Adrift (17 page)

Nothing to do but wait for the wind and try to score more food. Some good fresh guts should help lift my spirits. Triggers, a school of them, flap up toward the side of the raft, then disappear under it, come up again, pirouette, dive, loop, and roll about each other in an amazing underwater ballet. They are very wary of me now and are becoming more difficult to catch than the dorados. They don't have the same sustained speed, but in quick little jerks they can dodge my spear deftly. They flirt just outside of my reach. Jab. Miss. I must two-arm a hit on a dorado, but maybe I can get a quick and penetrating one-arm shot on a trigger. Jab. Jab. Their waving fins taunt me. My arm snaps out straight; a trigger takes the spear in his belly. Inside the fish, I find large white sacs—must be the male organs—that I will soon treasure as much as the female's golden eggs.

Ducky,
can't you please stop flopping about? You're bound to be sending out a general invitation to every shark in the district. Maybe I should get more fish while things are so flat.

The sun sinks down to the horizon once again, and the dorados collect for evening recess. They seem mesmerized by the calm conditions and glide about like phantoms, gently nudging us. The emerald elders still skirt the vicinity, keeping an eye on their school. I am coming to know individuals not only by their size, markings, and scars but also by their personalities. I am getting very attached to them. Some like to strike one side of the raft, while others prefer another. Some strike aggressively and quickly fly away, as if they are angry or are testing my strength. Others softly slide along the bottom and wiggle out ... right ... in ... front. Fire! I hit too far aft, near the tail. She churns the surface and shakes loose. I rest.

Clouds sit like dirty fingerprints across a silver sun that reaches down to touch the horizon. Bands of light, "Jesus rays," strike out across the heavens. On the eastern horizon, the sky has reached a deep blue, soon to be black and filled with twinkling stars. The soft, round waves remind me of long stretches of ripe wheat fields. Bending to a gentle breeze that marks where invisible heavens touch the earth, the heavy-headed stalks bow their heads and await the reaper's scythe. I haven't much time to fish. I take up my pose again.

A big form appears to my left. By now I'm used to awaiting the perfect shot, but I may not get another this evening. What the hell. Without thinking, without fear of battle with another male, I roll to the right and jab the spear to the left. Humph! Solid hit. All is still.

Where is the fury? I'm grasping the gun tightly, leaning over the tubes, frozen. In a second the battle will begin. But it doesn't. In his huge head the eye is glazed. His slightly opened mouth is paralyzed. His gills are glued shut. The tip of the spear rests in the stripe that runs down his side, which marks the position of his spine. The barb is still barely visible. The spear has not been driven straight through. I gently pull him toward me, grab the spear with my other hand, and ever so carefully begin to lift. It's like juggling a ball on the end of a stick. What a relief not to endure another dangerous battle. He is food for a week. The glassy surface bubbles up as his body begins to rise. Taking the weight now ... Splash. I lunge to grab him. Too late. His smooth skin slips from my fumbling fingers.

The big, stiff body whirls downward like a bright dead leaf falling from a limb. His blank stare goes round and round as he sinks deeper and deeper. All of the other dorados have been watching. Like fingers reaching down to him, they descend. Deeper, still deeper. Finally their shapes converge like living petals blooming from the stamen of the dead fish. The tiny flower whirls ever deeper, getting smaller and smaller, until it is no more. The sun is gone. The waters become black and empty. I stare into the depths.

O
N MARCH
9 the New York Coast Guard instructed stations in Virginia and Puerto Rico to broadcast a standard yacht-overdue message on their offshore "Notices to Mariners," which is usually monitored by commercial and pleasure craft venturing in deep waters. Through Lloyds of London, the Guard traced me to the Canaries. Since there was no official record that I was ever on Hierro, they refused to believe that I left the island at the end of January. Only when my mother and father give them a copy of my letter postmarked on Hierro do they believe my parents are correct. This kind of mistrust of emotionally involved amateurs in the search-and-rescue (SAR) business will characterize their handling of my case and will lead to some bureaucratic embarrassment. The Coast Guard next conducts a harbor check in the West Indies to see if
Napoleon Solo
has arrived without notification.

