Gilboy’s Quest

by Sam Ivey

Chapter VI: Phantom Island
part 3 of 3

* * *

‘In the pale amber light of a tranquil dawn, I could see my long shadow precede me as I moved about the deck, checking the makeshift rigging of my little craft and preparing to get underway. To the west of me, on this Tuesday morning, December 26th, the conical peak of Matthew Island was already aglow, like a great golden rock radiating a light that was all its own. Then, as the sun’s fiery caress continued to strip the darkness from the cold, sterile slopes, and as the fringe of gray-white surf appeared to materialize around its hostile sides, rising shoreless from the dark waters, I could see that Matthew was rather like two islands. The southeastern part of it seemed to stand alone, and I thought perhaps there might be a passage between those two parts that would allow for my westward course, as I desired to keep to the south of the island. I brought the drogue aboard and set sail to explore the possibility.

‘The morning hours passed as I drew closer to the dark monolith, and though I was hungry, I did not permit myself any breakfast. Coming well in under the land, it became more and more apparent to me that the two parts were joined by a reef, standing well above water and about four miles in length, and that a passage was impossible. Disappointed, I put the boat about, close hauled to the wind, and lay my course to the north. Hours passed before I discovered that here too I was rebuffed and turned back by my inanimate opponent. Here again were reefs, extending out from the island eight and ten miles into the sea. I would have to go farther north, perhaps a hundred miles, I thought; and since darkness would soon be upon me, and such reef-filled waters were too hazardous to be navigated at night, I hove-to.

‘Wednesday passed without any events deserving of mention, and I hove-to at sundown, putting the drogue over the side to hold my position as well as possible. Yesterday, I had eaten a small amount of beef, and today, before going to bed, I had a bit of fish. I am in perilous and pressing need of both food and water, and they have become the subjects of my every prayer. The “Our Father” has taken on new meaning for me. “Give us this day our daily bread.” Oh, God! How I long for bread. Looking at the log I can see it has been only four days since the last of the bread was eaten, but it seems longer — much, much longer. Such a simple thing, bread; yet its absence is very like the absence of breath to me. I slept well.

‘When I awoke Thursday, I found the boat anchored, as it were, tethered by the line that attaches the taffrail log. Somehow, during the night, it had entangled itself in some rocks on the bottom, and the cord, surprisingly, had been of sufficient strength to hold the vessel, while the drogue had drifted to leeward of the boat. I thought it was strange that it should be so caught up, since there had been no shoal water in sight when I hove-to last evening; yet here it was.

‘I felt that the taffrail log was very important to me, so for some long time I struggled to get it free; I wanted very much to recover it. Because, along with my sextant, it was the only instrument remaining with which to record any distance I had sailed, and to provide me with at least some information as to my location. Therefore, I tried every way I could think of to get it clear of the rocks, until finally, in my zealous efforts, I broke the line. And then the log was gone, and I sailed away that morning, leaving it on the bottom.

‘I sailed all that day with a breeze that was steady and fresh, and under pleasant skies. Sundown was coming on, and I was approaching a point of land that stood so far out to sea that I could see no land beyond it. I therefore concluded that it must be the western end of the island. At a time when there was so much occurring that was negative, this came as a real spirit-lifting discovery. And since I was only about five miles off, I reasoned that within about two hours I could be on the leeward side of the island, where I could heave-to with no danger of being brought up on a lee shore in the darkness. So I sailed on.

‘Twilight was still aglow along the horizon, and it was near 8:00 p.m. and under an overcast sky that I made to approach the point. I was nearly upon it when I could suddenly hear the frightening roar of breakers. I looked about in anxiousness. There had been no indications of the bottom coming up — no troubled water had been observed — and in the thickening gloom I could see nothing in any direction. Then I thought that possibly it was the sound of waves crashing on the beach, not a great way off. So I sailed on, cautiously, watching with all diligence for possible reefs.

‘I had gone but a short distance when a fish came aboard, and I grabbed it, heedless of the spiny fins. I was delighted! What a pleasant surprise. This was the first of those flying fish that I had seen in several weeks, and it was a big one, too. And now, coming at such a time when my supplies were nearing exhaustion, I counted it a veritable gift from God, an answer to my prayers. I was in the process of putting it in the locker when it slipped from my grasp, landed on the deck, and in a blink of an eye was over the side. My heart sank. But I had little time for regret before I saw it. White water!!

