Read Will to Live: Dispatches from the Edge of Survival Online
Authors: Les Stroud
Will to Live: Dispatches from the Edge of Survival (16 page)
Bad weather was scarce. In fact, in the many weeks they spent on the boat, it seems like they really only had to contend with one wicked thunderstorm that required that everyone play a part to keep the dinghy afloat. It seemed to be one of the few times the twins actually helped out with a chore or job, this time by bailing. I find it unforgivable that they were still being babied, to the point where Lyn even feared that they might fall asleep and drown in the few inches of water that occasionally filled the bottom of the raft.
The rain may have provided ample water, but the drawback was its effect on the food they left out to dry. Rather than become the jerky they had hoped for, it was now covered with a foul-tasting, slimy film. Dougal, worried that they would become ill by eating it, threw the turtle meat overboard. It’s a good idea to prevent sickness in a survival situation (the last thing you want to have to contend with is diarrhea or vomiting), but it would have been better to anticipate the spoiling of the meat and eat it before it got to that point.
As the calendar progressed, the Robertsons seemed to reach a comfortable state of equilibrium with the sea. Their great ingenuity saw them regularly employ new modifications that made their lives easier. Lyn had the brilliant idea of leaving the turtle fat out in the sun to render. Soon they had jars filled with beautiful turtle oil, which she not only administered as enemas to keep their intestinal tracts working, but also rubbed on their various skin lesions, which soon began to heal. For his part, Dougal was still driven by the idea of harvesting dorado from the sea, and he created numerous variations on a fishing spear. None proved fruitful, until day thirty-two, when Dougal finally realized that, instead of spearing the fish from above, he could fashion a gaff hook, snag dorado from their soft underbellies, and toss them into the boat.
It was a fantastic idea, and one that finally proved effective. Eventually, Dougal became an expert at gaffing. This is a recurring theme in survival: when you try some type of activity over and over again, you will, in time, become expert at it. Dougal’s newfound fishing expertise was a boon for the Robertsons’ diet as well as their water intake, as rain had not fallen for many days and their supply was again getting desperately low.
The Robertsons certainly were motivated to collect as much food and water as possible: their plan was not to float to safety, but rather to paddle to it. Dougal estimated that, once they had floated past the Doldrums, they would need another couple of weeks of paddling to get them to the coast of Central America. They would need all the food they could get to keep the rowers fit and strong.
Day thirty-five came with cloudy, rainy weather, a welcome change from the hot sun that had been beating down upon them almost mercilessly for days. Here, for the first time in more than a month, they realized they could use their extra piece of sailcloth to collect water instead of the rubbery yellow catchment material of the raft. As the rain intensified, they were happy to see that the sail held the water long enough for it to be transferred to jars and plastic bags. It was a valuable insight, but one it shouldn’t have taken a month to figure out.
Though they had a fair supply of food on board the
Ednamair,
it did not stop them from becoming excited when yet another turtle bumped against the underside of the boat. Dougal called to switch places with Robin, who was in the front of the dinghy, but after more than a month at sea, Robin seemed to feel he was up to the task of pulling the turtle into the craft. He reached over the side of the boat, grabbed the turtle by its flippers, and felt it slide from his grasp. He was not strong enough to get it into the boat.
Dougal lost control. He slapped Robin in the face, then cursed and scolded him severely for what he called Robin’s stupidity. Yet if anyone was acting foolishly and stupidly in this situation, it was Dougal. He was the one with the knowledge, but he refused to share it, just as he refused to teach the others how to steer the boat. Robin was larger than anyone else on the dinghy, and easily should have been as strong as Dougal. Teaching Robin (and Douglas, for that matter) how to catch turtles would have ensured the family’s survival had something happened to Dougal.
