Adrift: Seventy-six Days Lost at Sea

by Steven Callahan

  FEBRUARY 5

  DAY 1

  I am lost about halfway between western Oshkosh and Nowhere City. I do not think the Atlantic has emptier waters. I am about 450 miles north of the Cape Verde Islands, but they stand across the wind. I can drift only in the direction she blows. Downwind, 450 miles separate me from the nearest shipping lanes. Caribbean islands are the closest possible landfall, eighteen hundred nautical miles away. Do not think of it. Plan for daylight, instead. I have hope if the raft lasts. Will it last? The sea continues to attack. It does not always give warning. Often the curl develops just before it strikes. The roar accompanies the crash, beating the raft, ripping at it.

  I hear a growl a long way off, toward the heart of the storm. It builds like a crescendo, growing louder and louder until it consumes all of the air around me. The fist of Neptune strikes, and with its blast the raft is shot to a staggering halt. It squawks and screams, and then there is peace, as though we have passed into the realm of the afterlife where we cannot be further tortured.

  Quickly I yank open the observation port and stick my head out. Solo’s jib is still snapping and her rudder clapping, but I am drifting away. Her electrics have fused together and the strobe light on the top of her mast blinks good-by to me. I watch for a long time as the flashes of light become visible less often, knowing it is the last I will see of her, feeling as if I have lost a friend and a part of myself. An occasional flash appears, and then nothing. She is lost in the raging sea.

  I pull up the line that had tied me to my friend, my hope for food and water and clothing. The rope is in one piece. Perhaps the loop I had tied in the mainsheet broke during the last shock. Or the knot; perhaps it was the knot. The vibration and surging might have shaken it loose. Or I may have made a mistake in tying it. I have tied thousands of bowlines; it is a process as familiar as turning a key. Still … No matter now. No regrets. I simply wonder if this has saved me. Did my tiny rubber home escape just before it was torn to pieces? Will being set adrift kill me in the end?

  Somewhat relieved from the constant assault on the raft, I chide myself in a Humphrey Bogart fashion. Well, you’re on your own now, kid. Mingled with the relief is fright, pain, remorse, apprehension, hope, and hopelessness. My feelings are bundled up in a massive ball of inseparable confusion, devouring me as a black hole gobbles up light. I still ache with cold, and now my body is shot through with pain from wounds that I’ve not noticed before. I feel so vulnerable. There are no backup systems remaining, no place to bail out to, no more second chances. Mentally and physically, I feel as if all of the protection has been peeled away from my nerves and they lie completely exposed.

  THE WITCH AND HER CURSE: HUNGER AND THIRST

  MY RAFT AND I slide up and down breaking waves throughout the night. I have set the sea anchor—a piece of cloth that acts like a parachute in the water, slowing our descent and preventing us from capsizing. A wave breaks under us and throws the raft up until it rests on its front edge like a top. Gallons of black brine flood the raft. As I dangle from the handlines, hammering crests batter me through the raft’s thin bottom. Just before we make a complete flip, the sea anchor comes up taut and jerks the raft back down. Newly scooped seawater rushes back upon me like a cold spring stream.

  My life raft is a standard Avon six-man model composed of two multisegmented inner tubes, one stacked on the other. The inside diameter is about five feet, six inches. Before the start of the Mini-Transat, the race committee inspected Solo and was surprised to find such a large raft. “Have you ever gotten into a four-man raft?” I asked them. I had. I once blew one up and two friends joined me inside. We were literally on top of one another, our knees overlapping. Survival for more than a few days, with the raft loaded to legal capacity, would be questionable, and torturous at best. I figured a six-man raft might suffice for a crew of two for a moderate to long-term voyage.

  TWO VIEWS OF Rubber Ducky III. In the profile view I am shown grasping the air pump, which is plugged into one of the valves. Rubber Ducky III has an upper and arch-tube inflation chamber and a bottom-tube chamber. The wind is from the left in these views, pushing Ducky to the right. (A) arch tube: supports the canopy; (B) solar still: bridled in place. The distillate drainage tube and bag hang down and under the raft; (C) exterior handline: runs all around the outside of the raft; (D) spray skirt or bib: across the entry opening, keeps some waves out and provides a shelf for the spear gun; (E) equipment bag: salvaged from Solo, contains the bulk of gear; (F) cushion: made of two-inch-thick closed-cell foam, which does not absorb water. This helps to cushion blows from sharks and fish under the raft; (G) interior handline: serves as an anchor for all the equipment. Fish are strung up between the anchor points. In the plan view the arrow points to the water bottle, sheath knife, and short pieces of line in position for instantaneous access; (H) raft equipment bag: supplied with the raft when purchased. It contains standard equipment such as the air pump and it is secured to an anchor point on the floor; (I) clothesline: to hang fish in the “butcher shop.” Strung between the handline anchor points and up to the canopy arch tube; (J) entry opening (shown by the phantom line): kept on the forward right quarter of the raft away from the wind and approaching waves; (K) sail cloth: salvaged from Solo, folded and tied. Helps to cushion fish blows and to protect the raft from damage from the spear tip when fish are landed; (L) Tupperware box: wedged in the solar still bridle where it catches rain. Later on it will be positioned on the top of the canopy arch tube on its own bridle, and then inside under the leaky observation port; (M) EPIRB (Emergency Position-Indicating Radio Beacon): sends a signal on two frequencies monitored by commercial flights; (N) observation port: leaks badly and must be tied up since it is on the windward side. Eventually a water collection cape will drain through this opening into the Tupperware container; (O) painter to the man-overboard pole: trails astern, and serves as speedometer. It also keeps the raft aligned properly and prevents capsize. The pole increases my visibility. The line gives a good surface for the growth of barnacles, on which I and the triggerfish feed; (P) gas cylinder: inflated Rubber Ducky. Its vulnerable position is always a worry; (Q) ballast pocket: four pockets on the bottom fill with water to prevent capsizes; (R) sagging floor: typical where any weight pushes down. Water pressure otherwise forces the floor to arch upward slightly. The bumps pushing downward make good targets for fish, such as the dorado shown aiming for my left foot.

  Spanning the top tube is a semicircular arch tube that supports the tentlike canopy. One quarter of the canopy is loose to form the entry opening. The only spot with full sitting headroom is directly in the center of the raft. I can wedge myself against the outside perimeter so my head pushes up into the canopy, or slouch down to brace myself across the bottom. The raft is constructed of black dacron-reinforced rubber material, which is glued together. Extra strips of this material are laid over the seams. I’m only too aware of the many cases where life rafts have been torn apart. I memorize each cobweb of glue where the tubes join and continually watch for any sign of tearing or stretching. The top and arch tube make up one inflation chamber and the bottom tube another. The safety valves spill any pressure in excess of two and one-half pounds per square inch. It is impossible to inflate the tubes by mouth; an air pump must be used. The entire structure is constantly undulating like an uneasy, coiled snake.

  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, 1
982

  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.