‘Ahead was white water — the sea crashing against rocks! I was shocked, as near panic welled up in me. And looking off to starboard I could see a line of white water, all gray in the distance, reaching well out beyond the boat. And dead ahead were the rocks. How had they appeared so suddenly?

‘My first thought was to haul Pacific to the wind, in an effort to weather the point. But then I realized that such was impossible. She would never answer in so short a distance. There was no alternative but to keep her before the wind, to try to get her over the reef or through the rocks with as little damage as possible. So I bore straight on.

‘And then she struck! She struck with a terrible sound, nearly capsizing, the bow rearing up as it tried to crest the jagged barrier. Then, as a large wave shipped aboard — water pouring into the cockpit — the drogue was wrenched free of its lashings and washed over the side. Surprised that Pacific had not been dismasted, I was now listening to the sea that continued to smash itself against her in the darkness. I could hear the rocks tearing at her planking, grinding at her fragile hull, intent on her destruction. For a time I cannot recall, she sat as if impaled on those wicked teeth, before a heavy sea welled up under her, heaving her up and forward; heaving her off the rocks and into a basin of smooth water. She was still afloat, and I was still alive.

‘Immediately I tore off the forward hatch cover, and with my head in the dark compartment, I listened for the sound of water coming in. There was nothing. Aside from the slopping sound of water that had accumulated from the hole made by the swordfish, there was nothing. I put the anchor over the side and brought the drogue back aboard before lowering the sails and going below to sleep.

‘I slept pretty well until around 2:00 o’clock that morning, at which time I was awakened by a kind of thudding sound. It was not very loud, and the boat did not seem troubled. But it was a sound that bothered me; a sound like that of the boat hitting against rocks again. Or maybe it was another fish of some kind. I quickly got myself up through the cockpit and onto the deck, where I found that the moon was shining very brightly. In its light I could see that the tide had ebbed, and the boat had been left to pound against the rocky bottom. Realizing the need to get into some deeper water, I hauled the anchor, used the jury-rigged rudder to pole the boat to a better position, and put the anchor down again. Had I not been so tired, and had I been more certain of my position, I would have gotten underway. But instead, I went back to sleep. And it was sunrise before I was awake again.

‘In the daylight I was surprised to find that I was in quite a spread of shallow water, water that was little more than eight feet deep. I ate a small bit of fish for breakfast — the last of it — and then hoisted the sails and got underway. I had a good steady breeze, and the weather was clear as I sailed for about two miles across this unusual patch of shallow, before getting into deeper water on the opposite side. Then finally arriving at that point of the island that had been my goal last night — the point I had believed to be the western end — I was surprised to see that the land extended on westward as far as I could see. So I sailed on through Friday, an uneventful day, and hove-to at sundown.

‘The weather was the same on Saturday morning, the 30th, and I was under sail at sunrise. The morning passed, and at noon I took the sun’s altitude, finding that I was at latitude 20º, 38’ south; my longitude I estimated to be 171º east. My course and distance over the past week have been to northwest, a distance of 170 miles. According to my log I have sailed 333 miles.

‘Then in the afternoon I sighted at last, without any mistake, the western extremity of Matthew Island. Since I had a fresh breeze, I entertained the hope of at last being clear of this barren land before nightfall. And barren it was indeed. While sailing along the shore, I was still hoping that I might come to some spot that would have a few coconut trees, a place where I could land to get some. But in the whole distance I sailed — which I should judge was between 30 and 40 miles — not a sign of a tree that I could see; nothing, in fact, but lava.

‘When I had finally got abreast of the point, I found there was a reef that ran out to sea, out toward the west-northwest. Out and out it ran, as far as the eye could see. Having no alternative, I sailed along this reef for an hour before coming to a place where the surf did not break so heavily. And here I sailed across in some ten or twelve feet of water, the shoal water extending around the point and quite a distance to the southward. And then finally, at sundown, I was abreast of the western-most point of the island, its bearing being due east. Here I hove-to for the night.’

* * *

What a confusing time; what a harrowing time for this intrepid seaman. How disordering it must have been — particularly in his mind — to be confronted with this frustrating and seemingly endless island, an island clearly marked on his chart at 22º, 20’ south; 171º, 18’ east, but an island whose physical aspects did not agree with the island that he perceived — the Phantom Island. Yet throughout these several days, and curiously so, never once does he express what would have been a natural and profound bewilderment. How could it be that he, as an experienced navigator, could look at the chart, sail the directions and distances he believes himself to have sailed, and be unaware of such gross discrepancies? How could it be unless he was without cognition of the reality?