No one knows exactly when I left the Canaries or whether I took a direct route, swung south to catch the trades, or sailed via the Cape Verde Islands. My family knows I did not take the Cape Verde route, but the Guard cannot be certain. The ocean is an unbelievably vast wilderness. Pinpointing a vessel, even when its approximate position is known, is literally more difficult than finding a needle in a haystack. Even if my position could be approximated within a hundred miles, a circular area two hundred miles across, covering over thirty thousand square miles, would have to be searched in order to locate me. What the Coast Guard does not tell my family is that if I am more than a week overdue, I am most likely dead. It happens all the time. Three hundred seventy-four sailors died in U.S. waters between 1972 and 1977 in commercial fishing accidents alone. Coast Guard funding has been cut, so they are understaffed and under-equipped. Besides, even if they send out a search party they won't find me. I am still so far out to sea that I am out of range of an effective search. The Guard tells my family that sending aircraft to look for
Napoleon Solo
is out of the question.

Meanwhile, back in my raft, though I still scan the sky for any sign of a plane, I am painfully aware of the improbability of seeing one.

By March 18, my forty-second day in the raft, the Coast Guard has finished the harbor check, which has concentrated on the French and English West Indies. No one has seen
Solo.

Each night I sleep for about an hour and a half at a time before a clump of hair is pulled out by
Ducky's
rubber or cramps in my legs deepen to the point that I must move. I get up, look around, and lie down again in one of the other two semicomfortable positions. The moon has been bitten away to nothing, grown round and fat again, and is now being devoured a second time through the endless progression of nights. Despite my worries, especially about sudden terminal damage to my raft by sharks or other creatures, all is holding together and I feel well rested. I arise on March 19 as usual, hoping that this day will hold the key to my release.

MARCH
19
DAY
43

I cannot stop mourning the big dorado that I futilely slew last evening. I try to convince myself that my depression comes only from the fact that I am in desperate need of meat, but my sense of loss is not solely pragmatic. Ineffectual attempts to catch fish are nothing new, and I think little of them. I feel emotionally devastated. The dorados have become much more than food to me. They are even more than pets. I look upon them as equals—in many ways as my superiors. Their flesh keeps me alive. Their spirits keep me company. Their attacks and their resistance to the hunt make them worthy opponents, as well as friends. I am thankful for their meat and companionship and fearful of their power. I wonder if my deep respect for them is related to my Indian ancestors' respect for all natural forces. It is strange how killing animals can sometimes inspire such worship of them. I can justify killing the dorados in order to save my own life, but even that is getting more difficult. Last night's killing was to no one's advantage. I have robbed the fish of life and myself of the fish's spirit. I feel as if I have gravely sinned, that this is a very bad omen. Such waste. How I hate waste. Still, I realize that if I am to survive I must continue to fish. I must prepare myself to kill again this morning.

A large plastic loop is riveted onto the tip of the aluminum tubing of my spear gun. The arrow used to shoot through the loop but now lies tightly bound through it. I detect a crack in the plastic. The fitting is near the end of its life. If the fitting breaks, the slender silver arrow might be twisted off and pulled out. If I lose it, I'll have nothing with which to fish. I add some lashings to further secure the arrow shaft to the plastic tip and the plastic tip to the aluminum tubing. It looks ridiculously secure, but I know that the whole rig is tenuous at best. I wonder how many more dorados it will last.

