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 handheld red flares, and two handheld 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, ⅛-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 ⅛ inch, 100 feet of ¼ inch, plus the 70 feet of ⅜ 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 handheld orange smoke flares, three handheld red flares, one handheld white flare.
Two pints of water in a plastic jug.
Two pieces of ⅛-inch plywood to use as cutting boards.
Two pintles and two gudgeons: fittings for a boat’s rudder.
A short spear gun.
A bag with food: ten ounces of peanuts, sixteen ounces of baked beans, ten ounces of corned beef, and ten ounces of soaked raisins.
A small strobe light.
In addition I have saved the small piece of closed-cell foam cushion, one and a half one-pound cabbages, a piece of mains’l, the man-overboard pole and horseshoe, my sleeping bag, and a leather knife.
I had bought Dougal Robertson’s survival book on sale years ago. It’s worth a king’s ransom to me now. The spear gun I had bought in the Canaries. It didn’t fit well anywhere in Solo. After smacking my head against it several times, I had lighted upon the idea of trying to fit it into my emergency duffel. With the arrow removed and a small amount of tugging and shoving, it finally slid inside. That it did will prove to be incredibly good fortune.
I begin to keep notes on my state of health, the raft’s condition, and the quantity of food and water. I also keep a navigational record and begin to write a log. “I have lost all but my past, my friends, and of course the shirt off my back. Ho, ho. Will I make it? I don’t know.” I write as steadily as I can on dime-store three-by-five-inch pads. Even this simple task takes great effort, as the raft continually lurches about. I take the notes out only when I’m sure that the raft will not be capsized or flooded. When I am done, I double-bag them in plastic, each bag carefully tied, combine them with my survival manual in another plastic bag, and put them in my equipment duffel.
Presuming that the raft stays intact, and I acquire no additional food or water, I can last at best until February 22, fourteen more days. I may just reach the shipping lanes, where I will have a remote chance of being spotted. Dehydration will take its toll by that time. My tongue will swell until it fills my mouth and then will blacken. My eyes will be sucked deeply into my head. Death will knock at the door to my delirious mind.
An eternity exists between the click of each second. I remind myself that time does not stand still. The seconds will stack up like poker chips. Seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days. Time will pass. In months I will look back on this hell from a comfortable seat in the future … perhaps, if I am lucky.
Desperation shakes me. I want to cry but I scold myself. Hold it back. Choke it down. You cannot afford the luxury of water wept away. I bite my lips, close my eyes, and weep within. Survival, concentrate on survival. Clear sea stretches for two miles under me. No life is visible in the depths from which I might score a meal. It is too rough to use the solar stills in the water. For now I can hope only to be found.
The man-overboard pole cuts a wake astern. Its bright flag rises to the top of each wave as the raft is lost in the trough. That should improve my visibility to passing ships. If Solo is still floating I have twice the chance of someone stumbling over my debris. It is a small thing, but now small things are all I have. “Cheap thrills are better than no thrills at all,” echoes in my head. Somehow my jokes are not funny. I no longer smile, but I continue to make light of whatever I can in order to relieve the tension.
There is little to do now except keep watch and daydream. My life keeps passing before my eyes in intricate detail, like a grade B movie rerun too often. I try to shift my thoughts to the things that I want to do if I am saved. I will spend more time with my parents and friends, let them know that I love them. Daydreams of future plans, of being home, of boat and life raft designs, and of big happy meals ease my desperation. Stop it! You are not there. You are here, in purgatory. Do not give yourself false hope. Think about survival!
But the desire to dream lingers. It is my one relief. I slowly come to terms with the disappointments of my past and I begin to see that I have had some valuable experience and training, possibly even enough to survive this. If I can pull through, I will be able to lead a better life. And even if I don’t see my thirty-first year, maybe I can make this time useful. My writings may be found aboard the raft, even if I am dead. They might be instructive to others, especially those who sail and might find themselves in a similar situation. It’s the last service I can render. Dreams, ideas, and plans not only are an escape, they give me purpose, a reason to hang on.
FEBRUARY 8
DAY 4
The morning of February 8 brings a slight calming of the gale. Waves continue rolling down upon us, some still fifteen feet or more in height. But they have lost their curling heads and do not smash the raft as often. I look out across the liquid desert. There is no oasis, no water to drink or shading palms. Like a desert, there is life here, but it has evolved over millenniums to survive without fresh water.
A small piece of sargasso weed floats by to the north. Sargasso, tumbleweed of the oceans, grows without roots and floats freely across the surface. The great Sargasso Sea lies to the northwest, where legend has it that hundreds of aging hulks are trapped in the weeds’ masses. But there is little of it here. Pity; it could serve to judge my speed.
