Adrift

by Steven Callahan

  DREAM KEEP

  MY TRIGGERFISH proves to resemble a rhinoceros more than a butler. A thick, horny bone protrudes from its back. I pound on the handle butt of my sharp sheath knife, finally driving the point through the skin, which is as tough as cowhide and has a very rough coating that looks like ground-up glass.

  FEBRUARY 17

  DAY 13

  I bury my face in the raw, wet flesh to suck up the brownish-red blood. Intense, revolting bitterness fills my mouth, and I spit it out. Hesitantly, I take an eye into my mouth, crush it between my teeth, and retch. No wonder even sharks steer clear of this fish.

  Because of its tough hide, the little ocean rhino must be cleaned from the outside in—skinned, filleted, and finally gutted. My teeth tear at one, bitter, stringy fillet, tough as the proverbial boot, and I hang the other up to dry. Organ meats, especially the liver, are the only palatable morsels to be found. I think of a movie character who is a cranky, miserable old fart at the beginning, but who is finally understood and loved in the end. I have penetrated the distasteful, tough facade of the triggerfish to discover a savory richness in its inner being.

  Once when I was a small boy in Massachusetts, a hurricane tore across the land. I remember thick oak trees waving about in the wind like blades of grass. My brother had built a sturdy treehouse high atop the limbs of one tree. The storm blew it to pieces. The power of that storm was awesome, but I had heard of stronger forces, atomic forces, that eclipsed such storms. I put five dollars, a jackknife, fishing reel, and associated paraphernalia into a box and secreted it in my desk drawer. If disaster struck, I would be ready. If anyone survived, it would be me. Such are the immortal fantasies of youth.

  The small amount of food is little comfort to my bones, which are beginning to protrude from my atrophied muscles. Worse is a deep emptiness in my soul. I’m an ill-adapted intruder in this domain, and I have murdered one of its citizens. Death may be thrust upon me more quickly, more unexpectedly, even more naturally than it came to this fish. My weak physical and frightened emotional selves fear this. My strong rational self acknowledges that it would be simple justice. As I swallow the sweet liver, I search for a savior across the deserted waves. I am quite alone.

  The gray overcast sky reflects a calm, bleak sea. Yesterday’s sun allowed the solar still to conjure up twenty ounces of fresh water. Its magic will be less potent today. Clouds ease the roasting afternoon sun but deny me maximum water production. Life is full of paradoxes. When the wind blows hard, I move well toward my destination, but I am wet, cold, scared, and in danger of capsizing. When it is calm, I dry out, heal, and fish more easily, but my projected journey lengthens and my encounters with sharks increase. There are no good conditions in a life raft, and no comfortable positions in which to rest. There are only the bad and the worse, the uncomfortable and the less so.

  Quick, hard punches batter my back and legs. It is not a shark, but a dorado. I am not surprised. Their nudging has grown more confident, almost violent, like a boxer’s jab. Time and again they hit where any weight indents the floor of the raft. Perhaps they are feeding on barnacles. The projection makes it easy for them to get at the little nubs of barnacle meat that have begun to grow under me.

  I have missed my targets so many times that I am slow to take aim. Punch, punch—it’s a damned nuisance. The dorados circle in from ahead and take a wide sweep around the raft as if in a bombing pattern. I cannot stand up to watch their final approach and simultaneously ready myself with the spear, so I kneel, awaiting my chance to strike. They shoot out in front, to the side—too wide, too deep.

  Casually I point the gun in the general direction of a swimming body. “Take that!” Thump. The fish lies stunned in the water. I too am stunned. I hoist him aboard. Foam, water, and blood erupt about his flailing tail. His clublike head twists spasmodically. All my strength goes into keeping the spear tip from ripping into my inflated ship as his heavy, thrashing body whips it about. I leap upon him and pin his head down onto the eighth-inch-thick plywood square that serves as my cutting board. A big round eye stares into mine. I feel his pain. The book says press the eyes to paralyze the fish. My captive’s fury increases. Hesitantly I plunge my knife into the socket—even more fury. He’s thrusting loose. Watch the spear tip. There is no time for sympathy. I fumble with my knife, stick it into his side, work it about, find the spine and crack it apart. His body quivers; his gaze dulls with death. I fall back; behold my catch. His body is no longer blue as when in the sea. Instead, my treasure has turned to silver.

