Paulinus yells over the roar of the engine. “You are very lucky. We do not fish on the east of Marie Galante. Only today. We come around and see birds very far away. They fly so far out to sea. We do not fish so far away. But today we decide to go. When we get close we see something. We think that maybe it be a barrel. We go, thinking maybe the dorado swim there. When we get there it is not a barrel. It is you.”
As we round Marie Galante to the north, Jules steers Clemence close to shore so that she slips down the surge that cracks upon the ancient coral cliffs and then sweeps back out against the incoming swell. The waves blast skyward against the cliffs made by the death of billions of tiny coral animals. The walls are shot full of deep caverns, which echo the boom of Neptune’s knock on Mother Earth’s door. I envision Ducky and me grinding up onto the cliffs, scrambling to grab hold of a small shelf of safety, being beaten down and then dragged off the razor rock.
I begin to sing a favorite song of mine, “Summertime.” Now the livin’ is so easy. I think of my jumping fish. And on the island the sugar cane will be growing high. I feel free—free enough to spread my wings and reach for the sky. My voice booms out but is lost in the roar of Clemence splitting the water and rushing down the waves. Jean-Louis smiles at me and tells me I sing well. Probably not, but I’ve never felt so in tune with the words. Oh yeah, easy livin!
The perfume of flowers and grass blows off the island and wafts into my nostrils. I feel as if I’m seeing colors, hearing sounds, and smelling land for the first time. I am emerging from the womb again. The horrible memories of my voyage may haunt me forever, but they are already eased by the ecstasy of a new life and the kindness of these men. For seventy-six days I teetered on the edge of life, afraid to let go, afraid that my own atoms and energy and essence would be lost to my grasp and be used by the universe in whatever way it pleased. Steven Callahan lost without trace.
A strange formation, like an amphitheater, looms before us. Hoya Grande. A large cavern formed and the roof fell in, leaving a tall thin tower of coral open to the sky, and on one side, through the arched aperture, open to the Atlantic.
We round the island and proceed along the leeward west coast. The sea is as flat as a board, the day warm and alive with light and color. A long beach comes into view. Bushy trees and palms shade the small huts and houses clustered under them. It’s the village of St. Louis. A number of people are gathered under an unwalled roof held up by corner posts. They quickly notice us. Some stop chatting, others lay down the fish that they are trading. What is that big black blob slung over the bow of Clemence? And who is the skinny, bearded white man, nearly as dark as Jules and Jean-Louis, but with sun-frosted hair and snowy brows? Some begin to make their way toward the place where we will land, first slowly, then at a quickened pace.
I look down at the dorados for the last time. Twelve of their kind, twelve triggerfish, four flyers, three birds, and a few pounds of barnacles, crabs, and assorted oceanic booty have kept me alive. Nine ships did not see me. A dozen sharks tested me. Now it is done, finally over, finished. My feelings are as confused as they were that night when I lost Solo. It has been so long since I had any reason to be happy that I don’t quite know how to handle it. Clemences bow turns and she scrapes in the sand. I whisper to my fish, “Thank you, my friends. Thank you and good-by.”
People trickle down to the beach. Giggling children run up and then stop, eyes wide. The fishermen yell at me to be still, but I make my way forward and swing one leg over the gunwale. I scoot forward so that I’m in shallower water—it would be pretty stupid to fall off and drown six feet from the shore—and lower myself onto what I know is soft white sand, but what feels like a concrete highway swaying in a major earthquake. My eyes seem to be bouncing around like pinballs. I take a step forward and let go of Clemence. My head reels. The ground leaps up and crashes against my knees. As my head swings down to hit the beach, two strong men grab my arms from each side and jerk me up to my feet. They lift me up so that my feet barely touch the ground and carry me away I go through the motions of walking. We pass small tin-walled houses with cleanly cut and brightly painted gingerbread trim. Fish traps are scattered about. Chickens run clucking out of our way We pass under a shady tree and out onto black pavement An entourage follows now On the first corner we come to is a tall yellow building sprouting flags and emblems The islanders sit me down in a folding metal chair on a shaded porch Everyone talks at once in a jumble of Creole and French Finally they get my name and begin making phone calls. I’m left in peace for a moment.
