Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor (9 page)

I had no quarrel with my luck. If the raft had overturned at five o’clock in the evening, the sharks would have torn me to pieces. But at midnight they’re quiet. And even more so when the sea is stirred up.

When I sat down in the raft again, I was clutching the oar that the shark had demolished. Everything had happened so quickly that all my movements had been instinctive. Later I remembered that when I fell in the water the oar hit my head and I grabbed it when I began to sink. It was the only oar left on the raft. The others had disappeared.

So as not to lose even this small stick, half destroyed by the shark, I tied it securely with a loose rope from the mesh flooring. The sea was still raging. This time I had been lucky. If the raft overturned again, I might not be able to reach it. With that in mind, I undid my belt and lashed myself to the mesh floor.

The waves crashed over the side. The raft danced on the turbulent sea, but I was secure, tied to the ropes by my belt. The oar was also secure. As I worked to ensure that the raft wouldn’t overturn again, I realized I had nearly lost my shirt and shoes. If I hadn’t been so cold, they would have been at the bottom of the raft, together with the other two oars, when it overturned.

It’s perfectly normal for a raft to overturn in rough seas. The vessel is made of cork and covered with water-proof fabric painted white. But the bottom isn’t rigid; it hangs from the cork frame like a basket. If the raft turns over in the water, the bottom immediately returns to its normal position. The only danger is in losing the raft. For that reason, I figured that as long as I was tied to it, the raft could turn over a thousand times without my losing it.

That was a fact. But there was one thing I hadn’t foreseen. A quarter of an hour after the first one, the raft did a second spectacular somersault. First I was suspended in the icy, damp air, whipped by the gale. Then I saw hell right before my eyes: I realized which way the raft would turn over. I tried to move to the opposite side to provide equilibrium, but I was bound to the ropes by the thick leather belt. Instantly I realized what was happening: the raft had overturned completely. I was at the bottom, lashed firmly to the rope webbing. I was drowning; my hands searched frantically for the belt buckle to open it.

Panic-stricken but trying not to become confused, I thought how to undo the buckle. I knew I hadn’t wasted much time: in good physical condition I could stay underwater more than eighty seconds. As soon as I had found
myself under the raft, I had stopped breathing. That was at least five seconds gone. I ran my hand around my waist and in less than a second, I think, I found the belt. In another second I found the buckle. It was fastened to the ropes in such a way that I had to push myself away from the raft with my other hand to release it. I wasted time looking for a place to grab hold. Then I pushed off with my left hand. My right hand grasped the buckle, oriented itself quickly, and loosened the belt. Keeping the buckle open, I lowered my body toward the bottom, without letting go of the side, and in a fraction of a second I was free of the ropes. I felt my lungs gasping for breath. With one last effort, I grabbed the side with both hands and pulled with all my strength, still not breathing. Bringing my full weight to bear on it, I succeeded in turning the raft over again. But I was still underneath it.

I was swallowing water. My throat, ravaged by thirst, burned terribly. But I barely noticed. The important thing was not to let go of the raft. I managed to raise my head to the surface. I breathed. I was so tired. I didn’t think I had the strength to lift myself over the side. But I was terrified to be in the same water that had been infested with sharks only hours before. Absolutely certain it would be the final effort of my life, I called on my last reserves of energy, leaped over the side, and fell exhausted into the bottom of the raft.

I don’t know how long I lay there, face up, with my throat burning and my raw fingertips throbbing. But I do know I was concerned with only two things: that my lungs quiet down and that the raft not turn over again.

That was how my eighth day at sea dawned. The morning was stormy. If it had rained, I wouldn’t have had the strength to collect drinking water. I thought rain would revive me, but not a drop fell, even though the humidity in the air was like an announcement of imminent rain. The sea was still choppy at daybreak. It didn’t calm down until after eight, but then the sun came out and the sky turned an intense blue again.

Completely spent, I lay down at the side of the raft and took a few swallows of sea water. I now know that it’s not harmful to the body. But I didn’t know it then, and I only resorted to it when the pain in my throat became unbearable. After seven days at sea, thirst is a feeling unto itself; it’s a deep pain in the throat, in the sternum, and especially beneath the clavicles. And it’s also the fear of suffocating. The sea water relieved the pain.

After a storm the sea turns blue, as in pictures. Near the shore, tree trunks and roots torn up by the storm float gently along. Gulls emerge to fly over the water. That morning, when the breeze died down, the surface of the water turned metallic and the raft glided along in a straight line. The warm wind felt reassuring to my body and my spirit.

A big old dark gull flew over the raft. I had no doubt then that I was near land. The sea gull I had captured a few days earlier was a young bird. At that age they can fly great distances—they can be found many miles into the interior. But an old sea gull, big and heavy like the one I had just seen, couldn’t fly a hundred miles from shore.
I felt renewed strength. As I had done on the first days, I began to search the horizon again. Vast numbers of sea gulls came from every direction.

I had company and I was happy. I wasn’t hungry. More and more frequently I took drinks of sea water. I wasn’t lonely in the midst of the immense number of sea gulls circling over my head. I remembered Mary Address. What had become of her? I wondered, remembering her voice when she translated the dialogue for me at the movies. In fact, on that day—the only one on which I had thought of Mary Address for no reason at all, and surely not because the sky was full of sea gulls—Mary was at a Catholic church in Mobile hearing a mass for the eternal rest of my soul. That mass, as Mary later wrote to me in Cartagena, was celebrated on the eighth day of my disappearance. It was for the repose of my soul, but I now think it was also for the repose of my body, for that morning, while I thought about Mary Address and she attended mass in Mobile, I was happy at sea, watching the sea gulls that proved land was near.

