Lost!

by Thomas Thompson

  “Put this kit up in a safe place,” said Bob sharply. “It’s essential.” Nodding, taking it, Jim looked at the kit strangely. As Bob returned to his drilling, Jim moved toward the supply shelf.

  “Two cans of creamed corn, two cans of string beans, one jar peanut butter, one can of something with the label washed off, probably English peas …” Jim was reciting the inventory of food found that day. Almost dark, there was so little light inside their chamber that he had to hold the cans close to his eyes to read their contents. Rather than risk having the food washed off the shelf by a sudden high wave, Jim announced that he had burrowed a hole at the foot of his foam mattress, where the food would stay. No one had elected him captain of the food supply; he simply assumed responsibility for policing it. Neither Bob nor Linda complained. Jim was the skipper of the Triton, as long as there was a Triton.

  “Let’s see,” Jim went on. “Five cans of sardines …” He grimaced; Jim detested sardines. “One can apple pie filling, one can chop suey mix, one jar vegetable oil, six packs presweetened Kool-Aid, four packets powdered milk, one pack chicken bouillon powder, one pack freeze-dried peas, one bag caramel candy chips, three packs vegeburgers, three cans vegelinks, and several miscellaneous spices.”

  Jim held up a handful of condiment bottles—salt, vanilla, peppermint extract, something called “Fruit Fresh.”

  “That’s it?” asked Linda.

  “That’s the grocery store.”

  Bob frowned. “You didn’t count the cheese balls. Two big balls of Gouda cheese.”

  Jim shook his head in denial. “There aren’t any cheese balls.”

  “I threw them at you, Jim. I saw you catch them.”

  Again shaking his head, Jim said stubbornly, “Well, there aren’t any cheese balls here. Maybe you imagined it.”

  Bob elected not to argue with Jim. Both were tired. Flaring tempers would help nothing. Perhaps the cheese would turn up later.

  Then Linda remembered something. During the day she had spied a container of macaroni floating by her bed and she had fished it out of the water.

  “You counted the macaroni, didn’t you, Jim?” reminded Linda.

  A blank look. “What macaroni?”

  “Jim, don’t act silly. I handed it to you.”

  “I never got any macaroni.”

  Shooting an insistent look at Bob, Linda waited for his support. But he denied her, discreetly shaking his head. Something odd was happening, but Bob still felt they could not afford a rupture.

  Instead Bob watched carefully as Jim put away the food. Making a rapid calculation, he estimated that roughly four pounds of usable food had been salvaged from the water. “Is that everything, Jim? You’re sure? You didn’t find anything else we might use?”

  Jim pursed his lips in recollection. He thought of something. “Oh, I forgot. I did find that big can of jelly beans and licorice.”

  Bob brightened. “Fantastic! We can use the sugar for energy.”

  “But I threw them out.”

  Now so irritated that he raised his head suddenly and bumped it on the ceiling, Bob flared. “Well, why did you do that? That candy was mine. You had no right to throw it out. We may need every drop of food we can get. God knows when anybody’s going to find us out here.”

  The nerve was at last exposed. Jim leveled somber eyes at his brother-in-law. “That’s just it, Bob,” he said. “God does know when we’re going to be rescued.”

  “Don’t start that on me, Jim. I want to know why you threw out my jelly beans.”

  “They were water-logged and stuck together. You wouldn’t have wanted them.”

  “I would have wanted to make that decision myself.”

  As she had done before and would do again, Linda moved between the two men as buffer. She took a can of peas from Jim and looked about for something to open it with. “Now, about dinner, you guys,” she began. But Jim was not listening to her. He cut across her words.

  “I want us to understand one thing,” he said. “This isn’t going to be some sort of endurance contest. This isn’t going to be one of those men-against-the-sea stories. We’re not going to set any records. It just isn’t going to be that way.”

  Bob raised his eyebrows, fascinated. “All right, tell us, Jim. Just how is it going to be?”

