Adrift (6 page)

The thin rubber floor ripples and rolls, as if it were a waterbed being jumped upon by two sizable kangaroos. Kneeling, I hang on with one hand while using the coffee can to bail with the other. The floor sags around my knees. Bilge-water rivers run toward the sags; I intercept them with the can. Each time I finish there is another convulsion, another flooding of my cave, and the whole process begins again. The work is warming but fatiguing. There is no rest. The continual motion and the stench of rubber, glue, and talc from the new raft nauseate me, but I am too exhausted to throw up.

The ocean persists, monotonously bombarding us. Please don't knock us over; I can't survive a capsize. If I am thrown into the sea I will shiver until the earth quakes. My lips will turn blue, my skin white. My grasp will loosen. The sea will fold her blanket over me for one last time, and I will sleep forever. So I keep my weight and my gear on the side of the attack to aid stability, grasp the handline tight, and listen. My face feels permanently carved into a worried frown. In the dark I imagine a skullish face without comfort or compassion staring into my own. The sounds of the sea are like gun blasts, and I drift in and out of semiconscious dreams of war.

FEBRUARY 5
DAY
1

Finally blackness yields to gray. Colors begin to blossom. Morning sun sneaks into my dungeon and brings me a glimmer of hope. I have survived the night. The coming of day has never meant so much; but the gale rages on. I've often experienced gales at sea, but belowdecks there has always been a separation, if slight, from the storm. This tempest rages within the raft as well as out. The flapping of the wind-beaten tent accompanies the ripping of the useless Velcro seal and the rattling of the entry closure. Water spews through the air. I sit in a submerged sponge, as the raft bounces its way across the heaving Atlantic.

Should I turn on the Emergency Position-Indicating Radio Beacon? The EPIRB has a range of 250 miles. It is rated to operate for seventy-two hours. Then the range will decrease until the battery dies. A commercial airline can hear its silent cry for help and send a search plane to home in on the radio beam. Ships in the vicinity are then notified. I
will
be saved.

Who am I kidding? I'm 800 miles west of the Canaries, 450 miles north of the Cape Verde Islands, and some 450 miles east of the nearest major shipping lane. Flights to the islands probably come by way of Europe and Africa. I had never seen a plane traveling to or from the Canaries across my current position. My chart shows no major African city that would attract intercontinental air traffic anywhere within 450 miles. There is no one to hear me.

I flip on the EPIRB switch anyway ... just in case I'm wrong. I hope I'm wrong. Recently, a trimaran named
Boatfile
capsized and sank. The life raft was torn to pieces, leaving the crew bobbing in the open Atlantic in nothing but their survival suits. But the EPIRB that they hung on to brought help in a matter of hours. Two men in an immense and tossing sea were found and picked up. The knowledge of the EPIRB's efficacy raises my spirits somewhat, but in the back of my mind I have nagging doubts that anyone will hear mine. What about the Robertsons? In 1972 their nineteen-ton, forty-three-foot schooner was rammed and sunk by a whale. The family of five, plus one crew member, spent the next thirty-eight days adrift. Their inflatable raft lasted only seventeen days, but fortunately they also had a solid dinghy.

Worse yet, what about the Baileys? Like the Robertsons, their heavy cruiser was sunk by a whale and they were set adrift in the same area of the Pacific in two boats, both inflatable. The Baileys were rescued after 119 days,
nearly four months!
They are the only people to have survived longer than forty days in an inflatable raft; it is encouraging, though, to remember that both rafts lasted the entire ordeal.

What if my EPIRB is not heard? What if ships are scarce in the oceanic highways? Even if conditions are steady, it may take ninety days to reach the Caribbean, well over a hundred days if I'm swept north of eighteen degrees latitude. From Hierro I wrote to my parents that I might arrive in Antigua as late as March 10, thirty-four days from now. No one will search for me before then, if they ever search at all. Just one other man in history has survived alone and adrift for over a month. Poon Urn lived in a solid raft for an astounding 130 days after his ship was torpedoed during World War II. One hundred and thirty days! Don't think about it. Twenty days ... Someone will see me within twenty days. A chart of normal air traffic routes would be most useful to determine when to use the EPIRB. I'll leave it on for thirty hours. That'll allow any daily flight twenty-four hours to hear, and six hours for search aircraft to reach me.