A hundred people press close to the porch. I look at them, unbelieving. It is over. It hits me like a ton of bricks. There are wide eyes, curious eyes, worried eyes, weeping eyes. My own fill with tears, which I try to choke down. I reach through a tangle of arms and grasp the ice-cold ginger beer that is being thrust toward me. These people do not know me. We don’t even have a common language. How can they ever know what each step through my hell was like? Yet I have the overwhelming feeling that we belong to one another, that in this moment we see life as one. In their eyes there is a reflection of my own fate. The paths of our lives are separate, but the essence of our lives is together.
I cannot see back to the beach. There, my friends remain in the bottom of Clemence. I’ll never forget how they flew into the arms of the fishermen, the color and power of their glistening flight. I wonder if out beyond the beach, in the clear blue water, two emerald fish are looking for a new school with whom they will swim, carrying the tale of how simple fish taught a man the intricate mystery that comes with each moment of life.
A MAN ALONE
A VOLKSWAGEN VAN pulls up in front of the porch. The local constable and a few other men help me inside and we roar off toward the windward side of the island. Everyone is jovial and talkative. I haven’t got the vaguest idea what they are saying. One man keeps motioning for me to guzzle my ginger beer. I can’t tell him that in the last twelve hours I’ve had more to drink than I normally consumed in a week in the raft, so I make signs to him and chant, “Slowly, slowly.” He nods. Besides, I love holding the cold, wet bottle.
Marie Galante is rather flat. We pass long stretches of sugar cane fields. Ox carts are piled high with cut cane. I cannot believe how sensitive I am to the smells of the cut vegetation, of the flowers, of the bus. It is as if my nerve endings are plugged into an amplifier. The green fields, the pink and orange roadside flowers, practically vibrate with color. I am awash in stimuli.
We come into town and wheel into the parking lot of the Grand Bourg Hospital. Out of white cinderblock buildings, black nurses in white uniforms scurry up, look me over, and disappear. Some gather and talk. Others poke their heads out of the opened windows and watch. A male Caucasian doctor comes down the steps and over to the van. He speaks English. “I am Dr. Dellanoy. What is wrong with you?”
How does one answer that, precisely? “I’m hungry,” I tell him. For a while no one seems to know how to deal with me. It is obvious that I am not an emergency case. I explain to Dr. Dellanoy that I have been adrift for seventy-six days and that I’m dehydrated, starved, and weak, but otherwise O.K. He decides to admit me and calls for a stretcher. This seems unnecessary, but I am coerced to climb aboard. When we get upstairs, the stretcher-bearers have trouble getting around the corners in the narrow hallways and I convince them to let me walk. I have developed such effective sea legs that the solid ground feels unstable. The men help me across a portico and into a room, sit me down on a bed, and drop my bag at the foot of it. An old man rises up from the bed opposite me, an intravenous plugged into his arm. We smile at each other.
Dr. Dellanoy comes in and we discuss my condition. My blood pressure is O.K. I’ve lost about twenty kilos (forty-four pounds), just under a third of my weight. “We’ll put you on intravenous feeding and will add some antibiotics to help clear up those sores,” he tells me. “Someone in your condition won’t be able to eat anything for quite a while, of course—”
“Han
g on!” I interrupt him, horrified. “What’s that?”
“Your stomach has shrunk. It may be dangerous for you to eat anything solid for some time.”
I quickly, desperately explain to him that although I am a tad thin, I’ve conscientiously eaten as regularly as I can. I’d offer him some fish sticks, but they’re back on the raft, wherever poor Ducky is. I also don’t like the idea of needles and immobilization. “Can’t I try to use my mouth?”
“O.K. We’ll see how it goes. We’ll give you some antibiotic pills, too,” he tells me, and then he leaves.
A white nurse arrives. She’s roundish and incredibly cheery, with rosy cheeks and a chirpy French voice. Screwing up her face, she pulls off my T-shirt and makeshift diaper, carries them to the corner with two fingers held high, and drops them. Funny, I don’t notice any smell. Except for her—she smells clean. She sets down a porcelain basin full of tepid water and begins to wash me. My sores are tender to the rag and her firm, efficient touch, but she is as gentle as she can be, and as she pats me dry I am immediately relieved. Her merry voice never stops. Other nurses pop in and out and chat, or try to chat, with my nurse, the old man, and me. I’ve never seen such a vivacious hospital.