  “We’ll be rescued when God is ready for us to be rescued,” said Jim, his voice building with the fervor of prayer. “There’s nothing we can do to bring on that moment. I don’t see any need for us to make plans and ration food and lie around saving energy.”

  Exasperated, Bob made a fist and slapped his open palm. He swung his legs around and wished for a place he could move to, where he could count to ten and take deep breaths and release steam. He felt exactly as confounded as he had been so often in childhood, when he had questioned his Sabbath school teachers about the validity of Bible stories. How could God appear to Moses in the form of a burning bush, he had asked, but if God had, why didn’t the bush burn up? He was a farmer’s child and he could not conceive of fire that did not consume. The teacher had scolded him, rebuking him for questioning the Holy Book. The Bible is true, she had informed him. Every word of it. And children should not ask impertinent questions relating to God’s word. Well, here I am again, thought Bob, butting my head into the same stone wall. And I will get no further with Jim than I did with that teacher.

  He could not, however, let Jim’s pronouncement hang in the air like a sermon from the mountaintop. Bob began his rebuttal softly, measuring his words, but he made sure that Jim both heard and understood.

  “I don’t agree with you, Jim,” Bob said slowly. “I think we will be rescued. In fact, I feel sure we will be rescued. But until that happy moment, this isn’t going to turn into some sort of religious, mystical experience for me and Linda. We have decided to conserve our energy, ration our food, and try our damndest to keep our spirits up. If you want, we can divide up the food three ways—right now, this very minute, and you can make a banquet out of yours and eat it all for dinner. But don’t start asking us for handouts tomorrow if Jesus decides not to come.”

  Bob opened the can of peas with a screwdriver, and they split the contents three ways, carefully dividing the juice which was their only liquid of the day. When dinner was over, the men turned to one more job that needed to be done before they could sleep. The hole over Jim’s head was open to the sky and often waves would break across the Triton, sending a shower of salty spray onto the beds. Finding another piece of plywood cupboard door, the men measured and sawed it to fit the hole. But when the wood was wedged in place, their quarters became a pressure chamber and the sound of the sea a roar. It was impossible to bear. Bob then cut out a six-inch hole in the hole cover, enough to relieve the pressure and allow moonlight to enter—if the moon ever broke through the heavy overcast. Only a little water would now and then molest them.

  After the goodnights were said, Jim prayed silently. He grieved that all four of the Bibles he had brought on the Triton were lost in the capsizing, but he was pleased to find his copy of The Great Controversy, an Adventist book that traced the history of his denomination. A hundred times he had read its pages before, and now he held it to his chest in the darkness, drawing strength and comfort.

  After a time, when all were still awake, stirring on the mattresses and trying to find a position that was not cold or wet or lumpy from the ropes, Jim pulled out a brightly painted Mexican harmonica he had found in the water that day. He tried to play. His skill was modest, and more squawks than melody came out. And when he attempted a hymn, “Faith of Our Fathers,” neither Bob nor Linda joined, as they had the night before. Instead they listened to the misplayed notes, locked in each other’s arms, their heads almost touching Jim’s. Linda shivered and pressed her body tightly against Bob. He wondered how long she could survive.

  Sometime during the hours after midnight, when the winds had risen again and the boat was victim to disquieting moans and creaks, Linda heard something that br
oke her restless sleep. She raised on her elbows and turned toward Jim’s place. He was trying to get up. Where could he be going at this hour? Fascinated, she watched as Jim eased his way to the hole and pushed against the new wedge.

  “Where are you going, Jim?” asked Linda in a whisper.

  Jim did not respond, pushing against the board with sleep-heavy hands. Suddenly he spoke. “We’re here!” he said excitedly. “Come on, Linda, get up! We’re here!”

  The call woke Bob and he thought momentarily that a ship had come for them. But then he realized that Jim was caught in a dream and was trying to make it real.

  “Lie back down, Jim,” ordered Bob. “There’s nothing there.”

