Gilboy’s Quest

by Sam Ivey

Chapter IV: Tradewinds
part 2 of 3

What had now become the regular schedule — whenever he felt the need for sleep — was to lower the foresail, balance the main and jib against each other, lash the tiller to hold course, and give the boat over to the wind and to fortune.

Fortune on Thursday included the arrival of a swordfish. Gilboy watched it with a certain amount of concern. There had been stories; he had heard them: stories of this sort of fish stabbing their rapier-like bills into wooden boats such as his. He knew of no sinkings having occurred due to such an encounter, and he was not personally aware of any documented record of this even happening. It even seemed that the likelihood of such was quite remote, and assuredly he hoped that was the case.

Nevertheless, the tales he had heard, though very likely sheening with the wax of exaggeration, seemed to carry the ring of truth; and being now personally in the immediate presence of the beast, said tales had suddenly taken on the disturbing aspect of genuine possibility, if not of absolute gospel.

This was the first of such fish he had seen on the voyage, and it did indeed appear as a more than able opponent. For about an hour it chose to remain with him, following the boat and spending far too much time uncomfortably close as well. When compared with the size of his vessel, he estimated it to be about 8 feet in length, some 3 feet of which was constituted of a prodigious sword-like nose. He estimated that it weighed perhaps as much as 200 pounds.

Several times it darted at the boat with alarming swiftness, streaking through the water and giving every impression that it was most assuredly intent on penetrating Pacific’s hull. Each time, however, it passed under the boat, inflicting no damage, and finally swam away. Gilboy’s pulse returned to normal.

The weather continued glorious. With the exception of a few passing squalls, it was the kind of weather most persons tended to associate with the South Sea Islands. The tales of Captain James Cook, and of the exotic island paradise that he had named the Sandwich Islands over a hundred years ago, had captured the imagination of both Europe and the western world.

And just ahead of him, slightly over 60 miles to the south-southwest, lay the Marquesas, from which many of the Sandwich Island inhabitants — the Hawaiians — had originally come. He was now where many dreamers back in Buffalo, and in other places, believed they would prefer to be. He knew, because he had been one of those dreamers. And now he was living that dream.

So on this Saturday morning, November 4th, under an azure sky that was accented with mountains of brilliantly white, cotton-like cumulus clouds, and with Pacific being swept along by a pleasant east wind that swung occasionally to the southeast, he felt particularly fine. There were a few passing squalls, but they were light and infrequent while the sun was a nearly constant companion, glittering like numberless millions of lightening flashes on the water; water that was a rich regal blue. Both Pacific and the ocean after which she had been named were behaving well.

At noon, a sunshot placed him at 6º, 53’ south. His estimate as to his longitude was 140º, 25’ west. If his calculations were all correct, he had covered 470 miles in the last week. He was now almost 400 miles below the Equator and well into the tradewinds; winds that now blew upon him with a graciously beneficent breath.

In sharp contrast with his present environment, he thought of the people in Buffalo. Fall was well advanced there now, and the chill of winter was almost upon them. It was not at all improbable that there could be snow already. As he lay on the deck, basking in the warmth of the sub-equatorial sun, lullabied by the deck’s gentle, easy pitching, he marveled at the disparity.

It would be Christmas soon, and he tried to remember the last one he had spent with the family. Had he been with them last year? Or was it two years ago? Yes, of course it was last year; he had not been in San Francisco an entire year before sailing in August. It just seemed so long ago. There, alone on the ocean, time had a different relevancy. It was as if all the rest of world had ceased, and there was now nothing but ocean.

He did recall one Christmas, however. He had been in the sixth grade, and his father had bought him a new sled; it was a most wonderful sled, an American Flyer. He could still see himself running with it, running down the center of Forest Street — there being virtually no traffic in the winter — and then throwing himself and the sled down onto the hard packed snow and sliding, sliding, sliding — as far as momentum would carry. He remembered the snow forts, too, and the snowball fights; the “snow angels.” And then, with his memory frosted with snow and his body bathed in the soft tropical warmth, he slept.

Another week passed, with the trades moving him steadily toward his destination. There were still occasional bursts of rain, but fair weather predominated while the wind remained constantly from the east. And as it swung northward and southward behind him, he would find himself either broad reaching on a starboard tack, or beam reaching on a port tack. So redundant had the daily events become, with Pacific still trimmed to virtually sail herself, that he had ceased to make even the weekly entries in the log. Only if something of significance occurred, did he make such an entry.

On Saturday, November 11th, he posted himself as being at 11º, 33’ south by observation, and at 144º, 28’ west by dead reckoning. It was a calculated position, of course, and it accorded him a distance traveled of 370 miles over the past week. The taffrail log, however, indicated the distance as being only 320 miles. But he felt that the former seemed more in keeping with the boat’s performance, as well as with the fact that he was now more than 600 miles below the Equator. That was far enough, he reasoned, to have left the Equatorial Current behind — to the north that is — and also far enough south for him to be on the northern edge of the Peru Current; the one that comes sweeping up along the western coast of South America, to turn just below the continent’s shoulder and bear due west. That was the current he was now riding.