His relatively flagrant use of the scanty stores of food cannot but leave us to reflect as well. For in the ten days that elapsed from December 24th to January 3rd, he consumed 8 of the remaining 12 pounds of meat, and 5 of the remaining 15 gallons of water — a decidedly injudicious course.

And so we are left to ponder. Was it really Matthew Island, as he understood it to be? Or could it have been not a phantom island, but a real island — a different, nameless island — an island that was there at the time, and is now gone, perhaps forever? Our curiosity will thirst endlessly for a rational conclusion regarding this matter, for there is no sure answer. So, that being the heart of it, let us return to the lucid world of Bernard Gilboy, to a world where hunger reigns as king, along with its queenly consort, thirst; to a world where survival, and survival alone, is the issue.

* * *

December 31st, the last day of 1882, offered a bright morning. To the north of him, and a little to the east, lay the reefs and shoals of Matthew Island. It was ringed, as it invariably is, with a boiling froth of surf, smiting itself with unperceived effect against the black-black lava; a surf that blazed white under the sub-tropical sun, still ascending in the eastern sky. And around him, stretching away and away to the infinite horizon, the sea was a frisky expanse of deep indigo blue. Across its surface the white horses went prancing, while little Pacific curtseyed her way to the west, her stern rising and falling to the rhythm of the waves sliding under her. He had been underway since eight o’clock, and the day held the promise of a good passage. With a moderate sea running, he sailed resolutely onward.

And now it was close onto 10:00 p.m. He had sailed through the twilight, the gray hours of which had been followed by the distant and soundless fury of a gloriously flaming sunset. Occasionally he had looked back, watching the dark island as it gradually sank below the eastern edge of the world; watching as it had finally disappeared shortly around 7:00 p.m.

Now there came a small, dark bird; one such as is sometimes seen at sea, a short distance from land. Again and again it came sweeping from the darkness, flying in generally circular patterns around the masthead, as though endeavoring to land on it. But the lively motions of Pacific were sending its mast arcing erratically, and the little creature flew away. He thought about it with regrets for a while, because with his food supply being long past what could be called scarce, such a bird would be to him a king’s banquet. But it was gone.

Some few minutes passed, during which time he purposely gave no thought to the little bird, before it suddenly and boldly alighted on his head! Startled disbelief was his first reaction, and then predation became his focus. He sat perfectly still. It was probably a tern of some sort, he felt; certainly it was not weighty enough to be a boobie or an albatross. But small as it was, it would be more than welcome as food. And so he poised himself for the catch.

In the moonlit blackness his left hand came up very slowly — ever so slowly — until it rested at the base of his neck. Then, at the time he felt to be proper, it flashed forward over his head. Grasping at the unseen prey, he felt the creature launch itself into the night, its feet brushing his empty fingers as it uttered a cry of alarm. Then in that measureless increment of time during which it appeared before him — seeming to hang in space before vanishing into the gloom — he grabbed again, half-rising from his seat as his fingers closed upon nothing more than air. Futility! So he sat down again.

The effort had been fruitless, and his spirits sank. Sitting there in the blackness, watching the chosen star by which he was steering slowly descend to the horizon, he heaved a great sigh. He reflected on the deepening moroseness that he had sensed settling down upon him in the last several days; a dark despondency such as he had not felt in a long time. And this last ineffectual effort seemed to be driving him to the point of absolute despair. During these days, an old proverb had come to his mind repeatedly: “Dark is the hour before dawn.” It was a proverb obviously intended to inspire hope, yet such dawn as he hoped there would be, appeared at present to be dim and remote.

Then a positive thought: might this happen again? This was the first bird of any kind to land on the boat, and it seemed a curiosity to him. Was it was a harbinger of sorts; an evidence of Providential concern for him? Indeed, such a possibility was fortified in the two days that followed, because four more birds landed on his head, and three more landed on the boat itself. Of the seven, he was able to catch five, which he cooked and ate. They had a certain wild flavor — a fishy sort of flavor — and there were innumerable little pinfeathers that seemed an inseparable part of the meat. But it was food — food at a time when virtually anything was acceptable.

To be continued...