  Pandemonium now surrounds the raft. I have noticed that these fish often travel in pairs. My captive’s mate strikes with unmitigated fury. I try to ignore the painful beatings for three hours while I clean my catch.

  I cut the flesh into one-inch-square by six-inch-long strips. These I poke holes through and thread on strings to dry. As evening approaches I throw the head and bones as far away as I can and wash out the blood-soaked sponges as quickly as possible. Sharks can detect a single part of blood per millions of parts water, like smelling out a particular steak dinner among all of the dinner plates in Boston.

  At least thirty fish gather for their nightly escort. They beat at the raft like a lynch mob buzzing with hatred. Silent murmurings reach my ears. “You will pay for your murder, human.”

  I yell back, “Leave me alone, why can’t you just leave me alone?” Time and again I load my spear, jerk the powerful elastic, and blindly fire into their midst below the raft. Many are stung by the point of my argument. My arms tire. The spot on my chest where I rest the butt of the gun while loading is sore. Still, one fish cannot be driven off. Mechanically I eat a slab of her mate as I watch her wheel around in the clear water to strike me again and again. The flesh is not as delicious as I had anticipated. She continues to beat at me into the night. Morning brings a change in flavor. The meat is superb, akin to swordfish or tuna. Perhaps it must age slightly. It deserves better treatment than I can give it, a bit of garlic and lemon, preparation in a proper kitchen. To stop eating is difficult, but I must. A long time may elapse before I catch another fish.

  FEBRUARY 18

  DAY 14

  I sit a thousand miles away from any companionship, money, or luxury, yet I have a feeling of wealth. Fifteen pounds of raw fish dangle from clotheslines that I’ve rigged in one half of the raft. I call it the butcher shop. The solar still is beginning to glisten with condensation, coins tossed to this beggar by the aristocratic sun. It is not much, but the implications of my meager cache are great. Slowly I am evolving a home out of this rubber, string, and steel. My focus is not on any immediate danger but on long-term survival. Hunger has been satisfied, my thirst is tolerable. I can live at least ten days, enough to cover the 220 miles left between me and the shipping lanes. I can rest from fishing. The holes in my knees and rear end may heal by the time I reach the lanes, so I can then keep a closer lookout. Who would believe that I, chronic complainer and impatient man of the ages, would ever look upon a lump of raw fish and a pint of water as wealth?

  Acting like a fisheye mirror, the shiny plastic solar still reflects a bleak sky coming upon the stern. Slowly the clear plastic of the still hazes with condensation, begins to drop its nectar, drip … drip … drip. I reflect on my future. “When I get home I will … I will … I will…”

  I have always been a dreamer. When I was four, my parents gave me a toy castle with bright red and blue uniformed soldiers. The threads of their lives lay in a bundle of plywood and lead from which I could spin many tales. I could make men die and bring them back to life. I could make them paupers or I could make them kings. No matter what the odds, my heroes could win, or die with honor.

  I lower the drawbridge to childhood memories. I had to take naps in those days. I lay upon my bed gazing at yellow summer framed by the window. Shafts of light struck out across the room, particles of dust whirling about in them, riding invisible currents until they drifted off into the shadows. In each speck I saw a whole wor
ld. Years later I would hear of atoms, too small to be seen by men. A galaxy might be an electron in a more immense world. Nothing was beyond possibility. If it could be imagined, it lived. Creations of the mind are not bound by physical laws.

  Physical creation is. I would like to bury my fear, but it is difficult when there is no activity with which to cover it. I must conserve as much energy as I can if I am to live. Every movement burns more fuel in my body’s furnace. Steam rises from my dry skin. I tend the still and watch for ships. I will fish again when the time is right and the probability for success is high. The remaining time I sit quietly and try to divert my mind. I work on design ideas for boats and life rafts that I will complete in my warm, dry office when I return to Maine. Notes on safety systems, cruising boats, business and personal goals, all begin to find their way into my log. I often think of myself as a broker in the futures market.

  I find some reassurance in contemplating multileveled reality. Last night’s hot whole-wheat biscuits were almost as good as the real thing. I’m getting to love dreaming of food, rather than hating its tempting vision. Dreaming is the closest I can get to it, and being close to nourishment and drink is better than nothing.

