Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor (4 page)

There were two life rafts about seven meters apart. They appeared unexpectedly on the crest of a wave, near where my mates were calling out. It seemed odd that none of them could reach the life rafts. In an instant, one of the rafts disappeared from view. I couldn’t decide whether to risk swimming toward the other one or stay safely anchored to my crate. But before I had time to decide, I found myself swimming toward the one I could see, which was moving farther away from me. I swam for about three minutes. I lost sight of the raft momentarily, but I was careful not to lose my bearings. Suddenly, a rough wave pushed the raft alongside me—it was huge, white, and empty. I struggled to grab the rigging and jump aboard. I made it on the third try. Once on the raft, panting, whipped by the wind, immobilized and freezing, I found it hard to sit up. Then I saw three of my mates near the raft, trying to reach it.

I recognized them immediately. Eduardo Castillo, the
quartermaster, had a firm grip around Julio Amador Caraballo’s neck. Caraballo, who had been on watch when the accident occurred, was wearing his life jacket. He yelled: “Hold on tight, Castillo.” They floated amid the scattered cargo, about ten meters away.

On the other side was Luis Rengifo. Only a few minutes before, I had seen him on the destroyer, trying to stay above water with his headphones aloft in his right hand. With his habitual calm, with that good sailor’s confidence that allowed him to boast that the sea would get seasick before he did, he had stripped off his shirt so that he could swim better, but he had lost his life jacket. Even if I hadn’t seen him, I would have recognized his cry: “Fatso, paddle over here.”

I quickly grabbed the oars and tried to get closer to the men. Julio Amador, with Eduardo Castillo clinging to his neck, neared the raft. Much farther away, looking small and desolate, was the fourth of my mates: Ramón Herrera, who was waving at me while he held on to a crate.

If I had had to decide, I wouldn’t have known which of my mates to go after first. But when I saw Ramón Herrera, of the revel in Mobile, the happy young man from Arjona who had been with me on the stern only a few moments before, I began to paddle furiously. But the life raft was almost two meters long. It was very heavy in that lurching sea, and I had to row against the wind. I don’t think I managed to advance more than a meter. Desperate, I looked around once more and saw that Ramón Herrera had disappeared. Only Luis Rengifo was swimming
confidently toward the raft. I was sure he would make it. I had heard him snoring below my bunk, and I was convinced that his serenity was stronger than the sea.

In contrast, Julio Amador was struggling with Eduardo Castillo, so that Castillo wouldn’t let go of his neck. They were less than three meters away. I figured that if they got just a little closer, I could hold out an oar for them to grab. But at that moment a gigantic wave lifted the raft, and from the top of the huge crest I could see the mast of the destroyer, heading away from me. When I came down again, Julio Amador had vanished, with Eduardo Castillo hanging on to his neck. Alone, two meters away, Luis Rengifo was still swimming calmly toward the raft.

I don’t know why I did this absurd thing: knowing I couldn’t move forward, I put the oar in the water as though trying to prevent the raft from moving, trying to anchor it in place. Luis Rengifo, exhausted, paused a moment, then raised his arm as he had when he held his headphones aloft, and shouted again: “Row over here, Fatso!”

The wind was blowing from his direction. I yelled that I couldn’t row against the wind, that he should make another try, but I felt he hadn’t heard me. The crates of cargo had disappeared and the life raft danced from side to side, battered by the waves. In an instant I was five meters away from Luis Rengifo and had lost sight of him. But he appeared in another spot, still not panicking, ducking underwater to prevent the waves from sweeping him away. I stood up, holding out the oar, hoping Luis Rengifo could get close enough to reach it. But then I could see he was tiring, losing heart. He called to me again, sinking: “Fatso! Fatso!”

I tried to row, but … it was as hopeless as the first time. I made a last try so that Luis Rengifo could reach the oar,
but the raised hand, which a few minutes earlier had been trying to keep the headphones from sinking, sank forever, less than two meters from the oar.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that, balancing in the life raft, holding out the oar. I kept searching the water, hoping that someone would surface soon. But the sea was clear and the wind, getting stronger, blew against my shirt like the howl of a dog. The cargo had disappeared. The mast, growing more distinct, proved that the destroyer hadn’t sunk, as I had first thought. I felt calm. I thought that in a minute they would come looking for me. I thought that one of my mates had managed to reach the other life raft.

