We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [88]
I'd considered changing course, but it wasn't just myself I was responsible for. And where else would we go? We couldn't last on fish alone, trusting the weather gods for our supplies of water. I felt that my fate was already cast—and inescapable. I had only one thing left to hold on to: my duty as a captain. I had to guide the ship and its crew to safe harbor.
But in making my calculations, I'd forgotten one factor: the sea.
Every sailor knows this bitter feeling: the coast is near, but you'll never reach it. Is there anything more heartbreaking than drowning in sight of land? Is there a single one of us who hasn't at least once felt haunted by the fear of slipping away within sight of a safe haven?
I imagine that drowning is less devastating when a gray, raging sea has wiped out the horizon completely. But to close your eyes for the last time on something precious—a hope, a hand reaching out for you—that must be the worst. Even terror needs a yardstick, and surely the yardstick for the unknown is the known?
We could see land. The green mountains of Samoa appeared on the horizon just as the gale blew in at us—as though it had been lurking behind the island, awaiting our arrival. We held out for twenty-four hours. One moment we'd be flung to the top of a mountainous wave, and we'd get a view of Samoa; the next, another wave would plunge our bow underwater, and it would be just us and the sea again. We never came any closer to our destination, but nor were we dragged farther away. Then a huge wave came and knocked the ship onto her beam ends, and the shrouds and stays that had strained to support the mast gave way with a groan, sending both mast and the rigging tumbling down. It felt as if one of my own limbs had been partially severed and now dangled from my body by a few sinews.
And yet I still believe we could have ridden out the storm. I wasn't short of self-confidence on that deck. But I realized that the real threat to our survival came not from our crippled ship so much as our own fatigue. We were still weak and exhausted from our recent ordeal, and in that state, we were no match for the storm. We had to get to land.
Even though I'd never called at Apia and didn't know the dangers of trying to force the small gap in the reef during a storm, I was aware of exposing all of us to considerable risk. What if we struck the reef and sank? We'd lost our launch during the battle with the natives in the lagoon. Were we about to drown so close to our destination?
I told the Kanaks to chop the mast into pieces and lash them to the yards, to make a makeshift raft that could carry us the final distance across the bay into Apia, in case our attempt to pass the reef failed. Meanwhile I turned the Flying Scud so that she lay cross-wind—a maneuver fully as risky as anything else we were about to do. If a huge wave had crashed on top of us at that moment, that would have been it. We all knew our lives were at stake.
The Kanaks worked hard, concentrating on their axes, and soon the raft was secured to the deck. I'd long since packed my sea chest with my father's boots and Jim. Ordering the Kanaks to tie it to the raft, I straightened up the ship and steered toward the reef.
From the crest of a wave I caught sight of Samoa again, beneath a stormy sky of poisonous purple. The sun had broken through above the island's emerald mountains, suddenly lighting them—but I can't say this heartened me. More, it gave me the feeling that the elements were mocking us and jeering at our vain wish to survive.
As I clasped the helm, I felt the ocean's power: the wheel jerked in my hands as if it were arm-wrestling me, while the waves drove the ship in the direction opposite to its course. Suddenly I felt a new and violent force seize the ship. It was the current, taking our side against the storm and sucking us straight into the bottleneck