  I have become both the real and the dream. I now see many worlds surrounding me: the past, present, and future; the conscious and unconscious; the tangible and the imagined. I try to convince myself that it is only the present that is hellish, that all of the other worlds are untouchable, securely unimprisonable. I want desperately to keep these other worlds safe from pain and depression so that I can escape to them whenever I wish. My own propaganda is intoxicating, but I know reality’s sharp, penetrating, dominating qualities. Steven Callahan is not free to leave. Today things flow smoothly, but tomorrow waves may break, crush my spirit, and wash away my dreams.

  As the sky darkens and dusk sweeps across the water, they come. My feet, butt, and arms are beaten, as if I’m being mauled by a gang of hoodlums. For a time I drive the dorados off with a spear, but they always return. Time and again they strike, more and more joining in.

  They have come for me. If I fall into the water, my doggies will devour me. Visions of Hitchcock’s The Birds flash into my mind. Perhaps the fish of the world have held council, have condemned man’s insatiable appetite and exploitation of the sea. Man has justified it by calling it utilization of resources by a superior species. The fish have lost patience with his egotism. I envision sailors’ skeletons picked clean, their vacant eye sockets gazing up toward the flickering surface as they sink into the dark depths. Why do the dorados do this? Why are they in such a frenzy? How can simple fish be so frightening?

  The blanket of night is pulled across the world. Sleep comes to the fish. I can see the school, between thirty and forty dorados, gently pacing the raft. They glow like silver platters on black velvet. Some shimmer up at me, beckoning, from several fathoms below. They await the light, the next round at dawn, and a day’s hunt for flying fish. I close my eyes and drift into other places.

  Whack! A tremendous blow to my back. Snapping slaps race across the floor of the raft like machine-gun fire. The raft leaps completely off the water with a twisted-rubber squeal and crashes back down. Shark attack! I spring to the entrance with weapon in hand. The slapping was a dorado; the shark must have pinned it under the floor. Now he forgets the fish, grabs the raft, and jerks it about by one of the ballast pockets on the other side. I can’t get to him without risking falling overboard. Wait, you must wait. A raspy blow comes from port. Wait, got to wait. It’s as black as hell out, I can’t see anything. There it is. I jab—hit! He thrusts away, turns, attacks. Another blow knocks me off my knees. I wait—damn! He rakes across the bottom toward me. Jab—hit! Again the water swirls and explodes as he turns and knocks me down. Bastard! Wait … Darkness, stillness. I’m trembling all over; I reach for my water bottle and take a few swigs. For an hour each little slap of water or groan of rubber causes me to jump, ready to fend off a new attack. To be out of this … If only…

  Was it only half a day ago that I felt so confident, that I convinced myself that reality was just a small part of my life and that my imagination could give me security? Now it seems that rows of razor teeth and deep, searing sores are all that there is, and I cannot escape from this dismal keep, even in dreams. How slim my chances really are. Perhaps I should simply give up rather than continue this pointless struggle.

  I fight the vision of fourteen hundred miles of wet desert separating me from the first oasis. I try to forget my fear of the attacks. I struggle with my weariness of pumping up the raft and divert my nerves from the caustic cuts on my back and knees. Exhausted, I find sleep for another hour.

  My dreams are broken again by a dorado flapping outside. Grabbing my gun, I rip open the tent flap. There is no attack. The water lies still. My eye catches sparkling lights on the black horizon. A ship!

  She looks to be traveling across my bow, maybe four miles off. I rummage for my flares and gun. I drop in one of the fat red babies and clink the chamber closed. I whisper to her, “Do good by me now,” stand, point the wide barrel to the heavens, and let her rip. An orange sun pops into the sky, belches smoke, and softly illuminates a small parachute as it dangles toward the sea. Swinging in its gentle descent, its light falls as a halo over the bleak waters two hundred feet below.

  The lights of the ship are at a closer angle. I whoop and holler. “She’s seen me!” I wait and then let flare number two fly. My spirits blaze with the light. My weak legs begin to dance. I watch the ship approach. No more sharks! Home! Fresh dorado, queen of the seas, to the crew! I duck inside and begin throwing my knife, water, and goodies into the sack. The ship may leave my raft behind. I at least want my equipment: the only physical things I have left in the world. What a relief to forget about sipping water. I take several healthy swallows as I glance out.

