Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor (6 page)

At twilight the transparent sea provided a lovely spectacle. Fish of every color approached the raft. Enormous yellow and green fish, fish striped in blue and red, round ones and little ones, accompanied the raft until dark. Sometimes there was a metallic flash, a spurt of bloody water would gush on board, and pieces of a fish destroyed by a shark would float by. Then countless smaller fish would appear among the remains. At such times I would have sold my soul for the smallest piece of the shark’s leftovers.

My second night at sea was one of hunger and thirst and desperation. I felt abandoned, clinging only to my hope that I would be rescued. That night I decided that all I could rely on to save myself were my will and what was left of my strength.

One thing astounded me: I felt a little weak, but not exhausted. I had endured nearly forty hours without water or food and more than two days and two nights without sleep, and I had been awake the entire night before the accident. Nonetheless, I felt capable of rowing.

Again I searched for Ursa Minor. I fixed my sights on it
and began to row. There was a breeze, but it wasn’t blowing in the direction I should have been going in to navigate directly toward Ursa Minor. I secured both oars to the gunwale and decided to row until ten o’clock. At first I rowed furiously, then more calmly, my eyes fixed on Ursa Minor, which according to my calculations shone directly over the Cerro de la Popa.

From the sound of the water, I knew I was moving forward. When I got tired I crossed the oars and laid my head down to rest. Then I grabbed the oars more firmly and more hopefully. At midnight I was still rowing.

Around two o’clock I was completely exhausted. I crossed the oars and tried to sleep. My thirst was great, but hunger didn’t bother me. I was so tired that I rested my head on an oar and prepared to die. That was when I saw Jaime Manjarrés, seated on the deck of the destroyer, pointing with his index finger toward port. Jaime Manjarrés, from Bogotá, is one of my oldest friends in the Navy. Often I thought of my mates who had tried to reach the raft. I wondered whether they had reached the other raft, whether the destroyer had picked them up or the planes had located them. But I had never thought of Jaime Manjarrés. Nonetheless, as soon as I closed my eyes he appeared, smiling, first pointing toward port, then sitting in the ship’s mess, in front of me, holding a plate of fruit and scrambled eggs in his hand.

It was a dream at first. I would close my eyes and sleep for a few moments and Jaime Manjarrés would appear, at the same time and in the same place. Finally I decided to
speak to him. I don’t remember what I asked him that first time. I don’t remember what he answered, either. But I know that we were talking on deck and suddenly there was the shock of the wave, the fatal wave of 11:55, and I woke up with a jolt, holding on with all my strength so I wouldn’t fall into the ocean.

Just before dawn the sky darkened. I was too exhausted even to sleep. Surrounded by darkness, I gave up trying to see the other end of the raft. But I kept peering into the obscurity, attempting to penetrate it. That was when I clearly saw Jaime Manjarrés sitting on the gunwale, dressed in his uniform: blue pants and shirt, his cap slightly tilted over his right ear, on which I could clearly read, despite the darkness, “A.R.C. Caldas.”

“Hello,” I said to him, without a start.

Undoubtedly Jaime Manjarrés was there. Undoubtedly he had always been there.

If this had been a dream, it wouldn’t have mattered. But I knew I was fully awake, completely lucid, and I could hear the whistling of the wind and the sounds of the sea. I felt hungry and thirsty. And I hadn’t the slightest doubt that Jaime Manjarrés was with me on the raft.

“Why didn’t you drink enough water on the ship?” he asked me.

“Because we were about to dock at Cartagena,” I answered. “I was resting with Ramón Herrera on the stern deck.”

It wasn’t an apparition; I wasn’t afraid. It seemed ridiculous that I had felt lonely before, not realizing that another sailor was on the raft.

“Why didn’t you eat?” Jaime Manjarrés asked me. I clearly remember answering, “Because they didn’t want to give me food. I asked them to give me apples and ice
cream, but they didn’t want to. I don’t know where they were hiding the food.”