For no particular reason he had taken note of the fact that there were now a great many fish following the boat. These were small fish, and Gilboy realized that for predators in these waters they were like a moving banquet. What subsequently occurred was therefore easily predictable: the sharks came. Not just a shark, such as had been the case a few weeks ago, but now they came in formidable numbers.

The most unnerving aspect of the matter was that they seemed to prefer coming at night. After a couple of days he concluded that their pattern was to do their hunting in the dark hours, and it frightened him to be awakened by the heavy, ominous blows they delivered to the underside of the boat, as they sought mouthfuls of food.

If he happened to be awake just shortly before daylight he could see them, or with the moon shining, even in the darkness as they showed themselves at the stern of the boat. Swifter than horses appeared their sleek, gray, cartilaginous bodies, and their ridged dorsal fins carved telltale V’s in the water. Then they would accelerate, submerging under the boat and striking its bottom in a most terrifying manner as they rolled onto their sides. And then they would run, with their gaping maws close along the boat’s bottom, scooping in their hapless prey.

As daylight came on, they would take up positions as though they were an escort, cruising at various distances but always keeping the boat in sight. Should the sky darken, as when a squall would move overhead, they would again close on the vessel. And curiously on such occasions, the little fish that usually swam under the boat would then swim close to the surface and close alongside. It appeared to be a survival tactic, and one that gained them greater success in eluding their opponents’ devastating attacks; attacks that would more than decimate their numbers.

As for himself, he tried an assortment of methods to keep the sharks at bay. For without a doubt, he feared them every bit as much, if not more, than did the fish. Occasionally he shot at them with the revolver, but without any great accuracy. And he jabbed at them with his spear, with an even lesser measure of success.

At the outset, the spear he had used to obtain the bonito a few weeks ago was largely ineffective, its configuration being somewhat unusual. Its head was comprised of five points; like an open box with each corner being a barbed point and there being one in the center. While it was fine for catching fish, it did not work so well against the sharks, since the head tended to spread the force of the thrust over a larger area. Then he remembered that there was a key that could be removed, a key that would release two of the corner points and leave the remaining three in a row.

This having been done, he saved the two points he had removed; his intention being to make them into additional spears later if that was needed. In addition, he honed the remaining three to a keener sharpness. It was an arrangement that proved quite successful, as he found that he could often get the spear into the back of a shark that was close alongside. And after being struck, it would have a difficult time getting free.

A by-product of this operation was also very satisfying. Sharks are adverse to pain, and it was with pain that they quickly came to associate his shape on deck. The result was that they became much more cautious in approaching the boat. When he would sleep during the day, however, they became bold again. So he conceived of another means to keep them at a distance.

Using one of his older shirts, he stuffed it with other clothing and then set it up at the tiller as if he were steering the boat. He found that it would answer on some occasions, and the sharks’ sorties were at least fewer in number. But ownership of the dark hours remained theirs, and for the several days that they remained with him, he never ceased to hear the horrid, unnerving thumps in the blackness of the night.

They were still with him on the 15th, Wednesday, when he noted in the log that a school of dolphins had also taken to following the boat. As he made the entry, there came to his mind stories he had often heard about these beautiful creatures. Tale after tale had been told of how they had, on occasions, kept drowning seamen afloat, of how they had even pushed them to the nearest land while fending off predacious sharks. It was with sad surprise, therefore, that he watched the sharks invade the teeming mass of these gentle mammals. And despite their brave efforts at defense, the water would be stained quite red with a number of kills before the remainder of the school could escape.

Breakfast on Friday consisted of nothing more than pickled pig’s feet and coffee. He dearly missed the bread that would normally have been a part of the meal, but ever since the demoralizing inventory on October 28th, he had begun limiting his allowance. Calculating that he probably had another three months at sea meant that he could permit himself no more than 25 pounds each month. And this he chose to further reduce to 20 pounds to provide a margin of safety. Subsequently, on two out of every three days, he enjoyed a pound of bread, while every third day was a breadless day. Today was one of such.

The weather throughout the past week, however, had been nearly all that he could have desired, and today was no exception. The wind had remained steady from the eastern quadrant, light but with no calms, and there had been little rain. During all of that time, the sharks had continued their pursuit of the boat, glutting themselves on the infinite supply of fish, while his anxiety about them grew not one whit less.

Today they were still with him, and he noted in addition that there was more than the usual number of birds now, boobies as well as the ubiquitous albatrosses. He was especially happy to see the boobies, because that was to be expected if his estimated longitude was correct. It would mean that the island of Makatea, in the Marquesas, could be as little as 60 some miles off his port quarter. If that were so, it was something of an additional confirmation of his location.

But the day passed, eventless as far as the log was concerned, until six o’clock that evening. He had been dozing on the deck, and he was gently shaken back to wakefulness by an irregular wave. He sat up, stretched, and was giving some thought to what he should have for dinner, when he sighted a sail to the southward; the ship was hull-down and standing to the north-northeast. The sun was still high in the western sky, causing her sails to radiate brilliantly white against the deep blue of the horizon. A flood of excitement surged through him. This was the first sail he had seen in over two months. He was parched for companionship, starving to hear another voice, and he altered course immediately, bearing away on a port tack to the south.

Proceed to part 3...