Gold of the Gods

by Bear Grylls

  'We're in luck,' he whispered as the twins dragged the raft from its hiding place under a clump of palm trees near the water's edge. 'The breeze is strong and it's blowing offshore so it should be easy to get clear of the bay. But no more talking now until we're at sea.'

  Working in silence and following the instructions Beck had given them earlier, the crew of the Bella Señora dragged the raft down a short strip of sand to where the waves were breaking on the beach. As they reached the water, Christina felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end: a dark shape was swooping out of the jungle towards her. She ducked as it swerved around her head and Ringo came to rest on top of the mast.

  'Looks like we've got a stowaway already,' muttered Beck. 'Who said he could come anyway?'

  'He's our mascot,' said Marco.

  'Always best to have stocks of fresh meat for the larder, I suppose,' replied Beck, eyeing up Ringo, who put his head on one side and glared at Beck suspiciously.

  As Christina climbed onto the raft, Beck and Marco swung the hamper into place beside the mast before Beck waded into the surf, dragging the raft behind him. Steadying it from the beach end, Marco followed behind. As Beck had warned, launching a raft from the beach at night was not going to be easy.

  As he dragged the raft into the surf, the words of the famous Beaufort Scale came into his mind. He had learned it as a child on a sailing holiday in Cornwall with his dad. Invented by an admiral called Beaufort around the time of the Battle of Trafalgar in 1805, it helped sailors guess the strength of the wind from the telltale signs of the sea. Flat calm – 'sea like a mirror' – was force zero, while a hurricane – 'air is filled with foam and spray' – was a force twelve.

  Beck looked out to sea, where the wind was already blowing spume off the tops of the waves. 'Many white horses are formed. A chance of some spray,' he chanted. A force five at least, he guessed.

  The secret was to drag the raft to the point beyond where the waves were breaking – as far as they could before the water became too deep to stand in. By the time Beck was in a position to hold the raft steady, the water was already over his shoulders and he could taste the salt water in his throat.

  The rip of the undertow sucked at his legs and he knew he would not be able to continue walking on the bottom for much longer. 'Now!' he bellowed as, flexing every muscle in their bodies, he and Marco dragged themselves onto the raft.

  As Beck had instructed, Christina clung onto the tiller for all she was worth to keep the raft pointing out to sea. If a wave caught them side on now, all their efforts would be in vain and they would be swept back up onto the beach.

  And then suddenly the rocking movement of the raft began to ease as the breeze caught the sail and they began moving smoothly out to sea. Within minutes the beach had disappeared into the inky blackness as a silver trail of moonlight stretched out across the Caribbean Sea.

  'There's no way back now,' shouted Beck in triumph. 'Lost City, here we come!'

  As if in mocking answer to his cry, the crew felt a shudder. The raft stopped dead in its tracks as the surf surged and fell beneath them. For an instant it seemed to hover in mid-air. Then a surge of water picked them up and threw the raft sideways, knocking the crew onto the deck.

  'We've hit a reef !' screamed Marco. 'Hold on, hold on!'

  Ringo cawed and circled overhead. Christina felt water under her feet as she clutched desperately at the tiller to avoid being swept overboard. Beck and Marco were clinging to the mast for dear life. And then, just inches from Beck's outstretched hand, the hamper began to slide slowly across the deck.

  Slipping this way and then that as the raft juddered against the reef, for a moment the hamper looked as if it might have wedged itself between two strips of bamboo. But as Marco made a final despairing lunge, a wave swept it into the foaming surf beyond the despairing clutch of his fingers.

  And then suddenly it was all over. The deck was level once more and the shuddering ceased. Beck felt for the machete, still safely attached around his waist. The swell beneath them settled into a gentle undulating motion and the raft was sailing sweetly towards the open sea. Behind them they could see the froth of white water over the jagged peaks of the reef from which they had so narrowly escaped.

  The Bella Señora was sailing safely once more.

  But the hamper – and all its contents – was gone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The crew of the Bella Señora lay exhausted on the deck. Like a horse let loose from its stable, after a flurry of bucking and tossing its head, the raft was moving smoothly at last. The sail, stretched tight like a balloon, reminded Beck of the belly of one of Uncle Al's beer-drinking friends, and soon the stiff breeze had blown them beyond the headland of the bay.

