Gilboy’s Quest

by Sam Ivey

Chapter VII: Quest’s End
part 2 of 4

There was no pattern to his reading. He would simply open the book to a place at random and read what he would find. Today he chanced upon the book of Job. He had told Sutro that he felt he would find comfort in this book. And now he did, particularly as he read the brief account of this ancient man’s life. So on this Friday afternoon he immersed himself with deep fellow feeling into some few verses, likewise chosen at random. His eyes had moved swiftly over the two pages that lay open, stopping abruptly at the third verse in chapter three.

There he read: “Let the day perish wherein I was born, and the night in which it was said: A man child is conceived. Let that day be turned into darkness, let not God regard it from above, and let not the light shine upon it. Let darkness, and the shadow of death cover it, let a mist overspread it, and let it be wrapped up in bitterness. Let a darksome whirlwind seize upon that night, let it not be counted in the days of the year, nor numbered in the months.”

Then his eyes fell on verses eleven through thirteen: “Why did I not die in the womb, why did I not perish when I came out of the belly? Why received upon the knees? Why suckled at the breasts? For now I should have been asleep and still, and should have rest in my sleep.”

Then, closing his eyes, he lay reflecting on what he had read, thinking that perhaps death might not be as bad as most had made it out to be. After all, Job seemed more than desirous of it. But on the other hand, he was no Job. And then the lurid recounts of hell and purgatory, about which the priests and nuns had sermonized ad infinitum, flamed up in his imagination. And doubting his own purity, he thought that life might still be the better of death. Upon that conclusion, he pulled the hatch cover in place and allowed the sea to lull him to sleep. There was after all, nothing else to do.

Saturday morning found conditions little changed. The wind still stood in the north, although somewhat moderated from yesterday. Still, he felt it too brisk for getting underway, and he could foresee another fruitless day, a frustrating day of more food being consumed, with no recompense in westward progress. At noon he took the sun’s altitude, recording in the log his position as being at 23º, 18’ south. Two weeks ago he had been at 22º, 38’ south. Those numbers meant that he was now 40 miles below his desired latitude, and with the wind still holding he was losing ground every day. As to his longitude, he could generate little more than guesswork. But choosing a figure with some relevance, he posted it as being 168º, 9’ east. Any hope of making sail later that afternoon was dashed, as the wind continued to strengthen out of the north. So he remained hove-to, and on through the night.

His rest that night was fitful and brief, and he awoke early on Sunday. He shoved off the hatch cover that had sheltered him from the passing squalls, and stuck his head above the deck. Though the weather was clearing to the east, he was looking up into a gray, expressionless overcast, and into a wind that was still strongly foul. His eyes swept the featureless seam, where the sea and sky were sewn together, before looking behind him and being surprised to find another small bird sitting on the after end of the boat.

It seemed wholly at ease, and he wondered that it had not flown away since he had made more than a little noise. But there it sat, and he watched it quietly now, looking for an opportunity to catch it. Now and again it would bob its head and give a little flutter to its wings as it maintained its balance. For several seconds that seemed infinite, he watched, waiting. Then, when the little feathered thing turned its head to peck at its tail, he made a desperate grab. His big hand closed over the startled wings that were trying to spread, and he had it; it would never fly again. It died quickly of a broken neck.

It was another of the same sort that had tried to land on the mast just a week ago; a dark little bird, about the size of a small pigeon. Certainly it was no great amount of meat, and especially so after he had skinned it, hoping it would taste better than the one he had eaten before. Besides, he did not want to deal with all of those the pinfeathers again, and the thought of singeing them away had not occurred to him. But he cooked it; and mixing fresh water with and seawater, he made some soup. As he ate, he thought profoundly about the fact that from now on his staying alive was going to depend solely upon such fortuitous catches, as his meager stores now consisted of only one rusted, two-pound can of beef, a bit of alcohol and five gallons of water.