  “We’re here, Bob,” insisted Jim. “We’re in San Francisco Bay. Look at the lights of the city. They’re beautiful. Oh, praise God! Thank you, Jesus.”

  Wriggling toward Jim, Bob peered out the tiny hole he had cut. Not even stars illumined the silent blackness.

  “You’re dreaming, Jim. Go back to sleep.” Bob seized Jim’s shoulders and shook him. Only then did he regain reality. Mumbling an apology, he dropped to his bed and fell asleep.

  “What happened to him?” asked Linda.

  “Hallucinating,” said Bob. “We’ll have to watch it, all of us.”

  Snuggling close again to her husband, Linda found sleep immediately. But within an hour she was awake, screaming, shrieking in hysteria that the Triton was disintegrating, that all would drown. Bob drew her into his arms and rocked her until the terror went away.

  Perhaps if Linda had more room, Bob thought, she would sleep more tranquilly. Bob scooted down a few feet, curling himself into a ball. Now his wife could at least turn from one side to the other.

  He stayed in that cramped position for almost an hour, enduring until the claustrophobia returned. The darkness, the creaking walls clammy to his touch, the chilling water that waited for his feet if they dangled too far off the end of the bed, all of these coalesced to frighten him. A scream building, he pushed past Linda and craned his neck to peer through the little hole in the cover that led to the world above their heads.

  In that moment he could see the grayness of early dawn, prelude to another morning. He drew contentment from the thread of continuity. The night was almost over. Reassured, Bob eased back to the foot of the mattress. Whispering courage to himself, listening to the waves, waiting for the sun, he finally slept.

  (7)

  Jim opened a can of vegelinks on the third day of their existence inside the overturned sailboat, and began counting out the artificial frankfurters within. Nine. Three each, he said, as he handed a portion to Linda. Bob stopped him.

  During the night of screams and hallucinations, Bob had come to the realization that if they were to survive, a framework for the hours must be erected. They could not function as individuals, each clinging desperately to life. Nor could they tolerate the imminent danger of a two-against-one situation arising, for Bob could foresee that he and his wife might easily become allied against Jim and his religious passion. Only through discipline and a marshaling of their supplies and energies could they hold out until rescue came.

  “Before we eat, I want to say something,” began Bob carefully. He knew now that he must couch his remarks with both practicality and diplomacy, else he would bring the wall of God crashing down between them. And he must not, in deference to Linda, permit a note of depression to darken his ideas.

  “We may be rescued today,” Bob began, “and if not today, then tomorrow. And if we’re not picked up this week, then I feel we will sooner or later drift into the coast of California.” As best as he could determine, Bob went on, the winds of from ten to fifteen knots per hour had continued to blow rather dependably from the north and west, pushing them on a southeasterly course that would eventually lead to land.

  “But,” he continued, “these are not absolutes. These are not money-back guarantees. I would call them only very good probabilities. So … so I believe we’ve got to formulate a plan that will accomplish two things. Number one, conserve what little food and liquid we have, and number two, give us a daily schedule to fill the time and keep our minds occupied. And maybe make us tired enough so we can sleep better during the night.”

  Pausing to see what effect his notions were having, Bob saw that Linda was attentive. But Jim seemed uninterested. He wanted breakfast done with, so he could drop into the water beneath their beds and make further explorations. Moreover, this was Friday, eve of the Seventh Day Adventist Sabbath, and by nightfall he would cease all activity save prayer and meditation. Bob felt his back going up. How could he persuade a man who so fervently believed that he was but a player in a preordained drama, believed that nothing he did or did not do would alter the script of God? At this moment Jim was impatiently transferring the can of vegelinks back and forth between his hands.

  “I feel,” snapped Bob with sarcasm, “that what I’m saying might be important, Jim.”

  Linda moved quickly to build a bridge between the two men. Reaching over and placing her hand across the opened can of vegelinks was her indication that breakfast must wait until her husband had spoken.

