Gilboy’s Quest

by Sam Ivey

Chapter V: Capsized
part 4 of 4

Immediately he hove-to. Tearing off the forward hatch cover, he found to his dismay that some ten inches of water were already in the compartment, And more was coming in at an alarming rate. The exploits of this fish had perhaps not been exaggerated in any way. Indeed, they may possibly have been understated. Without doubt, this creature had been arrogantly aggressive; and now for the second time he was in imminent danger of sinking. He began bailing furiously. There must be close onto thirty gallons of water in here, he thought.

And so the process was underway once more: scoop and throw, scoop and throw. How very like Wednesday night it was again. And as before, he was like a machine at the nearly mindless repetitions. Again and again, as he lay sprawled on the deck, his arm plunged into the flooded compartment, each time drawing up perhaps two, maybe three quarts. Ten minutes passed; twenty minutes, the arm growing weary. How fast is it coming in? he wondered.

On and on it went; a slow business it was, working through the little 18” by 24” opening. But eventually he found himself gaining — ever so slowly — but gaining nevertheless. After nearly an hour of exceedingly intense effort, he could see the source: a hole of approximately two inches in diameter and very close to the keel. And through that hole the sea came bubbling like a malicious artesian fountain, intent on his destruction. Perhaps two quarts came bubbling in to every three that he took out. Rags! He needed rags; something with which to plug the hole. Lampwick! Yes, that would work. He had to staunch the flow!

Back to the cockpit, back to where he grabbed any piece of cloth that came to hand. Then back to the leak, where he stuffed an assortment of cloth and lampwick into the hole, jamming it in as tight as possible. Then bail, and then bail some more.

And still there were some four inches of water standing in the boat. Finally, after over two hours of debilitating labor, he had the compartment empty of water. There was still considerable seepage, of course, but it was no longer a fountain; he could keep up with the seepage.

And now he rigged the pump in the cockpit, stuffing the intake hose through one of the limber holes in the watertight partition, and trailing the exhaust hose over the side. With this arrangement he would be able both to steer and to pump as necessary.

It was shortly after sunset when he made a final check of the repairs below. Then he replaced the forward hatch cover and got himself underway. Tired as he was, he determined to keep moving; any time lost was time that could not afford to be lost. So he sailed on until moon down, when the sky became too cloudy to see the stars.

He thought of trying for a few more hours, feeling the pressing need to make as much westing as he could, but the likelihood of steering himself well wide of his course was all too probable, and discretion triumphed over zeal. Thus, with the sea no more than a featureless, obsidian disc, under a starless black sky, he hove-to and succumbed to a dreamless sleep.

A clear and pleasant sky presented itself on Saturday morning. A high sea was running, and Pacific drifted to her drogue. Gilboy awoke to a sun that was well up over the horizon — he had slept late — and to the sound of water; water sloshing about in the forward compartment as the little craft reared and dipped on the rough cut of the sea. The plug of cloth was doing well, but Pacific had — and not surprisingly — made several inches of water overnight. So he set to pumping it out before getting underway.

Then, with the boat skimming delightfully over the bright blueness of the crisp waves, as though oblivious to both of her almost fatal encounters — or conversely, prideful of herself at having survived the two near-sinkings — he took a bit of roasted salmon and a small piece of bread for breakfast. He would have some coffee later.

At noon he took the sun’s altitude and entered in the log: “Lat, by obs.,23.,05 S. Long. acc. 177.,11 E.” His estimates of longitude were now pure guesswork, even more so than previously. For he now had no timepieces whatever. But if his estimations were correct, he had covered 390 miles; 382 according to the taffrail log. Not as good as he would have liked. Still — considering that she was jury-rigged — little Pacific was doing her best. And though he was losing ground when comparing his average of a little less than 56 miles a day to his anticipated 60, he was, nevertheless, both cheerful and confident, feeling that he could not afford to be otherwise.

The cup of hot coffee he had promised himself was a bracer in the early afternoon, and later he relished the rest of what he estimated to be a half-pound of roast salmon, his ration for the day. And thus the afternoon wore on, hour after hour passing without incident.

At midnight, with the weather unchanged, with the sea still running high and frisky and with a fresh southeaster blowing, he chose to heave-to again. Then, in the cramped, damp interior of the cockpit compartment, he wrapped himself in a deep sleep, a profoundly deep sleep that was virtually catatonic, and one that came almost instantly.

* * *

Howard Sutro was on the phone.

“Yes, I realize that the price has fallen on that stock, Mister Fabersham, but it is our considered opinion — and I mean the opinion of the entire office — that our clients not sell.” A pause. “Yes, Sir... Well, today is only December nineteenth; it’s only been a week since the death of that company’s president, and we believe that within another week or so (Marty Franklin, an errand boy rapped on the glass of the office door, and Sutro waved him in) that the company will recover following... Yes Sir, it was a tragic loss... that the aah... (he gestured Franklin to a seat) that the stock will rebound, and continue the general upward climb that we have seen over the past many months. We believe (Franklin laid the San Francisco Chronicle on Sutro’s desk) that... Good Lord!!”

His exclamation was a shout that echoed through the entire office as he bolted from his chair and hung up the phone in one composite motion.

Standing behind his desk, Sutro said, “Have you read this, Marty?”

“Just the headline, Mister Sutro. I brought it right in since I’d heard that this man is a friend of yours.”

“Oh, Marty! Marty, you have no idea what this means to me.”