He remained hove-to throughout the balance of the day, and on through the night and all of Monday as well, when the wind began to incline to the northeast. It was not until noon on Tuesday, with the wind and ocean moderating somewhat, that he took the sun’s angle and found himself at 23º, 57’ south — another 39 miles farther south since last Saturday. And now, over the course of next few hours, he pondered his situation. The wind notwithstanding, he simply had to get underway. This fatally inert drifting, that had been going on for the last four days, had to be corrected. It was then late on Tuesday afternoon, around six o’clock, when he brought the drogue aboard and laid his course west by north.

In his heart he harbored the hope — albeit a thin one — that the island of New Caledonia might still lay ahead of him, still to the west. And if it did, he reasoned that he should sight it off his port bow in about a day or two. If on the other hand, and with greater probability, he had already left the island in his wake, his being farther to the north would still be of benefit, putting him more in the way of crossing the path of some vessel sailing north out of Sydney or Wollongong. In either case, he concluded that the northerly course was decidedly to be preferred over continuing to head due west, because he needed to do something to find help. His situation was growing progressively more desperate.

Another difficulty lay in the fact that sailing at night, when additional miles could have been logged, was no longer deemed a viable procedure. Assuredly it was one he definitely preferred, because in addition to the extra miles, there are some things that may be seen better at night than in the day. In his quest for New Caledonia, for example, he realized that the island would be much easier to see at night, its lights showing brightly against the ocean’s blackness, radiating against whatever cloud cover there might be. By contrast, during the day it would be seen only as a dull gray mass that lay almost hidden among those same clouds along the horizon.

But his strength was waning and exhaustion came easily. If there were to be some emergency in the dark — one that could have been avoided in the daylight — he might not have the stamina to cope with it successfully. So every night saw the little boat hove-to, and many precious hours of progress being surrendered.

Wednesday and Thursday passed with the horizon unbroken; there was no land. That for which he had devoutly wished was not going to be, and the opportunity to obtain food and water was not going to present itself. There was, however, a shadow of good fortune: on both of those days a bird alighted on the boat. And on each of those days he was able to catch them. Some flying fish had come aboard as well, but they were exceedingly small, two or three inches at most. They were food, however, and after removing the scales and fins he cooked them whole. One of the birds he kept over, and it became breakfast on Friday.

And now today was Saturday, January 13th. His estimate of five months for the journey had been quite correct, but it had not allowed for the disaster of the capsize and the subsequent loss of foods and equipment. And he was, by his estimate, still some 500 miles from Australia. Such was his situation as he considered it on the afternoon of his 149th day at sea.

It was about three o’clock that afternoon when he ate the last of the meat — about two ounces — and as he did so, he reflected that in the last six days he had used up two pounds of beef, three small birds and some flying fish. Everything, with the exception of a few gallons of water and a bit of alcohol, was now gone. Everything! From this time on, all of his sustenance would come from the sea.

Sunday was a day of decision. Since determining to try for New Caledonia five days ago, he had sailed as far north as 22º south latitude, a distance that would assuredly have brought him in contact with the island had it not already been to the east of him. But now, with the hope of making the island having been abandoned, he decided that he would stand once again to the west. There was still the slim possibility of being seen by another ship. Barring that, however, he must make as much westing as he could. Particularly was this so since the winds, while still very strong, were tending to become generally lighter, and calms were occurring with disturbing frequency. So as he hove-to that evening at sundown, his determination was to turn west in the morning.

Throughout the next morning he sailed, following Pacific’s shadow on the water, watching it grow shorter as noon approached. There was an easy sea and a fair wind, and despite it being a day without food, and only a little water, there was a positive air about it. Because today, for the first time in several days, he felt that he was at least making some progress.

Sitting at the helm, he allowed his mind to reflect on some of the events of the past few weeks. He still found it necessary to pump water from the forward part of the boat, where the swordfish had left its mark, while the makeshift tiller in his hand was a constant reminder of the capsize in the dark hours of several days ago. Looking at it, he considered the way he had attached it to the boat with a length of line, allowing him to leave the rig in the water when he hove-to.