  Beck held the tiller while the twins sat on either side, holding the vines that controlled the sail. No one spoke. Even Ringo had stopped cawing and was perched, still as a statue, at the top of the mast. Only the slap-slap, gurgle-gurgle of the waves broke the silence. The loss of the hamper with all their provisions for two days at sea was a terrible blow.

  It wasn't the lack of food that worried Beck. Humans, he knew, could survive for up to three weeks without eating. And there would be plenty of jungle food once they were back on land again. But the loss of the water container was serious. They would lose water from their bodies quickly in the hot sun, and drinking sea water would be fatal. Their kidneys would be poisoned by the salt and afterwards each little swallow would feel like their throats were being scraped with sandpaper.

  But now was not the time to worry the twins. And besides, he had another confession to make. 'It's my fault,' he said at last. 'I should have checked that the hamper was properly lashed to the mast.' He winced and closed his eyes. 'And there's something else you should know.' The twins gazed questioningly back at him. 'The GPS slipped out of my pocket. I had it tied to my belt but the coral must have sliced through the string when we hit the reef.'

  A brooding silence fell over the crew. Then Beck laughed. An ear-splitting guffaw that caused the startled Ringo to jump from his perch and fly in circles around the raft. He came to rest again on the edge of the deck, as far from Beck as he could get without landing in the sea.

  'Come on, guys. Look on the bright side. Things can only get better,' Beck pleaded. 'Uncle Al says the first rule of survival is to keep smiling. If you're still alive, there's always hope. Once me and Dad survived for five days on a raft much smaller than this one. Dad was on a mission on the Green Warrior and we were attacked by pirates in the South China Sea. We had to live off rainwater and fish until we made it to land.'

  'Yes, but how do we navigate without a GPS?' asked Christina, unable to disguise the catch of fear in her voice. Her question hung accusingly in the night air.

  'With the stars and the moon,' replied Beck. 'The first sailors crossed huge oceans on rafts just like this one. And I'm pretty certain they didn't have a GPS.'

  He pointed up into the inky darkness, where the stars sparkled like diamonds in the night sky. 'Each one of those little pinpricks of light is a sun just like ours,' he went on. 'But our ancestors didn't know that. What they saw were their gods striding about the sky. Men, horses, fishes – all the creatures of the jungle. Beats telly any day.'

  'But how does that help us find our way to the Lost City?' asked Marco, unconvinced.

  'According to Gonzalo's map, we need to keep sailing east from here. So as long as we know which way is north, it's easy,' Beck explained.

  'But which way is north?' asked Christina, a note of exasperation in her voice. 'I can hardly tell which way is up or down. There's nothing but sea, sea and more sea out here. We're on a floating prison surrounded by nothing but water.'

  'There's one star that never moves,' said Beck. 'It's like there's a huge maypole in the sky and the rest of the stars dance around it. And that one solitary star is always pointing north. And guess what?'

  'What?' said Marco, sounding cross now.

  'It's cal
led the North Star, dumbo,' said Beck.

  'Yes, but how do you know which one it is?' shot back Marco. They gazed up at the pinpricks of light that twinkled in the velvety darkness. 'There are millions of them. It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack.'

  'More like a grain of salt in a sugar bowl,' said Christina. She took a deep lungful of the cool night air and sighed. 'Sometimes at home I just lie on my back on the lawn and stare up at the sky. It makes me feel so tiny. I wish we were . . .' Her voice tailed off.

  'You've got to think of the night sky like a friend, not a like a bogeyman out to get you,' said Beck. 'But you have to get to know it first.' He pointed up into the darkness and traced a pattern across the sky with his outstretched finger. 'The Plough – Ursa Major – call it what you like. It's one of the easiest constellations in the sky to find. It looks like an old-fashioned plough.'

  'Looks more like a saucepan to me,' said Christina. She paused and stared up at the heavens with her head on one side. 'But I see what you mean now. And I suppose "the Plough" does sound a bit more poetic than "the Saucepan".'