There was no reason they shouldn’t have reached it. The rafts weren’t provisioned—in fact, none of the destroyer’s life rafts was outfitted. But there were six of them, apart from the rowboats and the whalers. It was reasonable to believe that some of my mates had reached the other life rafts, as I had reached mine, and perhaps the destroyer was searching for us.

Very soon I was aware of the sun. A midday sun, hot and metallic. Stupefied, not fully recovered, I looked at my watch. It was noon on the dot.

The last time Luis Rengifo had asked me the time, on the destroyer, it was 11:30. I had checked the time again, at 11:50, and the disaster had not yet occurred. When I looked at my watch on the life raft, it was exactly noon. It had taken only ten minutes for everything to happen—for me to reach the life raft, and try to rescue my shipmates,
and stand motionless in the raft, searching the empty sea, listening to the sharp howl of the wind. I thought it would take them at least two or three hours to rescue me.

Two or three hours, I calculated. It seemed an extraordinarily long time to be alone at sea. But I tried to resign myself to it. I had no food or water, and by three in the afternoon I would surely have a searing thirst. The sun burned my head and my skin, which was dry and hardened by salt. Since I had lost my cap, I splashed water on my head, and I just sat on the side of the raft, waiting to be rescued.

It was only then that I felt the pain in my right knee. The thick, blue drill fabric of my trouser leg was wet, so I had a hard time rolling it up. But when I did, I was startled: I saw a deep, half-moon-shaped wound on the lower part of my knee. I didn’t know if I had gashed it on the side of the ship, or if it had happened when I hit the water, for I didn’t notice it until I was seated in the life raft. Though the wound burned a little, it had stopped bleeding and was completely dry, because of the salt water, I imagine.

Uncertain as to what to do, I decided to make an inventory of my belongings. I wanted to figure out what I could count on in my solitude at sea. First of all, I could rely on my watch, which kept perfect time, and which I couldn’t stop glancing at every two or three minutes. In addition, I had my gold ring, which I’d bought in Cartagena the year before, and a chain with a medal of the Virgin of Carmen on it, also purchased in Cartagena, from another sailor for thirty-five pesos. In my pockets I had nothing but the keys to my locker on the destroyer and three business cards I had been given at a store in Mobile one day in January when I had gone out shopping with Mary Address. Since I had nothing to do, I read the cards
over and over to distract myself until I was rescued. I don’t know why the cards seemed like the messages in bottles that shipwrecked sailors pitch into the sea. I think if I had had a bottle at that moment I would have put one of the cards into it, playing shipwrecked sailor, just to do something amusing to tell my friends about in Cartagena.

4
M
y
F
irst
N
ight
A
lone in the
C
aribbean

The wind died down by four in the afternoon. Since I could see nothing but water and sky, since I had no points of reference, more than two hours had passed before I realized that the raft was moving. But, in fact, from the moment I had found myself in it, the raft had been moving ahead in a straight line, pushed by the breeze faster than I could have pushed it with the oars. Nevertheless, I hadn’t the faintest idea of my direction or position. I didn’t know if the raft was moving in toward the shore or out toward the middle of the Caribbean. The latter seemed more likely, because I had always thought it was impossible for the sea to wash ashore anything that was fifty miles out, and even less likely if the object was as heavy as a man in a life raft.

During the next two hours I plotted the destroyer’s voyage in my mind, minute by minute. I reasoned that if the radio operator had contacted Cartagena, he would have
relayed the exact position of the accident and at that moment planes and helicopters would have been sent out to rescue us. I calculated that the planes would be there within an hour, circling over my head.