  A fine mist is coming down. The ship is approaching a little to the south of me. Glowing ports and a brightly lit bridge emanate warmth and companionship. Saved! Fourteen days and I’m saved! I fire a third flare. “I’m up here,” I yell. Visions of my rescue race into my mind…

  “Where are you bound?” the trim-bearded captain asks.

  “Looks like wherever you are.”

  “Ha, I guess that’s true enough! Gibraltar is our next stop.”

  I present him with the strings offish. “Sorry to have chopped them up like this. Had I known you were going to pop by for dinner, I’d have sliced them into proper steaks.”

  “I’ve got duties to attend to. You get some rest, and III see you on the bridge when you feel up to it.”

  “I should recover fast. I was in pretty good shape before I left.” I pause and reflect. “I’ve been damned lucky haven’t I? Haven’t I?…”

  The fantasy recedes as I fire off a hand flare. My immediate world is lit up like day. My fish escort can be easily seen through the water. Their bodies smoothly undulate, seemingly oblivious to the idea that their companion will soon disappear. With such a flat sea, perfect visibility, and the ship only a mile off, the watch couldn’t miss seeing me.

  The ship’s bow continues to cut purposefully toward the lightening dawn. Her wake is highlighted as it sweeps astern under her escaping cabin lights. A smooth, roiling path, the rumble of engines, and a plume of smoke trail behind. The mist is heavy now, almost a light rain. My excited heart has been pounding off the cold. Now the sagging of my enthusiasm allows this chill to creep under my skin. Dark bands of clouds are lit by the rising sun just under the horizon. I set off another hand flare, still confident that I have been seen. Wakes from the ship rock the raft, and I ride them out still standing. He’ll turn and approach to windward. As the flare dies, a tall burning ember, like a devil’s fire cone, stands in my hand. I throw it down, smoking and sizzling as it hits the surface, then groaning and boiling as it sinks into the depths.

  There is a faint smell of diesel in the air. Perhaps I have a last chance. Someone may be on the afterdeck. I fire a fo
urth parachute flare. Then I collapse. She’s missed me.

  Fool, fool, damn fool! You have wasted six flares, count ‘em, six, you turkey! The water bottle shows that you have downed a pint of hard-won stock. You were cocky; you were wasteful; you confused dreams with reality.

  A light, frigid shower falls upon my body as I stand and watch the horizon until only a wisp of smoke can be seen. I should have realized that I wouldn’t be saved by the first ship to pass my way. The Baileys had to wait until the eighth. It is not good business to bank on a check that is supposedly in the mail. I will be saved only when I feel the steel of a deck under my feet.

  Dougal Robertson said not to count on shipping: “Rescue will come as a welcome interruption of … the survival voyage.” Typical bloody British understatement! Ranting and raving is my style! After a few minutes, my Irish fire is as cooled and drowned as the dead flare, now a mile below me.

  FEBRUARY 19

  DAY 15

  Things could be worse, I suppose. Perhaps he did see me and will radio for air assistance. I flip on the EPIRB. I doubt an aircraft will arrive, but I may be closer to shipping than I expected. My spirits are good enough to be cynical, even if I’m not smiling. I chide myself—no coffee for this morning’s breakfast; dreadful state of affairs.

  Will rescue come before another shark attack? Hopes. Hopes. But I face the reality that I will probably have to battle with more sharks. Since losing Solo, I have tried to save my energy, but the thoughts that bounce around in my brain are wearing me down. I’m too aware of how full of cliches my thoughts seem to be, the cliches one would expect from a struggling survivor. There are the promises to the cosmos that if only I am let out of this mess, I’ll surely be good from now on. There are the constant dreams of food and drink, the aching loneliness, the fear. How I would like to take command of my situation, to entertain myself with enlightened thought, to heroically forget pain and fear, to keep control. Perhaps that kind of heroism exists only in novels. If there is any enlightenment that I have been awakened to, it is that men’s minds are dominated by their little aches and pains. We want to think that we are more than that, that we control our lives with our intellect. But now, without civilization clouding the issue, I wonder to what extent intellect is controlled by instinct and culture is the result of raw gut reactions to life. I was brought up with the idea that I could do anything, be anything, survive anything. I want to believe it, try to believe it.