Jaime Manjarrés didn’t reply. He was silent for a moment. He turned to show me the way to Cartagena. I followed the direction in which he was pointing and saw the lights on shore and the buoys dancing in the harbor. “We’re there,” I said, continuing to look intently at the lights of the port, without emotion, without joy, as if I were arriving after a normal voyage. I asked Jaime Manjarrés if we could row a bit. But he was no longer there. I was alone in the raft, and the harbor lights became the rays of the sun. The first sunshine of my third day of solitude at sea.

6
A R
escue
S
hip and an
I
sland of
C
annibals

At first I kept track of the days by going over the dates. The first day, February 28, was the day of the accident. The second was the day of the planes. The third was the most difficult: nothing in particular happened. The raft moved along, propelled by the breeze. I had no strength to row. The day clouded over, I felt cold, and I lost my bearings because I couldn’t see the sun. That morning I wouldn’t have been able to guess where the planes had come from. A raft has no bow or stern; it’s square and sometimes it floats sideways, imperceptibly turning around. Since there are no points of reference, you don’t know whether it’s moving forward or backward. The sea is the same in every direction. So I didn’t know if the raft had changed course or if it had turned itself around. After the third day, something similar happened with time.

At midday I decided to do two things: First, I secured
an oar to one end of the raft, to find out if it always moved in the same direction. Second, using my keys, I made a scratch on the gunwale for each day that passed and marked the date. I made the first scratch and a number: 28. I made the second scratch and added the number 29. On the third day, next to the third scratch, I wrote the number 30. That was a mistake. I thought it was the thirtieth, but it was actually the second of March. I realized that only on the fourth day, when I wondered whether the month just ended was thirty or thirty-one days long. It was only then that I remembered it was February, and though it now seems like a trivial mistake, the error confused my sense of time. By the fourth day I wasn’t very sure of my tally of the days I had spent on the raft. Was it three? Four? Five? According to my marks, no matter whether it was February or March, it was three days. But I wasn’t very sure, just as I wasn’t sure whether the raft was moving forward or backward. I preferred leaving things as they were to avoid further confusion. And I completely lost all hope that I would be rescued.

I still had not eaten or drunk anything. I didn’t want to think anymore, because it took effort just to organize my thoughts. My skin, burned by the sun, hurt terribly and was covered with blisters. At the naval base the instructor had advised us to make certain, at all costs, not to let the lungs be exposed to the sun’s rays. That was one of my worries. I had taken off my shirt, still wet, and tied it around my waist. Since I hadn’t had any water for three days, it was now impossible to sweat. I felt a deep pain in my throat, in my chest, and beneath my shoulder blades, and so on the fourth day I drank a little sea water. It doesn’t quench your thirst, but it’s refreshing. I had held
off drinking it for so long because I knew that the second time one should drink less, and only after many hours had passed.

Every day at five, astonishingly punctual, the sharks arrived. Then there was a banquet around the raft. Huge fish would jump out of the water and, a few moments later, resurface in pieces. The sharks, crazed, would silently rush up to the bloody surface. So far, they hadn’t tried to smash the raft, but they were attracted to it because of its white color. Everyone knows that sharks are more likely to attack things that are white. Sharks are myopic and only see white or shiny objects. Then I remembered another of the instructor’s recommendations: “Hide all shiny things so as not to draw the sharks’ attention.”

I didn’t have anything shiny—my watch is dark, even its face. But I would have felt better if I had had white things to throw overboard, away from the raft, in the event the sharks tried to jump up over the edge. Just in case, from the fourth day on, I held my oar poised after five each evening, ready to defend myself.

During the night I placed one oar across the raft and tried to sleep. I don’t know if it happened only when I was asleep or also when I was awake, but I saw Jaime Manjarrés every night. We chatted for a while, about everything, and then he disappeared. I grew accustomed to his visits.