The waters of the world are in constant flux. Weather exists in the oceans just as it exists in the atmosphere. Undersea storms rip through the passes and canyons between underwater mountain ranges. Windflow across the earth’s surface affects and mirrors the waterflow of gre
at ocean currents. In some areas the ocean lies barely moving, virtually parked. In others it flows like traffic on a highway. These great water roads include the Gulf Stream, and the Agulhas, Humboldt, South Equatorial, Indian Monsoon, and Labrador currents. Some travel at more than fifty miles a day. I am traveling a slower path, the North Equatorial, at six to twelve miles a day. It runs steadily with the wind toward the Caribbean.
As if stepping on the accelerator, the wind thrusts me into the passing lane. I can sail faster than the water traffic. My chart of the Indian Ocean is of little use to me, so I rip it up. After soaking the crumpled balls to prevent them from being blown by the wind, I watch them float away. Just at the surface, they take more than two minutes to reach the man-overboard pole. It is seventy feet astern, or one-ninetieth of a nautical mile. This crude speedometer shows that I’m moving only eight miles each day over the water. Including current, at seventeen miles a day average, it will take me another twenty-two days to reach the lanes. It is too long, way too long. It is time to move.
I pull up the sea anchor, which pulses through the water like a jellyfish and tows the ocean behind. I make sure it’s ready to reset at a moment’s notice should waves threaten to capsize us. Now the raft rides better, yielding more easily to punches as it slowly glides ahead. My speed is now twenty-five to thirty miles per day. It is still a long way to the shipping lanes, but with the increase in speed, I feel a glimmer of optimism. At least now theoretically I can make it.
The sea anchor pulses through the water like a jellyfish and tows the ocean behind. It is made of a square of cloth that is joined to the raft by a bridle, a swivel to prevent tangling, and a long painter. In effect, the sea anchor is an aquatic parachute that acts horizontally rather than vertically. It adds resistance to waves that try to pick the raft up or flip it over. However, it also prevents any significant forward motion.
I mark my one-liter clear plastic water jug with shallow knife cuts and ration myself to one-half pint of water per day. To take only a mouthful every six hours or so is difficult discipline. I have decided not to drink seawater. Dougal Robertson and most survival experts advise that it is too dangerous. It may provide immediate relief, but the high level of sodium must be urinated away, drawing even more fluid from the body’s tissues, soon leaving a withered corpse.
I try to use the first solar still. It is an inflatable balloon that is supposed to evaporate seawater. In sunny, tropical, calm conditions, it should produce two pints of fresh water from seawater each day. That’s one to two days’ worth of minimal survival rations. When I blow this balloon up and put it in the water as instructed, it travels at about the same speed as the raft. Sometimes we thump into one another. Sometimes it surfs ahead on a passing wave until it comes to a staggering halt at the end of its leash. After a few minutes it collapses and refuses to stay reinflated, but I can find no holes in it. My spirits sink.
I try the second still. It stays blown up. Hope. After an hour the collection bag contains almost eight ounces of water. Elation! I can build up my water stock! I pick up the container and take a swallow. Salt! Damned seawater! With six pints of water left, I have a maximum of sixteen days to live.
Flopping back onto the windward side of the raft, I am shaded from the burning sun by the canopy. My thoughts return to Solo, that night, the crash, the report, the rush of water. I hear it, see it, feel the turbulent water rise above my head. Get out, she’s going down … going down! A ghost of desperation and loss wafts across my vision. What happened to you, Solo? Did I make you too tender, my pet? Did you run over a log or strike a truck container? It is unlikely that my fast-moving boat ran into any flotsam. The collision came from the side, not forward. Solo stopped and I was on deck quickly. I’d have seen any floating debris big enough to cause such devastation. Something big, moving fast, must have run into us. No ships were visible from the deck. It was something from the sea itself.
A big one. Maybe a whale. A few years ago I ran a thirty-five-foot trimaran into a forty-foot sperm whale in the Gulf Stream. For the owner aboard it was the second such encounter in as many trips to Bermuda in the same year. We were fortunate. One hull smacked down on top of the skin-covered island, but neither the whale nor the boat was permanently damaged. The Robertsons and the Baileys, though, were both sunk by whales. Feeding near the surface at night when the bigger plankton come up, a cetacean would not have noticed Solo’s hull cutting silently through the noisy breaking of the sea. A moderate-size thirty-five tonner striking Solo’s side at ten knots would have caused substantial damage, although the collision would not even have disturbed the whale’s feeding routine.
I have seen so many of them—playful porpoise, curious pilots, great fins, and strong sperm. They emerge from the depths without warning. Suddenly there’s a huge beast there. And at that moment a profound emotion—not fear—rises from the depths of my soul. It is like seeing a friend whom I thought I’d never see again, who miraculously appears and who may just as suddenly disappear forever. Whenever these massive spirits appear from the depths, I feel a wonderful electricity in the air, an aura of immense intelligence and sensitivity. In this momentary meeting, I feel the greatness of this friend’s life and soul.