  Now Beck was tracing a W in the sky not far to the left of the Plough. 'Cassiopeia,' he said before the twins could ask. 'Draw one imaginary line through the central point of the W and another between the two stars that make the outer edge of the saucepan. And that's it. Where the two lines meet is the North Star. If we sail towards that, we'll eventually arrive at the North Pole.'

  'But we're trying to find the Lost City, not the North Pole,' said Marco.

  'No problem,' Beck replied. 'We know the Sierra Nevada mountains are directly east of Cartagena so all we need to do is sail . . . thataway.' He pointed at right angles to the star. 'Which happens to be exactly the direction the current is taking us.'

  For the second time that night, Christina had reason to be thankful for Beck's quiet reassurance and the panic in her stomach at last began to subside. It seemed incredible that this schoolboy Brit, only a few months older than the twins, had learned so much about nature and how to survive against all the odds. But her eyelids were beginning to droop now as the night drew on.

  Beck let the twins sleep as the Bella Señora sailed on into the night. Hours later, Christina woke with a start. Something slimy had brushed against her face and she let out a stifled cry. Whatever it was had tangled itself up in her hair. Flapping her arms and shaking her head wildly from side to side, she desperately tried to brush the creature free. But just when she thought it had gone, something else was moving against her legs. And then her arm. And then her face again. A torrent of slime was raining out of the sky.

  And then, as suddenly as it had begun, everything was still. Christina peered nervously out through the gaps in her fingers, which were now clasped tightly around her face. It was already light and the sun, like a giant tangerine, was slowly rising above the horizon. There was a weak sound of slapping all around the deck.

  This time it was Beck's turn to collapse in helpless laughter at the twins' discomfort. 'Sorry to wake you,' he said. 'I thought you might like room service for breakfast, but it arrived a bit sooner than I thought.'

  Five flying fish lay on the deck, their mouths opening and closing as their wings flapped vainly in the silent spasms of their death throes. Marco made a grab for one as the creature made a last attempt to spread its wings and fly before falling lifeless to the deck.

  'Hit them over the head with the machete handle,' shouted Beck, handing it over. 'It'll put them out of their misery.'

  Marco floundered around the deck on his mission of mercy as Christina watched in silent horror. Finally all five fish lay still.

  Beck calmly picked up the nearest one and drew the wings apart. 'Flying fish actually have four wings,' he explained, as if he were a teacher in a school biology lesson. He laid the fish in front of the twins. 'When they're chased, they accelerate through the water. Then, when they reach the surface, they spread their wings and just glide over the top of the waves. Neat way to escape, huh? Unless you end up landing on a passing raft, of course. Feeling hungry?'

  Christina was looking at Beck in disbelief. 'You're not really suggesting we should eat these things, are you? Raw?'

  'Not the guts, of course,' said Beck. 'Although we can always use those for bait or suncream.' He looked towards the horizon, shielding his eyes against the giant orb of the sun. 'And we're going to need some today by the looks of it.' Lining up the fish carcasses, he carefully removed the wings. 'I'm not sure what we can do with these, to be honest.'

  'Maybe stitch them together and make our own wings,' said Christina. 'Then we could fly to the Lost City. It would be a bit quicker than this.'

  Ignoring her, Beck picked up the machete and, with quick swipes of the blade, expertly removed the heads one by one. Then, after slicing the blade through the soft white underbelly of each fish in turn, he pushed his finger inside the cavity so that the guts flopped onto the deck with a liquid squelching sound.

  'Now that's what I call bait,' said Beck with a satisfied smile as he sifted through the gooey mass. 'And the oil from the livers is brilliant for sunscreen. We'll dry them in the sun and it'll be better than anything you can buy in the shops. It's full of vitamin D. That's what protects your skin against the sun. And it rubs on nicely. Smells a bit but great when it's do or die. Factor twenty at least, I reckon.'

  'Yuck,' hissed Christina. 'That is really gross.' She wrinkled her nose with disgust at the line of little orange sacks that Beck was carefully lining up along the side of the deck.