When the sun rose I thought I must have been hallucinating, but at night I hadn’t the slightest doubt that Jaime Manjarrés was there on board with me. He tried to go to sleep, too, at dawn on the fifth day. He rested in
silence, with his head on the other oar. Soon he began searching the sea. He said, “Look!”

I looked up. About thirty kilometers from the raft, moving in the same direction as the wind, I saw the intermittent but unmistakable lights of a ship.

It had been hours since I had had the strength to row. But when I saw the lights I pulled myself together, grabbed the oars firmly, and tried to row toward the ship. I watched it slowly advance, and for an instant I saw not only the lights of the mast but also its shadow moving across the first light of dawn.

The wind put up stiff resistance. Even though I rowed furiously, with abnormal strength after four days without eating or sleeping, I don’t think I managed to divert the raft even one meter from the direction in which the wind was blowing it.

The lights grew more distant, and I began to sweat. I was exhausted. After twenty minutes, the lights disappeared completely. The stars began to dim and the sky was tinted a deep gray. Desolate in the middle of the ocean, I let go of the oars, stood up, and, lashed by the icy wind of dawn, screamed like a lunatic for a few minutes.

When I saw the sun again, I was resting on the oar. I was completely spent. Now I saw no chance of being rescued and I began to want to die. But then I thought of something dangerous, and that thought strengthened my will to go on.

On the morning of my fifth day I was determined to change the course of the raft, by whatever means I could. It occurred to me that if I stayed on the course set by the wind, I would reach an island inhabited by cannibals. In Mobile, in a magazine whose name I’ve forgotten, I read a story about a shipwrecked sailor who was devoured by cannibals. But I was thinking more about
The Renegade
Sailor
, a book I had read in Bogotá two years earlier. This is the story of a sailor, during the war, who, after his ship collides with a mine, manages to swim to a nearby island. He stays there for twenty-four hours, eating wild fruit, until the cannibals discover him, throw him in a pot of boiling water, and cook him alive. The thought of that island lingered in my mind. Soon I couldn’t think about the coastline without imagining a region populated by cannibals. For the first time in five days of solitude at sea, my terror was transformed: now I wasn’t as afraid of the sea as I was of land.

At midday I rested on the gunwale, drowsy from the sun and hunger and thirst. I wasn’t thinking about anything. I had no sense of time or of my course. I tried to stand up to test my strength and had the sensation that I couldn’t move my body.

This is the moment, I thought. And in fact it seemed to be the most dreadful moment of all, the one the instructor had described to us: when you lash yourself to the raft. There is an instant in which you feel neither thirst nor hunger, in which you don’t even feel the relentless bite of the sun on your blistered skin. You don’t think. You have no sense of what your feelings are. But still you don’t lose hope. There is still the last recourse of loosening the ropes of the mesh floor and lashing yourself to the raft. During the war many corpses were found like that, decomposed and pecked by birds, yet firmly tied to the raft.

I thought I still had the strength to wait until nightfall before tying myself up. I rolled myself into the bottom of the raft, stretched out my legs, and remained submerged up to my neck for a few hours. When the sun touched the wound on my knee it began to hurt. It was as if it had been awakened. And as if the pain had given me a new desire
to live. Little by little, in the cool water I began to recover my strength. Then I felt a wrenching twist in my stomach and my bowels moved, shaken by a long, deep rumble. I tried to hold out but I couldn’t.

With great difficulty I sat up, undid my belt, lowered my pants, and mercifully relieved myself for the first time in five days. And for the first time the fish, desperate, charged the side of the raft, trying to rip through the thick rope mesh.

The sight of fish, glistening and close by, made me hungry again. For the first time I felt truly desperate. But at the very least, I had some bait. I forgot my exhaustion, grabbed an oar, and prepared to expend the last of my strength in a well-aimed blow to the head of one of the frenzied fish that were jumping at the side of the raft. I don’t know how many times I swung the oar. It felt as if each blow had hit the mark, but I waited in vain for my catch. There was a terrible feast of fish devouring one another, with one shark, belly up, taking his succulent share from the turbulent water.