Day thirty-seven brought a discussion of the trip ahead. They now had an ample supply of food for the grueling paddle to the coast. The only thing left to do was fill up the new water bag they had fashioned out of the flotation collar that had once been wrapped around the bow of the boat. It had sprung so many holes that it was useless for its original purpose, but would hold as much as seven gallons of water in its new incarnation. The bag was almost full; paddling could not be far off. Dougal estimated they were approximately 350 miles away, a distance they could cover in a little more than two weeks.
Rains that evening brought the bag a little closer to full, and Dougal again set to the task of gaffing more dorado. He stuck the hook into the underbelly of a twenty-five-pounder, but as he tried to toss the fish into the boat, he was shocked to feel the lines snap and the gaff go limp in his hands. His last hook had snapped off, and there was little else he’d be able to do to catch fish. Yet, as disappointment began to wash over Dougal, he looked up and saw that the tiny
Ednamair
was laden with a rich store of dried meat. Even if they caught no more turtles, there was likely enough food to get them to the coast alive.
They would never find out. Late in the day, as twilight was beginning to settle across the horizon and they engaged in yet another lively discussion of Dougal’s Kitchen, Dougal’s expression went blank. “A ship,” he said. They all remembered the disappointment of their previous encounter with a ship, so when he stepped up on the center thwart with a flare in his hand, everyone held their breath. He lit the flare and waved it high over his head as long as he could bear the burning sensation in his fingers. When he could stand the pain no longer, he threw the flare as high and far as he could into the sea. He grabbed another flare and did the same. Was the ship altering course? Frantically, he reached for their last flare, their last chance at salvation, and pulled the striker. Nothing happened. The flare was a dud.
He screamed for the flashlight, so that he could send a distress signal in Morse code across the evening sky. He didn’t need to. The ship had changed course and was heading their way. They were saved!
When the
Toka Maru II—
a Japanese fishing trawler—pulled alongside the
Ednamair,
Dougal, his wife and children, and Robin felt a feeling of elation like they had never felt before. Soon they and the dinghy were on board the ship. They were weak and unable to walk because of all the time they had spent in the cramped quarters of the raft and dinghy, but were otherwise fine.
Over the course of the next four days, the kindly crew of the
Toka Maru II
treated the Robertsons like royalty. They ate, bathed, and slept the days away until they arrived back in Panama. Ten days later, Robin flew back to England.
The Robertson family chose to make the return trip, ironically enough, by ship.
The Robertsons
ELEMENTS OF SURVIVAL
Knowledge 10%
Luck 45%
Kit 20%
Will to Live 25%
Almost an even split across the board. Dougal and his family had a nice mix of everything you need to get through a survival situation. They certainly had knowledge, though it was largely limited to Dougal’s seamanship and Lyn’s medical knowledge; their sea survival skills were fairly minimal. Luck was a huge factor in their survival, whether it was gifts of food from the sea, water from the sky, or the rescue ship that stumbled across their path. Dougal had no emergency survival kit of his own, but the one on the life raft was a huge boon to the family’s survival. Finally, he and his family had an intense will to live, as illustrated by their decision not to rely on rescue for their salvation, but to paddle themselves to safety, if need be.
Sixty feet below the surface of the warm Caribbean Sea, sediment from an old shipwreck is stirred up and visibility is reduced to a foot in front of my face. Particles swirl around my oxygen tank and regulator, blotting out the view through my dive mask. In the meantime, I’m being bumped and jostled by huge beings covered in skin with the feel of rubbery sandpaper, their mouths filled with razor-sharp teeth. One tries to go between my legs, another hits my shoulder with the force of a hockey check.
Less than twenty-four hours ago, I received my dive certification. Most people get their certification and complete at least ten open-water dives to gain experience before they start pushing the limits. Yet there I was, on my first dive ever, trying to stay balanced on the deck of a Caribbean shipwreck. I just hoped I was breathing correctly.
I struggle to hold my body in a comfortable position, a proposition made much more difficult by the heavy cage full of dead fish I hold in one hand and the spear in the other. I’m attempting to feed the twenty-five reef sharks circling around me, all ravenous for a taste.
