ he said, and he walked carefully away over the swaying floor between the other tables, and twice he had to catch hold of the back of a chair to steady himself against the ship’s roll.
‘The sun deck, please,’ he said to the elevator man.
The wind caught him full in the face as he stepped out on to the open deck. He staggered and grabbed hold of the rail and held on tight with both hands, and he stood there looking out over the darkening sea, where the great waves were welling up high and white horses were riding against the wind with plumes of spray behind them as they went.
‘Pretty
bad out there, wasn’t it, sir?’ the elevator man said on the way down.
Mr Botibol was combing his hair back into place with a small red comb. ‘Do you think we’ve slackened speed at all on account of the weather?’ he asked.
‘Oh my word yes, sir. We slackened off considerable since this started. You got to slacken off speed in weather like this or you’ll be throwing the passengers all over the ship.’
Down in the smoking-room people were already gathering for the auction. They were grouping themselves politely around the various tables, the men a little stiff in their dinner-jackets, a little pink and overshaved and stiff beside their cool, white-armed women. Mr Botibol took a chair close to the auctioneer’s table. He crossed his legs, folded his arms and settled himself in his seat with the rather desperate air of a man who has made a tremendous decision and refuses to be frightened.
The pool, he was telling himself, would probably be around seven thousand dollars. That was almost exactly what it had been the last two days with the numbers selling for between three and four hundred apiece. It being a British ship, they did it in pounds, but he liked to do his thinking in his own currency. Seven thousand dollars was plenty of money. My goodness yes! And what he would do, he would get them to pay him in hundred-dollar bills and he would take it ashore in the inside pocket of his jacket. No problem there. And right away, yes right away, he would buy a Lincoln convertible. He would pick it up on the way from the ship and drive it home just for the pleasure of seeing Ethel’s face when she came out the front door and looked at it. Wouldn’t that be something, to see Ethel’s face when he glided up to the door in a brand-new pale-green Lincoln convertible! Hello, Ethel honey, he would say, speaking very casual. I just thought I’d get you a little present. I saw it in the window as I went by, so I thought of you and how you were always wanting one. You like it, honey? he would say. You like the colour? And then he would watch her face.
The auctioneer was standing up behind his table now. ‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he shouted. ‘The captain has estimated the day’s run, ending midday tomorrow, at five hundred and fifteen miles. As usual we will take the ten numbers on either side of it to make up the range. That makes it five hundred and five to five hundred and twenty-five. And of course for those who think the true figure will be still farther away, there’ll be “low field” and “high field” sold separately as well. Now, we’ll draw the first number out of the hat … here we are … five hundred and twelve?’