The fish begin their gala morning procession. A head appears directly under my point. I thrust down and drive clear through the body, which immediately becomes a somersaulting monster, practically whipping the gun from my grip. I hold. No! The plastic gun tip explodes, lashings fly apart and tangle in the air, the arrow's metal butt is snapped cleanly off, and the arrow is torn off the gun shaft. I dive forward, trying to grab the spear, but it flips forward with a splash. A horrendous sound like the ripping open of a huge stiff zipper meets my ears. The dorado has run the sharp tip into the bottom tube of the raft. Air blows out in a spluttering, heinous burble.

The fish is free. Somehow I've managed to keep the gun and spear in my hands. I cast them inside and grab hold of the tear. Oh my God! It's a gaping hole, a mouth about four inches long. I try to roll the lips together, but
Ducky
continues to sink. Huge bubbles explode from the opening, then smaller bubbles, rolling out more slowly. Finally, the bottom tube lies flat and still.

It is over.
Rubber Ducky
has settled so that she is supported by her top tube. There are now about three inches of freeboard. Waves slosh in over the top. Water pressure under the raft pushes the floor upward. The pressure yanks the bottom tube from my grasp and pulls it under, giving the floor enough extra material to bulge up to sea level. I struggle to move through the rubber quicksand, trying to locate my equipment, which has been swallowed up.

If I cannot repair the damage, I will not last long. It will be impossible to stay dry, and salt water sores will bore into my skin. My legs stick into the sea. Now passing sharks will grab these rather than the ballast pockets. The fish already batter and bite my limbs through the rubber. I won't be able to sleep. My legs hang down so deeply that when the dorados bump they will be well below the range of my spear. Even if I do catch fish, I won't be able to dry it, and it will soon turn to inedible muck.
Ducky
is wobbling more than ever, and that will increase chafing on the still. I must do something and do it quickly while the weather holds.

The conical plugs from the repair kit are much too small to stop up the tear. Perhaps a piece of foam from the small cushion that I got out of
Solo
will work. Fortunately it is closed-cell foam made of billions of tiny bubbles, rather than open-cell, which is made of similar bubbles but with burst walls. Closed-cell foam doesn't absorb water and is airtight as well. Ignoring the dorado's beatings, I find my tools and set to work as fast as I can. I cut a strip of foam and several pieces of light line, lean over the bow, and pull at the bottom tube against the weight of my equipment and myself. The tear is close enough to open it up, but still out of sight. I stuff the foam plug in, grab the top and bottom lip, lasso them with the line, and tightly wind the line around. The line hasn't caught the outside edges of the mouth, so I add more line, trying to work it inboard of the first line. The windings pull the mouth into enough of a pucker to enclose its edges. The patch pokes out like flounder lips with a little foam tongue hanging out. Time to try it out. The pump whimpers. The tube begins to bloat, pulling the floor a little tighter. As
Ducky
begins to rise, the underwater gurgling breaks the surface, and the mouth rears up and hisses at me like a sea serpent. Within fifteen minutes the tube is soft again, and my body sinks into the rubber quicksand.

I lean back over the side. Air is escaping from the numerous wrinkles in the material, which spread from the puckered tear like roots from a tree trunk. I test batting from the sleeping bag to use as a caulking, but even when densely compressed, air flows through it. My old gloppy sponges may be effective if I cover them with collars of foam strips. For five hours I try to fill the gaps in the seal. Each time I pump up the tube, a trickle of bubbles breaks the surface. I push in more caulking, but the bubbles multiply and grow larger. To keep the tube tolerably inflated requires fifty pumps every half hour. Three thousand pumps will be needed each day to keep
Rubber Ducky III
alive. That's over two hours of grueling exercise, about twice what I think my body can manage. When the seas rebuild, if the patch holds at all, I'll probably have to double my efforts. It's impossible.

We're about six hundred miles out to sea, thirty-four days from landfall at best. The deflated bottom tube is acting like a sea anchor, slowing
Ducky's
drift. Working hard in the intense heat, my mouth salty from holding line and knife between my teeth, I have reached a new, desperate level of thirst. My muscles are already spent. I'll never last thirty-four days.