What kept the Baileys, the Robertsons, and Poon Urn alive? Experience, preparation, equipment, and luck. I'm doing well on the first three counts. Although most of the others started with more food and water than I have, I am well equipped with fishing gear. Although all of the others were adrift in areas of frequent rainfall, I have solar stills. I also have the benefit of their experience, especially the Robertsons', for I carry the survival book that Dougal Robertson wrote. Perhaps my biggest worry is that I have no replacement or backup for my single rubber raft. It will take extreme luck to keep it together for more than a month. I remember a film I saw when I was young,
You Make Your Luck.
I've got to do the best I can, the very best. I cannot shirk or procrastinate. I cannot withdraw. That torn blue desert outside will not accommodate me. I have often hidden things from myself. I have sometimes fooled other people. But Nature is not such a dolt. I may be lucky enough to be forgiven some mistakes, the ones that don't matter, but I can't count on luck. Yet even if I show the skill and determination of the Baileys or Robertsons, I may die. How many others with greater skill and more determination have not returned to tell their tale?

Any loss of equipment can hammer the last nail into my coffin. Without water I can last a maximum of ten days. Without the air pump my raft will deflate and I'll last only hours. Should I lose even bits of paper or plastic, I might be unable to make a repair or device that could spell the difference between life and death. I double-tie my emergency equipment duffel to the lifelines. Into it I put every item of primary importance, especially the air pump. The raft requires periodic topping up. It slowly leaks air, primarily as the sun heats the black tubes and excess pressure is released through the valves. There is a small foot pump, similar to those used to blow up air matresses, with a long hose that plugs into the valves. It seems an odd pump for a raft, because one cannot stand up to pump it and the rippling floor is not solid enough to press the pump against it by hand. Instead, I grasp it with my hands and squeeze, feeling lucky that my hands are relatively large and strong.

The original raft equipment bag is tied to tabs on the floor. To make my home more secure and keep the interior warm, I cut holes in the tent flap, poke through bits of line, and tie the flap shut. I can do no more except conserve energy, hope the EPIRB is heard, and take stock of my surroundings.

The change from my dry, well-equipped little ship,
Napoleon Solo,
is staggering, unbelievable. Perhaps it is a nightmare from which I will awaken. But the water beating up under my back, the wind howling above me, the waves crashing around me, the cold, soaking caress of my bed, smack of reality with a clarity I've not known before.

Another eternity of night passes and the thirtieth hour arrives. I turn off the EPIRB. I did not think it would work. My next opportunity will be when I reach New York-South Africa shipping lanes. Air traffic routes often follow shipping lanes. But this lane will give me a poor chance at best, since New York to South Africa is a very long way to fly direct. By the time I am within range of the lanes, however, poor chances may look promising. Even if the EPIRB isn't picked up by a jet, I may be spotted by ships in the lanes. I figure it's a one-in-a-million shot to reach the lanes and another one-in-a-million to get spotted once I get there.

FEBRUARY
6
DAY
2

Often I think I hear a low hum that sounds like a plane. I get up and look about. Nothing. Wind fills my ears. Nothing. Back inside, the noise is sometimes distinct; I feel sure it is not my imagination. I turn on the EPIRB again for several hours, then operate it periodically until thirty-six hours of use have passed. Save the rest. It must not be a plane. It must be the wind blowing on the raft's tubes. This constant phantom voice is a reminder of how little I can see from my little cave. I wonder how many ships and planes will pass me unawares?

I rip open a tin of peanuts and eat them slowly, savoring each nut. It is February 6, my birthday. This is not quite the meal I had planned. I have lived a nice, round thirty years. What have I to show for it? I write my own epitaph.

STEVEN CALLAHAN
FEBRUARY
6, 1952
FEBRUARY
6, 1982
Dreamed
Drew Pictures
Built Boats
Died

All that I have accomplished in life seems very trite and offers as little comfort as the bare horizon outside.