At one in the afternoon I sat down in the raft to scan the horizon. I stowed the three oars inside, ready to row toward wherever the planes appeared. The minutes were long and intense. The sun seared my face and shoulders, and my lips burned, split by the salt. But I felt neither thirst nor hunger. My only need was for the planes to turn up. I already had a plan: when I saw them I would try to row toward them; then, when they were overhead, I would stand up in the raft and signal to them with my shirt. To be prepared and not waste even a moment, I unbuttoned my shirt. Then I just sat on the edge of the raft, searching the horizon on all sides, because I hadn’t the slightest idea from which direction the planes would appear.

It was two o’clock. The wind went on roaring, and above the noise I could still hear the voice of Luis Rengifo: “Fatso! Row over this way.” I heard it with perfect clarity, as if he were there, only two meters away, trying to reach the oar. But I know that when the wind howls at sea, that when the waves break against the cliffs, one hears voices from memory. And you go on hearing them, with maddening persistence: “Row over here, Fatso!”

At three I began to get desperate. I knew that by then the destroyer would be docked at Cartagena. My mates, happy to be back, would be spreading out all over the city. I felt they were all thinking about me, and the thought gave me the energy and patience to hold on until four. Even if they hadn’t radioed, even if they hadn’t noticed that
we’d gone overboard, they would have realized it the moment they docked, when the entire crew should have been on deck. That would have been at three o’clock, at the latest; they would have given the alert immediately.

However long the planes might have been delayed taking off, they should have been flying near the site of the accident within half an hour. So at four o’clock—four-fifteen at the latest—they would be circling over my head. I went on searching the horizon, until the breeze stopped and I felt enveloped in a great silence.

Only then did I stop hearing Luis Rengifo’s cry.

At first it seemed impossible that I had been alone at sea for three hours. But at five o’clock, after five hours had passed, it seemed I might have to wait yet another hour. The sun was setting. It got very big and red in the west, and I began to orient myself. Now I knew where the planes would appear: with the sun to my left, I stared straight ahead, not moving, not daring to blink, not diverting my sight for an instant from the direction in which, by my bearings, Cartagena lay. By six o’clock my eyes hurt. But I kept watching. Even after it began to get dark, I watched with stubborn patience. I knew I wouldn’t be able to see the planes, but I would spot their red and green lights heading toward me before I heard the noise of the engines. I wanted to see the lights, forgetting that, in the darkness, no one in the planes would see me. Soon the sky turned red, and I continued to search the horizon. Then it turned a deep violet as I kept watching. To one side of the life
raft, like a yellow diamond in a wine-colored sky, the first star appeared, immobile and perfect. It was like a signal: immediately afterward, night fell.

The first thing I felt, plunged into darkness so thick I could no longer see the palm of my hand, was that I wouldn’t be able to overcome the terror. From the slapping of the waves against the sides, I knew the raft was moving, slowly but inexorably. Sunk in darkness, I realized I hadn’t felt so alone in the daytime. I was more alone in the dark, in a raft that I could no longer see but could feel beneath me, gliding silently over a dense sea filled with strange creatures. To make myself less lonely, I looked at the dial of my watch. It was ten minutes to seven. Much later—it seemed as if two or three hours had passed—it was five minutes to seven. When the minute hand reached twelve, it was exactly seven o’clock and the sky was packed with stars. But to me it seemed that so much time had passed, it should now be nearly dawn. Desperately I went on thinking about the planes.

I started to feel cold. In a life raft it’s impossible to stay dry even for a minute. Even if you are seated on the gunwale, half your body is underwater because the bottom of the raft is shaped like a basket, extending more than half a meter below the surface. By eight o’clock the water was not as cold as the air. I knew that at the bottom of the raft I was safe from sea creatures because the rope mesh that protected the bottom prevented them from coming too close. But that’s what you learn in school, and that’s what you believe in school, when the instructor puts on a demonstration with a scale model of the life raft and you’re seated on a bench among forty classmates at two o’clock in the afternoon. When you’re alone at sea at eight
o’clock at night, and without hope, the instructor’s words make no sense at all. I knew that half of my body was in a realm that didn’t belong to men but to the creatures of the sea, and that despite the icy wind whipping my shirt, I didn’t dare move from the gunwale. According to the instructor, that was the least safe part of the raft. But all things considered, it was only there that I felt far enough away from the creatures: those immense unknown beasts I could hear passing the raft.