He stared at the boldface headline: “THE DORY ‘PACIFIC’.” Sub head: “She is Spoken Ninety Days Out from This Port.” He did not bother to read the rest.

“Marty,” he said, putting on his coat and hat and picking up his umbrella, “I’m going home for a while. I’ll be back in about two hours.”

As he started across the outer office, he called over his shoulder to his secretary. “Take my calls for the next couple of hours, Miss Boudreau. Oh! And call Mister Fabersham; apologize for me having hung up on him. Tell him something important — something very important — came up. I’ll call him back.”

At home, he burst through the front door in a great state of fevered excitement; the newspaper was crumpled in his hand like a torch, and he left the door standing open. “Evelyn!!” he shouted. “He’s alive, Evelyn. He is alive!”

“Who’s alive, Dear?” she called from the kitchen. “What are you doing home?”

“Bernard! Bernard is alive; they’ve talked with him; it’s here in the paper!”

There was the sound of shattering glass from the kitchen, and she called, “Oh, dear, I’ve dropped a bottle of milk.”

“Forget the da... Forget the milk and come look at this!”

Evelyn Sutro came from the kitchen, flour smudged on her nose and cheek, a chocolate covered spoon still in one hand. She went to close the door.

Sutro was pacing the living room like a caged animal, holding the paper now in both hands and staring almost in disbelief at the long-awaited good news. Then he sat on the sofa.

“Come. Sit here with me. This is what I’ve been hoping for, Evelyn; what I’ve been praying for.” As she sat he said, “Look at this.”

They read: “The barkentine Tropic Bird, which arrived yesterday from Tahiti, reports having spoken to the dory Pacific, which sailed from this port four months ago for Australia. The encounter with the craft is thus recounted in the log of November 17th:

‘Latitude 14 deg. 50 min. south, longitude 149 deg. 5 min. west; light, variable winds, freshening somewhat toward night. About sunset we discovered a small sail boat off our starboard bow. As we came up abreast of her we hove to and waited for her to come up, thinking she might be in need of some assistance. It was nearly dark before she was near enough to be plainly distinguished, when we made out a small schooner-rigged boat, decked over, with the stars and stripes floating from her mizzen gaff. In answer to our Captain’s “Boat ahoy,” a strong voice came back: “This is the boat Pacific, ninety days out from San Francisco and bound for Brisbane, Australia.” We could hardly credit this assertion at first, but as the little shell came alongside we could see that she was thoroughly equipped for sea service.’”

“Look at that, Evelyn,” he said, punching the paper with his finger. “It says he answered with a strong voice. That’s what it says: ‘a strong voice.’ Can’t you just see Bernard now, standing there on the deck of his little boat, talking to those people way up there above him?”

He stood up and paced again, driving his fist twice into an open palm. “The blamed fool is doin’ it. He’s really doin’ it, Evelyn. They said he wouldn’t, but he’s doin’ it. Tack for the California coast, indeed! Not in a pig’s eye. What does the rest of the article say?” He resumed his seat, and they read on:

“’In answer to our inquiries the Captain said his name was Bernard Gilboy, and that he was making the voyage entirely alone, just to see what could be done. His boat, he said, was less than two tons burden — 1-7/8 exactly. He reported having experienced fine weather throughout the voyage, except between latitude 5 and 8 deg. north, where he had headwinds and calms, and was delayed twenty-nine days. He seemed cheerful and sanguine of success: wanted no assistance, but only wished to inquire our longitude for comparison with his own. We insisted on his accepting some fruit, and as we were both losing a valuable breeze, we wished him success, and separated in our different directions, promising to report him when we arrived in San Francisco.’”

Now they sat in silence for a short while, the intensity of the euphoria subsiding before his wife said, “Howard, where is this place; this latitude fourteen degrees, fifty minutes south, longitude a hundred and forty-nine degrees, five minutes west?”

“Lord, I don’t know. A long way from here to be sure.”

“Don’t you have a map in your study that we could look at?”

“Yes! Yes, of course, of course. I’ll get it.”

When he returned, they sat on the floor and spread the map. It took some small while locating the coordinates, he finding them first because of his amateur interest in things nautical.

“Oh my goodness!” she said softly. “He really has gone a long way, hasn’t he.”

“A whole lot farther than those shortsighted naysayers at the newspapers thought he would go. Well, they’re eating crow now.”

Pointing at the map, she went on. “Just look at all those little islands. I wonder if he stopped at any of them.”

“Hard to tell,” Sutro said as he got up from the floor. “Like the Captain of the ship said, Bernard was well supplied. And unless he really needed something, I don’t think he would take a chance on... well, on meeting some unfriendly people. Is there any coffee left from breakfast?”

“There’s a little,” she said as he was leaving the room. “I haven’t cleaned the pot out yet.” She paused. “I suppose you’re probably right about him not stopping.”

In the kitchen, he struck a match and turned on the gas. The enameled percolator made a small scraping sound as he moved onto the flaming burner.

“I wonder where he is now?” he heard her say.

He walked back into the room and stood looking down at the map, his wife still sitting, leaning on one arm.

“Well, it’s been a month since he was sighted — over a month. So he’s a far piece closer to Australia than he was.” He moved away to a window where he looked out into the gray San Francisco afternoon. He stood with both hands in his pockets. “Don’t you wonder what he’s doing right about now? Damn!! I hope he’s still okay.”

“Howard, please!! Your language.”

To be continued...