  'It's amazing how much less they seem to smell when you're really hungry and thirsty,' said Beck in a matter-of-fact voice. 'Anyway, I suggest we tuck in now before the sun gets too hot and the fish go manky. But before we eat, we need to get as much fluid inside us as we can. If we don't, we won't be able to digest the fish properly.'

  Beck lay down on the deck and, taking hold of one of the flying fish in both hands, he squeezed. A dark liquid the colour of plum juice oozed out of the pinky-brown flesh and dripped over his lips. 'Tastes rather bitter,' he said nonchalantly when he had finished drinking. 'But it sure does cool your mouth down.'

  Disgust and thirst battled it out on the twins' faces. This was a good lesson, thought Beck. His new friends would need to learn fast.

  'OK, who's next? Chrissy, hold out your hands.' As if under a spell, Christina held out her cupped hands. Her stomach felt queasy and she was breathing heavily.

  Beck gathered the fish heads into a pile before picking up the machete in one hand and one of the heads in the other. Then, with a deft turn of the blade's tip, he flicked an eye out of its socket and watched it drop into Christina's hands. The girl flinched but kept her hands locked out in front of her as Beck removed both eyes from all five of the fish heads.

  Christina looked down. Ten glassy eyes stared back at her. She could feel the contents of her stomach rising towards her throat and swallowed only just in time to stop the follow-through. Marco breathed deeply and turned his head away.

  'No takers?' asked Beck. 'Well, guys, if you're not going to have yours, I certainly will. If we leave them any longer they'll start to ferment.'

  Christina watched, frozen to the spot, as Beck took one of the eyes from her cupped hands. Then he threw back his head and, with the eye pinched firmly between his thumb and first finger, squeezed. A thin watery fluid dripped onto his tongue. Then he dropped the eye into his mouth and began to chew. One at a time he picked up two more eyes and repeated the process.

  'That is absolutely disgusting,' said Marco, trying hard not to gag. 'You're very welcome to mine if you're still thirsty.'

  'I wouldn't give up your share of anything, Marco. You can't be squeamish if you want to survive,' replied Beck. 'Wow, that feels better,' he said, wiping his sleeve over his mouth. He reached over to pick up another of the fish eyes from Christina's cupped hands. But this time Christina drew her hands away.

  'Mine, I think,' she said. Her voice sounded fierce and determined. Transferrin
g the eyes to her left hand, she used her right to pick up one of the jelly-like discs, then threw back her head. And squeezed. Keeping her eyes tight shut, she grimaced as a dribble of fluid slid slowly down the back of her throat. Then, keeping her mouth wide open, she dropped the shiny disc onto her tongue, lowered her head and, without opening her eyes, began to chew. Then she swallowed.

  Beck watched her grimace as the slimy goo slithered down her throat.

  'Buen apetito! ' he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Beck gazed listlessly down into the glassy stillness. It was late afternoon at the end of their first day at sea and the wind had dropped. The sail of the Bella Señora hung lifeless from the mast, looking ominously like a bed sheet once more.

  After their five-star breakfast of raw fish washed down with eyeball fluid and blood, Beck had produced a little magic. A few teaspoons of dew had collected overnight in the folds at the bottom of the sail and the crew had gratefully dampened their lips and wiped away the taste of fish.

  The fish livers had dried quickly in the sun and they had smeared their exposed skin with the thick droplets of oil that oozed to the surface. For a while the breeze had cooled their skin but the sun's brutal glare was beginning to take its toll. The twins lay dozing in the shadow of the mast. Marco cradled a tin can which he had spotted floating in the water and had managed to pluck from the waves as they sailed by. Inside lay the guts of the flying fish in a putrefying mass.

  Beck smiled. Marco was learning fast. Gone now was the disgust of just a few hours before. Anything that could help them survive was precious. Including the fish guts. But Beck's throat felt parched and hunger was beginning to gnaw at his stomach. The water looked so pure and cool and tempting. He let his hand dangle for a while in the silky stillness, longing to feel its coolness on his lips.

  But somewhere deep inside, alarm bells were ringing. That way only madness lay. Throughout history shipwrecked sailors had been unable to resist the temptation to drink sea water and had quickly gone insane.