From the time I hit the beach, I have slowly wound down. After two and a half months, I finally have no fears and no apprehension. There is nothing to do and nothing I want. There is only total rest. I feel like I’m floating. My blond angel finishes and breezes out.
I lay back on the sheets, clean sheets, dry sheets. I can’t remember ever feeling like this before, though I imagine that I might have felt this way at birth. I am as helpless as a baby, and each sensation is so strong that it’s like seeing, smelling, and touching for the very first time. Heaven can exist on earth.
Soon a young man brings in a tray heaped with food. He pours me a large glass of water. For a moment I stare at it all in disbelief. A glass of water. Such a simple thing, a simple treasure. On the tray is a large piece of French bread, a stuffed squash, some vegetables that I don’t recognize, roast beef, ham, yams, and in one corner, of all things, a square of salted fish! I almost laugh, but I eat every morsel. Now everyone who comes in and sees the empty tray stares at me in disbelief.
I’m given antibiotics and a couple of strong sedatives and am told that I should sleep. Ah yes, sleep. I could sleep for days…
Uniformed men suddenly bustle into the room and begin hurling questions at me. Their uniform looks different from that of the police who brought me to the hospital, and it turns out they are the gendarmerie. In the middle of our lengthy interview, there is a phone call for me. An orderly wheels me back across the portico and into one of the doctor’s offices, where there is one of the few telephones in the hospital. The call is from Mr. Dwyer, the U.S. consul in Martinique, who extends his welcome to the islands, assures me there will be no problem about my lack of a passport, and extends an offer of any assistance he can render. The news has traveled very quickly. Even as I speak, my mind drifts around sleepily. But back in my room there are more officials and more questions to answer. Finally everyone leaves and I’m left in peace The old man across from me smiles. I hear dishes clattering in a kitchen below. The breeze blows lightly ac ros’s my face. A black spiritual sung in a beautiful baritone echoes from the kitchen and through the hospital grounds. I drift off into dreamland.
After a couple of hours I awake, feeling calm. A civilian comes in shyly and sits by my bed. He too looks almost Egyptian. He has a broad smile and speaks a few words of English. I understand that his name is Mathias, that he has a radio station, and that he runs a hotel. I can come and stay in the hotel if I like. He asks what I have with me, and when he sees the bag and my ragged, stinking T-shirt he tells me to wait right here—as if I’m planning on going somewhere—and disappears for an hour.
I pull myself up to a sitting position, grab the railing at the foot of the bed, and gradually stand. My roommate watches me as I wobble about, trying to keep my knees from collapsing. We jovially chat with each other, though neither understands much of what the other is saying.
Mathias returns and spreads out an array of colorful clothes for me: blue pants, bright red shorts, sandals, and a new T-shirt with a map of Marie Galante on it. There is also a bottle of cologne. Maybe I really do reek. I am deeply touched by the generosity of these people. Outside of my room are a number of islanders who have come to see me. They wait patiently, sitting on benches or leaning against the portico railing. I know no one on this island, but I feel as if I’m a long-lost brother who has returned home.
I get up several times and hang on to the bed until I feel pretty confident. The next move is for the door, which is always open. I leap and stumble to it in two steps. Then, hanging on to the rails, I guide myself down the open-air hallway, feeling the breeze, listening to the rustle of the palm fronds, and sucking in the sweet smells. Each step takes a minute, but I’m in no hurry. The nurses watch me but don’t interrupt. I think how lucky I am not to be in a stuffy, antiseptic, uptight American institution. Sign language, a few words of French, a few of English, and an intangible spirit go a long way in communicating with the many patients and visitors outside the rooms. I can’t believe how relaxed and high-spirited most of them seem.