I do not like the fact that whales are hunted, but then again, I often think that the beautiful “balance of nature” is really just everything running around eating each other. And in some ways I envy the Azorians and Eskimos who hunt whales with hand-thrown harpoons from small boats. They must get dangerously close to their prey; and when the odds are even for the hunter and the hunted, they must become bound in a unique brotherhood of understanding.
I look down at the slab of whale tooth that hangs from a string around my neck. What of this token? I am a small part Cherokee Indian. My mind turns to the customs of my forebears, the use of trinkets that linked them to their counterparts in nature-eagle feathers, bear claws. What is more fitting for me to wear than a reminder of the great spirits of the sea? Is it coincidence that I should feel so close to whales, wear the jewelry of their death and be tried by them? Or has it a deeper … No. I don’t believe in that. Out of the infinite number of events that happen every second, many must be surrounded by odd circumstance. Yet life must be nourished with meaning just as with food, and stories give events meaning. I reach for the most unique and surprising: strange coincidence, long shot, miracle. I need a tale of miracles. Can I reap a legend from this chapter of my life? Is the whale my totem, my animal counterpart? Is this a test of that totem, a test of the whale within me?
Six pints of water are left. Is it enough for another sixteen days? Perhaps I can catch some rain. Just hang on for twenty days. As long as the raft does not get damaged, I have a chance.
Suddenly a fin slashes through the surface in front of the raft. I leap to the opening, fumbling with one of the paddles to beat it off. I see the svelte, cool blue form cruising under me. It doesn’t struggle to pace us. As the next wave passes, clouding my view, the form rockets ahead and is lost to sight. He is small, a four-foot oceanic bullet. Out of the corner of my eye I see the slice of another fin, racing down the face of the next wave. It cuts diagonally toward me and shoots by just in front. It is not a shark. It is a fish. A fish! It is one beautiful, food-filled, sweet blue fish!
Quickly rummaging through my emergency bag, I claw out the spear gun and arrow. Wait … what if it is a strong fish? I hurriedly tie a piece of line through the gun handle and onto the raft. My stomach growls. Four days on a pound of food. I’m trembling with excitement.
I must watch the waves. With my weight on the low side, a breaker might easily capsize us. At times I must leap back to windward and hang on until the foaming eruption subsides. Meanwhile I observe the dorados. They are three to four feet long and must weigh twenty to thirty pounds. Their power will make them difficult to catch. A sailor in the Canaries once told me of a dorado that knocked a boat’s cockpit to pieces, including a bolted-down steering-wheel pedestal. A continuous dorsal fin s
tretches from the squared-off head down the aquamarine back to a bright, yellow-finned tail. It is their tails that are visible from far away, piercing the surface as they bodysurf down waves. These fish are widely renowned for agility, strength, beauty—and good eating.
I’ve never caught one or even seen one in the ocean before. The sea is obviously not a threat to them. It is their home, their playground. A few cruise by about six feet away, just out of range. But in their curiosity they swing close every now and then. Surface refraction makes it difficult to aim, and the lurching raft is a poor platform from which to shoot. My few attempts miss widely. Hunger continues to gnaw as the sun sets.
Another two days bring more sun, wind, sea, and dorados. Leaping out of the sea in ten-foot arcs and landing on their sides, they look like agile, breeching whales. I’d drool if only my mouth could summon more than sticky saliva. “Come my beauties, come just a bit closer,” I coo to them. But when they approach, my spear misses the mark.
My mind creates fantasies of food and drink and turns continually back to Solo, to the pounds of fruits, nuts, and vegetables and the gallons of water within her. I see myself opening lockers and pulling out food. I plan how I might have saved her, shifted stores, dumped ballast, raised her in midocean to sail again. What if we hadn’t become separated? What if we hadn’t left the Canaries? What if … Stop it! She’s gone. Concentrate on now, on survival.
Once again I try one of the solar stills. As it sails forward, its water collection bag drags behind on the surface. This prevents the fresh water from draining into it. So I must frequently empty the balloon of a small amount of water. The day’s total is one-half pint. Seas continue to batter the still until the tabs that hold its tether are ripped off. I often dump out the water to find it is salty. My body’s craving for water is building. I would give anything for a drink, but can only afford an occasional mouthful. I open my first can of fresh water. Five pints left, maybe fifteen days to live if I can catch fresh fish to supplement my fluid intake. Otherwise I may have as little as ten days left.
Adrift: Seventy-six Days Lost at Sea Page 5