For three days the gale howls. Waves glitter in the sun and the wind blows white beards of froth down their blue chests. During the day the sun brings a small spot of warmth to my frigid world. At night the wind and sea rear up more viciously. Even in these subtropical conditions, the water temperature falls below sixty-five degrees, so I risk dying from hypothermia before the sun rises. Naked and sore, wrapped in clammy foil and a sodden sleeping bag, I shiver and can sleep only in snatches, as my whole world rumbles and shakes. Waves breaking nearby and on the raft actually sound like cannon shot.

Continually drenched with salt water, my skin has broken out with hundreds of boils. They multiply quickly under my wet T-shirt and sleeping bag. Gouges and abrasions cover my lower spine, butt, and knees. They are foul, but I suppose they are clean. I'm often awakened with the searing pain of salt burning their putrid tenderness. The raft is too small for me to stretch out in, so I must rest curled up on my side. At least this helps to keep the cuts dry.

I discover two small holes in the floor, which explains the constant dribble of water into the raft. I probably sat on my knife when I abandoned ship. That would also explain some of the lacerations in my lower back. The patching kit contains glue and pieces of raft material. The instructions tell me to make sure the raft is dry before applying patches to it. Good joke! I plug the holes with small pieces of plastic and lumps of glue from the patching kit, and the floor is momentarily dry. But beads of water find their way around the plugs; the glue doesn't adhere to damp rubber. After three attempts and two hours of work, using tape, Band-Aids, and a lighter, I finally get a patch to stick, more or less. With the continuous thrashing and incessant wetness, I can't be assured it will hold but the relative dryness lifts my spirits. Now that I can slowly dry out, life within these rubber walls improves considerably. I have risen, if briefly, from my death bed.

I have seen many cruisers that travel with a minimum amount of emergency gear. I am prepared better than most. The raft's equipment bag is packed with:

• Six pints of water in tins with a couple of plastic lids. I can use them as storage containers later.

• Two short plywood paddles. I'm not about to stroke to the Caribbean, but I may be able to use them to drive off sharks.

• Two hand-launched parachute flares, three hand-held red flares, and two hand-held orange smoke flares.

• Two sponges.

• A folding radar reflector made to be mounted on a pole. There is no pole. And even
Solo,
with two reflectors fifteen feet off the deck, was not always picked up on radar, so I doubt the utility of this object.

• Two solar distillation units: solar stills.

• Two can openers, a broken medicine cup, and seasickness pills.

• A first aid kit, the contents of which are the only dry thing in the bag.

• A rubber collapsible basin.

• A 100-foot,
¹
/
₈
-inch polypropylene heaving line.

• Survival charts, protractor, pencil, and eraser.

• A flashlight and two signal mirrors.

• Raft patching kit: glue, rubber patches, and conical, screwlike plugs.

• So-called fishing kit: fifty feet of twine and one medium hook.

Also tied to the raft is a dull-tipped knife. The theory is that the raft won't be accidentally punctured. However, the blade won't cut much of anything. Cleaning a fish with it would be tantamount to operating with a baseball bat.

I am very glad to have my own emergency duffel. In it I have:

• A Tupperware box with pencils, dime-store pads of paper, plastic mirrors, protractor, sheath knife, pocket knife, stainless-steel utensil kit, sail twine, hooks, codline,
³
/
₁₆
-inch line, two chemical light sticks, and the book
Sea Survival,
by Dougal Robertson. The contents of the box are the only other dry things in the raft.

• Space blanket, now unpacked—the foil in which I wrap myself. The shiny, thin foil traps body heat and reflects it back onto the person it covers.

• Plastic bags.

• Another solar still.

• Some plugs made of pine for patching holes.

• Another 100-foot heaving line.

• Assorted stainless-steel shackles.

• Assorted line: approximately 100 feet of
¹
/
₈
inch, 100 feet of
¹
/
₄
inch, plus the 70 feet of
³
/
₈
inch tied to the man-overboard pole, which trails astern.

• The EPIRB, now unpacked.

• A Very pistol with twelve red parachute flares, three red meteor flares, two hand-held orange smoke flares, three hand-held red flares, one hand-held white flare.