  “Come on, Jim,” she said lightly, “you told me you were on a diet anyway. You promised Wilma you were going to lose twenty pounds on the cruise and be all skinny and handsome when she and the boys came down to Costa Rica.”

  Jim brightened. It was true. At almost 220 pounds, he was growing potty at the waist, and although his body was still strong and well developed, the excess weight made him look older than thirty. Jim laughed. “I didn’t mean this kind of diet,” he said.

  Pleased with her successful arbitration, Linda gestured to Bob that he could continue.

  “Okay,” said Bob. “I figure we’ve got enough food to last us thirty days, but that means no more than a cup for each person per day.” He took the can of vegelinks from Jim and fished one out, making his dislike of the artificial creations known. “This one rip-off frankfurter, for example, will be breakfast and dinner for me. Half now, half tonight. And no lunch. We never planned to eat lunch, anyway. When we finish these links, we open a can of, say, creamed corn. We split the can three ways, and that one-third of a can must last each of us two meals.”

  After a few moments of reflection, Jim finally nodded. But how, he wanted to know, how would the food distribution system work?

  Bob had a quick answer. “The honor system. You keep the food, Jim. We don’t even know exactly where it is, only that you’ve got that storage place at the foot of your bed. Each of us is on his honor not to eat a single bite of food unless the others know about it. The same goes for the three cans of soda pop we’ve got. And if the sun ever comes out, we can set up the water distillation kit and apply the same rules to any fresh water we make.”

  Bob stopped. His throat was dry and so many words delivered so quickly made him hoarse. He still had the second half of his plan to offer, one to deal with a daily schedule of activities.

  But Jim, fishing out a vegelink, had tuned out his brother-in-law. Either his attention span had ended, or he was anxious to explore or to stand watch for possible rescue. Or, perhaps, he did not want further conversation about using the water distillation kit. Whatever, he quickly ate one half of his link and hurriedly went through the hole to the outside.

  That morning several important discoveries were made in the water beneath their beds. In their flooded former bedroom, Bob found Linda’s purse, and she squealed with delight. Setting out her cosmetics to dry, she announced items—lipstick, comb, brush, three ballpoint pens, a couple of sticks of chewing gum—as if they were the treasures of a Pharaoh’s tomb.

  Then Jim found a pair of water-logged binoculars, Bob’s camera, and a cheap compass, not the Triton’s navigational compass, but one that could still designate rough directions. The major find of the morning was a medicine kit containing bottles of aspirin, vitamins, penicillin salve, and mercurochrome, all unharmed from their submersion. And Bob fish
ed out a toiletry kit with three tubes of toothpaste. These would become important in days to come.

  In a cupboard that Bob took three dives to force open, he happily found two cans of white paint, a brush, a container of kerosine, a can of stove cooking alcohol, rags, diesel fuel motor oil, and three knives. Pleased to find a replacement for the one he’d lost, Bob kept two for himself—a Boy Scout knife with contraptions, and a seven-inch kitchen knife. The other kitchen knife he gave to Jim.

  While the men worked beneath the cold water, Linda suddenly remembered the icebox, which, for some reason, no one had thought to look in. Immediately Jim plunged in and, after a long minute, came up triumphant. The old-fashioned cooler had been filled with salt water, and the ice had long since melted, but it still contained perfectly edible fresh cherries, two grapefruit, and two dozen eggs, these protected by the coat of Vaseline that Linda had wisely put on them before departure.

  In celebration, a grapefruit was cut open, its juice never so appreciated. Bob insisted on saving the rinds, for they might have nutritional value later on.

  In the afternoon, the men went topside and painted the once-blue bottom of the Triton a glistening white. They left two-foot letters HELP in the original blue, and, as afterthought, Bob painted an enormous six-foot arrow leading to the plea, which he felt had a nice pop-art sort of feel about it. Finally they took the orange curtains from the bedrooms and orange life jackets that Jim’s children had used and nailed them about the overturned main hull as contrast. Bob felt sure the gaudy trimmings could be seen by a searching airplane from miles away.