I spent almost all day sitting on the side of the raft, searching the horizon. The day was startlingly clear, and I was certain I saw land once from a distance of fifty miles. The raft had assumed a speed that two men with oars couldn’t have equaled. It moved in a straight line, as if propelled by a motor along the calm, blue surface.

After spending seven days on a raft one can detect the slightest change in the color of the water. On March 7, at three-thirty in the afternoon, I noticed that the raft had reached an area where the water wasn’t blue, but dark green. There was a definite demarcation: on one side was the blue water I had been seeing for seven days; on the other, green water that looked denser. The sky was full of
sea gulls flying very low. I could hear them flapping over my head. The signs were unmistakable: the change in the color of the water and the abundance of sea gulls told me I should keep a vigil that night, alert for the first lights of shore.

10
H
ope
A
bandoned
 … U
ntil
D
eath

I didn’t have to force myself to go to sleep on my eighth night at sea. At nine o’clock the old sea gull perched on the side of the raft and stayed there all night long. I lay down against the only remaining oar. The night was calm and the raft moved forward in a straight line toward a definite point. Where am I going? I asked myself, convinced by all the signs—the color of the ocean, the old sea gull—that I would be ashore the next day. I hadn’t the slightest idea where the raft was headed, driven by the wind.

I wasn’t sure whether the raft had stayed on its original course. If it had followed the route the planes flew, it was likely to end up in Colombia. But without a compass it was impossible to know. If it had traveled south in a straight line, it would undoubtedly land on the Caribbean coast of Colombia. But it was also possible that it had traveled
northward. If that was the case, I had no idea of my position at all.

Before midnight, as I was beginning to fall asleep, the old sea gull came over and pecked me on the head. It didn’t hurt. The bird pecked me gently, without injuring my scalp. It seemed as if it were caressing me. I remembered the gunnery officer on the destroyer who had told me it was undignified for a sailor to kill a sea gull, and I felt remorseful about the little one that I had killed for no good reason.

I searched the horizon until dawn. It wasn’t cold that night. But I saw no lights. There was no sign of the coastline. The raft slipped along on a clear, calm sea, but all around me there were no lights other than the stars. When I remained completely still, the sea gull seemed to be asleep. It lowered its head as it perched on the side and kept perfectly motionless for a long time. But as soon as I moved, it gave a little start and pecked my head.

At dawn I changed position, so that the sea gull was now at my feet. Then I felt it peck my shoes. It moved along the gunwale. I kept still; the sea gull also kept still. Then it perched on my head, still not moving. But as soon as I moved my head, it began to peck my hair, almost tenderly. It became a game. I changed position several times. And each time, the sea gull moved to where my head was. At daybreak, without having to move cautiously, I reached out and grabbed it by the neck.

I had no intention of killing it. My experience with the other sea gull proved that it would be a useless sacrifice. I was hungry, but I gave no thought to appeasing my hunger with that friendly bird, who had accompanied me all through the night and had done me no harm. When I
grabbed it, it stretched its wings, shook itself briskly, and tried to free itself. Quickly I folded its wings across its neck, to prevent it from moving. Then it raised its head and in the first light of morning I saw its eyes, transparent and fearful. Even if I had had any thought of dismembering it, I would have changed my mind when I saw its enormous sad eyes.

The sun rose early and was so strong that the air was boiling by seven o’clock. I was still lying down, clutching the gull tightly. The sea was still dense and green as on the previous day, but there was no sign of shore in any direction. The air was suffocating, so I let go of my prisoner. The gull shook its head and took off like a shot into the sky. A moment later it rejoined the flock.

The sun that morning was much harsher than it had been all the other days. Although I had taken care not to let my lungs be exposed to it, my whole back was blistered. I had to remove the oar on which I had been resting and submerge myself because I could no longer bear the wood touching my back. My shoulders and arms were seared. I couldn’t even touch the skin with my fingers because they felt like red-hot coals. My eyes burned. I couldn’t focus on anything because the air would fill with blinding bright circles. Until that day I had not realized the sorry state I was in. I was worn out, blistered by the salt and the sun. With no effort at all I pulled large sheets of skin off my arms; underneath there was a smooth red surface. A moment later I felt a painful throbbing of the bare patch, and blood spurted through the pores.

I hadn’t noticed my beard. I hadn’t shaved in eleven days. A thick beard grew down to my throat, but I couldn’t touch it because the skin, irritated by the sun, hurt terribly.
The thought of my emaciated face and wounded body reminded me of all I had suffered during those days of solitude and desperation. And again I despaired. There was no sign of the coast. It was midday and I had lost all hope of reaching land. Even if the raft covered a great distance, it couldn’t possibly reach shore by twilight if I hadn’t seen the coastline by now.

A sense of happiness that had taken twelve hours to develop disappeared without a trace in one minute. My strength ebbed. I ceased all effort. For the first time in nine days I slept face down, with my burning back exposed to the sun. I did it without pity for my body. I knew that if I stayed that way until nightfall I would die.

At some point, you no longer feel pain. Sensation disappears and reason is dulled, until you lose all grasp of time and place. Face down in the raft, with my arms resting on the gunwale and my beard on my arms, I felt the sun’s merciless bite. For hours the air was filled with luminous spots. Finally exhausted, I closed my eyes, but then the sun no longer burned my body. I was neither hungry nor thirsty. I felt nothing, other than complete indifference to life or death. I thought I was dying. And that thought filled me with a strange, dim hope.