Ten feet away swim two cameramen who capture it all on film. Idiotic, you say? Probably. But for some reason, TV producers are obsessed with ratings, and they seem to think that my role as Survivorman makes me a suitable candidate for this kind of thing.
To be fair, I
did
grow up a huge fan of Jacques Cousteau. So, after forty-five years of snorkeling experience, when the chance came to dive with sharks, I jumped in headfirst.
When I was asked to host the twenty-fifth anniversary of Shark Week for the Discovery Channel, I may have played it cool on the phone, but I was jumping for joy. Sometimes, the chance for the thrill of a lifetime has to be accepted without questioning the repercussions. The opportunity may not return.
Coast of Florida
I grew up wanting to be like Tarzan. I watched those Johnny Weissmuller movies religiously every Saturday morning. But our shark wrangler, Manny Puig, actually thinks he
is
Tarzan. Hell, he might actually be! “I’m going to get you to catch a ride on a great hammerhead shark’s dorsal fin, Les!” Manny proclaims. “I’m in!” I call back.
Three hours later, Manny and I float in the gulf waters off the coast of Florida, me in my trunks and Manny in his Speedo. Manny scrapes a knife against the side of a dead fish (the sound is supposed to attract hammerhead sharks); I’m trying not to swallow salt water through my snorkel. Suddenly, producer Scott Gurney screams, “Get Les out of the water—
now
!”
I pretend not to hear, and dunk my head under the water to get ready for the ride. The hammerhead is about ten feet below me, doing side-to-side chomps on the bait; the sound is remarkably audible under the water. Without warning, Manny grabs my forearm and slams my hand down onto the shark’s surprisingly rough dorsal fin. I’m not ready, and haven’t yet taken a full breath of air, so off I go on a seven-foot-long shark ride of naturalist, shark-loving bliss. The hammerhead comes back a few more times, and I free dive down to caress him on a few of his passes until he swims away.
But Manny isn’t through with me yet. Next, he wants me to hand-feed a lemon shark. Don’t let the name fool you: lemon sharks can be very aggressive and are big enough to rip a man to pieces. “They can be really nasty, these lemons,” he cautioned. “Without warning, they just get pissed at you, turn around, and snap your hand off.”
Nevertheless, I’m soon floating in six feet of murky water with two-foot visibility, with Manny again scraping dead fish. This is just eerie, because I can’t see a thing. There will be no warning. The big lemon shark will just appear out of nowhere and cruise past my very bare feet, all while I’m holding bait in my hand and scraping it with a knife.
Four hours into the test, I dangle the fish below my body, trying not to think about the cramps developing in my arm. Finally, a big lemon rises from the depths, lifts its head, and rips the dead fish from my hand.
Mission complete.
Bahamas
Dive shop owner Stuart Cove and I kneel beside one another, forty-five feet underwater on the deck of a rotting shipwreck. The twenty-five Caribbean reef sharks circling us, some as long as nine feet, come within inches of us to take a hunk of fish off our spears.
As the pieces start to get smaller, my confidence increases, so I figure I’ll just use my hands. Big mistake. I’m waving a juicy morsel of tuna in the water when a shark suddenly turns more quickly than I expect and takes the bait—and my hand!—in its mouth.
The shark chomps down on me. I’m surprised by the feeling, which is very similar to the bite of a large dog. It’s a good thing I’m wearing protective chain-mail gloves, because otherwise I’d be typing this manuscript with only one hand.
The shark’s teeth cut down to my knuckle, but, thanks to the chain mail, not through. I thrash and pull my hand out while delivering a left jab to the shark’s side to push it away. As it turns, it takes the cameraman’s arm in its mouth; fortunately, he too is wearing chain-mail gloves.
When we surface, my air has run out due to the excitement. But that doesn’t stop me from yelling, “That had to be the coolest thing I have ever done!”