After mulling it over, it occurred to him that perhaps he should use a heavier line, and that only the small measure of good fortune that had come his way was responsible for it not having been lost already. Prompted by that thought, he rummaged in a locker, found the piece of line he wanted, and reattached the jury-rigged rudder.

On through the day he sailed, pursuing the sun until it escaped below the horizon, a place where no seaman could go on any day. Then onward still to the west, until the last glowing embers of the day’s fire were swallowed in twilight’s deepening purple, and then in blackness. As the darkness came on, he brought Pacific’s bow into the wind, dropped all the sails, and then went forward to loose the lashings on the drogue and shove it over the side.

Returning to the cockpit, the thought of food was strong in his mind, and for just a moment he sat reflecting on the fact that now would have been the time for his evening meal; this would have been the time for a hot cup of coffee. Then in the midst of his contemplation, there came a terrible realization: the makeshift rudder was gone.

Abruptly he stood — his eyes straining to see anything on the dark surface of the water. There was nothing. Then he sat again, reaching out to touch the knotted line that was still tied to the gunnel. It was, as intended, a heavier line than he had used originally. But this one was of cotton, visibly well salted, and it was quite stiff. Lacking flexibility, it had allowed the oar to work itself free. He struggled to curb the black wave of despondency that swept over him, but there was nothing to be done, not tonight. Tomorrow he would see to a new rudder.

He was, as usual, up at sunrise, ravenous this morning for a cup of coffee. How long had it been since he had had a cup of coffee? He could not remember. Then he abandoned such thinking, and focused on the matter of prime concern, that of fashioning a rudder; and for that, he needed wood.

Sitting there in the cockpit, both his mind and his eyes surveyed the crippled vessel, searching for wood that could be used to craft a rudder of sufficient strength. There was precious little that could be sacrificed, but he finally decided that the doors from two cockpit lockers might lend themselves quite handsomely, along with wood that could be stripped from around the deck opening for the now missing mainmast. With the work now in focus, he set about the task.

There was no saw. He stroked his forehead with his fingertips and shook his head. Why had he not brought a saw? Again he was reminded of Sutro’s question: “Have you forgotten anything?” And now he thought, Yes, I’ve forgotten a saw. So the hatchet and one of the knives would have to do, making cutting the wood a particularly laborious process, and requiring great care so as to not make an error. There was no room for error. This was all the wood he had.

All through the morning he worked at chopping and whittling, carefully sizing each piece. And all the while, thinking about how would he hang the thing when it was finished. He fervently wished he could have been spared the pintles from the rudder that was destroyed in the capsize; right at that moment he wished for them devoutly. But as his mother used to say, “If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” And if ever there was a beggar in that proverbial sense, he was one now: about as pedestrian as it was possible for one to be.

He was nearly finished with the manufacturing, when he remembered the two tines he had taken from the fish spear, the ones he had kept to make additional spears if needed. That need had not occurred, and now they would become the pintles of his new rudder.

It was after 2:00 in the afternoon when he was finally able to ship the slab-like affair, and he was extraordinarily pleased to find that it swung quite freely, and that it would apparently work very well. However, with the sea running quite high, and having already consumed the major part of his diminishing strength, he decided to remain hove-to until tomorrow.

All through the night the wind held its edge, remaining very brisk. And as he slept a restless sleep, he could feel the boat moving uneasily and tugging at her drogue, could hear water sloshing about in the forward compartment. But again and again he returned to the Land of Morpheus, until finally, and despite his fatigue, he was able to sleep no more. So he rose at sunrise to find both wind and sea a bit more moderate. That being so, he hauled the drogue aboard, hoisted sail and got underway, sailing across an ocean of very intense blue — a radiant blue that appeared the color of pure, flawless sapphire, its great easy billows heaving away to the horizon. And on them rode little Pacific, with her jaunty jib-boom pointing the way. Skyward it would now point, and then with a swaggering roll to starboard or to port, it would be thrust downward, like a rapier; downward toward the trough, as she slid down the back side of a wave, carving her own furrow in the unmarkable deep.

Proceed to part 3...