By early evening the trade winds are cool and a little stronger. I’m dressed and, though tired, anxious to go out on the town. The anesthesiologist at the hospital, Michelle Monternot, has heard of my arrival, and although we have not met she has invited me to her home for dinner this evening. Mathias arrives, followed by two young Frenchmen and a Frenchwoman, who introduce themselves as André Monternot, the anesthesiologist’s husband, and Michel and his girlfriend Nanou. They carry an enormous picnic basket, just in case I don’t feel up to accompanying them to dinner, but I can’t wait to get going. I think I can get across about a hundred feet of open ground by myself, so we make for Mathias’s car. I stagger around like a drunk, and I must sound like one, too, because I can’t stop laughing hysterically I guess I’m just intoxicated with being alive.
First we go to Mathias’s hotel, where I make some telephone calls. I get through to my parents’ house. My brother Ed picks up the phone. “What are you doing there?” I ask. “Trying to find out where the hell you’ve been,” he replies jocularly. It seems that my parents have already heard the news. In fact, they knew of my arrival before many of the local authorities. Mathias was among the crowd when I was carried up from the beach, and he immediately sent a message on his CB radio to his friend Freddie in Guadeloupe. Freddie has an amplifier and rebroadcast the message. A man named Maurice Briand was fishing off the coast of Florida when he picked up the signal. He called my parents less than an hour after I stepped ashore. For days I won’t believe that this was all possible with CB radios and not ham units but it turns out to be true Anyway, my parents are out buying me clothes and making arrangements to come down to the island But I’m already starting to feel overwhelmed and I suspect that things will be hectic for a few days. Also I want to be in better shape when they arrive So I ask my brother if he can convince them to delay their trip There’s no big panic now I’m safe and secure I don’t know anything about what they’ve been through in trying to find me My brother is caught in the middle and tells me he’ll do what he can, though he knows they’d hop on a flight tonight if they could.
I will return to Mathias’s hotel, Le Salut, tomorrow. Tonight I am regaled by a feast at the Monternots’. Michel turns out to be the customs agent on the island. We joke about my slipshod method of smuggling rafts into Marie Galante. I end up sleeping at the Monternots’ house. When I wake up in the morning, I look into the mirror. My God! Who’s that? The face I see is straight out of Robinson Crusoe. Long, stringy bleached hair, hollow eyes, drawn brown skin, shaggy beard. Michelle Monternot gives me a toothbrush. It feels strange in my mouth. What’s even stranger is that my teeth are not crusty and slimy but are remarkably clean. I wonder what my dentist would say about that.
A
ndré drives me down to the hospital to collect my things. Upon entering my room, I smell the stink of dead fish. My bag really does reek. Someone’s taken the T-shirt, to the nearest rubbish bin, no doubt. A nurse takes my blood pressure again. I check myself out and walk through the gates and into the world, feeling like a free man after a long imprisonment.
Mathias takes me back to his hotel and introduces me to his friend Marie, who speaks English quite well. Throughout my stay they are kind hosts and never balk at the huge quantities of their delicious Creole food that I consume. Everyone is amazed at how much I can pack away.
My parents arrive on an evening flight on the twenty-third. We are reunited after a year, my mother in tears, my father stoical, and me all smiles. So much has passed under my keel in one short year. Yet to them, although I’m a good deal thinner, I am still the same, their son returned.
I am honestly surprised by the fuss that everyone is making over me. Within twenty-four hours I’m giving telephone interviews to English, Canadian, and American reporters. Telegrams arrive. I am debriefed by the French and American Coast Guards and by the police again, and then get my picture taken with the amiable chief. CBS news sends a crew down from Florida. The National Enquirer asks me for an exclusive. I decline to give them an interview at all, but that doesn’t stop them. They create a fabulous story of how I looked straight into the “glowing amber eyes” of a whale that “roared as only the sea can roar” and smashed my boat again and again. I have yet to see a whale with amber eyes and I’ve never heard even the slightest croak from one.
When I have a few moments, I try to extend my walks. Within a couple of days, I can do a hundred yards. My legs begin to blow up, as if I have elephantiasis. A local physician, Dr. Lachet, comes by every day to check on me. I feel fortunate because Dr. Lachet has had a lot of experience with starvation in Africa, so he knows what to expect. He runs some tests. I have a very high sodium level, a low potassium level, and I am pretty anemic. My body isn’t getting rid of fluids and they are sinking to my legs. I begin taking pills.
Adrift: Seventy-six Days Lost at Sea Page 20
