Adrift

ADRIFT

When I was a boy, I stood on the harbor quay in Sevilla watching the fishing boats and small trade boats move out at first tide. Often, I ran along the dock or on the narrow strip of beach below the sea wall. I waved to every boat until they were gone. Whether under oar or sail, once in motion, I could not keep pace with them. They slid farther ahead, speeding away from me. I chased futilely after them and yet enjoyed my brief run. I knew I could not keep up, but for some minutes, I was with them, part of their journey. When I laid in bed at night, I dreamed of their destinations. I knew I would become a sailor. Later, as an experienced seaman, I watched countless ports slip quickly behind our wake. Land left behind, small boys still racing down the quay.

Now, I, Juan Álvarez de Rajano, am adrift—and terrified—floating for days in a flimsy skiff. No safe harbor in sight. No land at all. Only the angry sea mocking my boyhood dreams. Under a furious gray sky, the winds push my makeshift craft westward.

West to the northwest, to be more exact. Usually, I am very precise because I am a navigator. Assistant Navigator, to be precise. Ha! Is that humor or madness, the little jokes that amuse me, as I float wherever the winds take me? Will I be laughing as I fall off the edge of the earth or get eaten by these finned creatures—these sharks—that circle me. The rains come occasionally, and I am grateful. There is barely enough canvas for me to fashion a basin for these benevolent showers. Fresh rainwater will keep me alive if it would only rain again.

I have crossed half a world, only to be so alone, so close to land, so close to madness. Death within life—that is what madness must be. My empty words a constant drumbeat, but I cannot stop myself. I fear the gray abyss of the endless sea. I hear the cries of my dying shipmates. I sicken at the memory of their blood, which stained the waters around the broken Alhambra. I fear the frenzied feeding of the finned fishes. My life sucked into their gaping mouths.

For two days, I shared my poor skiff with Francisco, the Armorer. Then he died, and I shared Francisco with my ever-present finned friends. Rest in peace, Francisco. Ha! Madness with a smile. A cracked and dry smile but a smile, nonetheless. Francisco was only a week older than me, so in five days, I will have outlived him if the stormy sea does not have other plans. We are twenty-six years old. Twenty-six years, eight months, and six days to be precise. My mind works precisely, my predicament is precisely that, and I have no idea precisely where I am. Ha!

Francisco was a big, muscular man. His clothes do not fit precis . . . they don't fit me well. I am getting tired of my mad humor. I am tired of this vast ocean. When we left Spain seven weeks ago, we hoped to find the Indies in twelve weeks. The storm drove us forward with raging winds, finally destroying the Alhambra. How will I know how far the Indies are? Will I arrive at night or in daylight, in one piece or more? My dead body will create quite a stir. I have no journal, no identification to speak of, save my garments, nothing much to tell where my home was. If the sea creatures don't get me first, I'll be gray and dead-looking like the sky. Looking dead. Looking for the Indies. Ha!

If your injuries had not killed you, Francisco, my barely older friend, my humor would have. But look at it this way, now at least part of you should get to the Indies. I wish it would rain again. I wanted to talk to you, Francisco, before the end. Oh, how I wish to speak with you now.

A large white sea bird with gray and black markings has just flown by! I christen you Francisco the Second, my airborne friend. Now come down here and land on my Indies raft. I shall eat you, Francisco Two, and drink your sour blood and tell my Indies wife how you brought us together. Indies wife. Of course, I'll have an Indies wife, Francisco! What maiden could resist an adventurer such as myself! That I have sailed halfway ‘round the world will impress these Indiens, I am sure. With luck, I will have the pick of some royal princess!

Land here! Land, winged Francisco Two. I will make a fan of your bones and feathers to push me quickly toward the Indies. That way, I'll get to my new Indies wife at least five minutes faster, precisely. I hope she has a sense of humor.

Rest or sleep is all I do. Or talk to Francisco One and Francisco Two. Francisco, too, to the Indies. Land, bird! Can I bait you, Francisco? Land, bird? Bird, land. Land on my little craft. Land! My God, is that land? Or a mirage? I claim this mirage in the name of Spain and our Queen, Isabella. And I name you “San Francisco de Los Indiens.” Land of my Indies wife-to-be. Go away, finned friends. You will go hungry today, for I have an invitation to dine with Francisco Two and his feathered friends in the land of the Indies. That land to the west-northwest. Precisely!

_________

There is land! I can see trees thick upon the shore. I judge it to be only a few leagues distant. With luck, I could be ashore in hours. We all believed the Indies were farther away, and now I am glad our estimates were wrong. The coast is straight and seems to run north to south, if my bearings are correct. The winds are still pushing me northwest, approaching the shore obliquely. It is freshening from the southeast, the sun is hidden, and the blank sky merges with the gray sea behind me. Has the great storm turned to bear down on me again? Why doesn't it rain? How can I be surrounded by water and yet be so dry? Just a shower, a trickle from the tears of angels to slake my thirst. Please, God, do not let the winds shift, or the currents run against me, so close to the magical, mysterious Indies. Will there be anyone to greet me or beat me, to eat me, and excrete me?

Oh Francisco, my friend and shipmate. Why did you leave me when we were so close to the Indies? Together we could have walked ashore. I miss you. I need you to laugh at my low humor, for all I have are the hollow echoes of my words rattling in my head. It seems that this tortuous journey on a tiny craft is draining me of all humanity. I will go mad from the hunger and the thirst and the fear of these patiently impatient sea creatures. At night I doze, by day I nap, and yet they never sleep. There are two rather large sharks, each with different shape fins. They are as long as I am tall, at least. They bump my craft. Once a cruel mouth broke the surface, and I stared into a lifeless eye and saw my death. I saw the end of my barely older, old friend Francisco. I saw my shipmates' deaths, the deaths of a hundred men frozen in the cold dark eyes of the sea beasts. They swim relentlessly, waiting for my tiny skiff to break apart. Or perhaps waiting for me to tire of my mad life and give up the struggle.

Does my Indies woman not have your good taste? Does she have your patience, finned friend? Can she smell my life the way you smell my death? Will she be dark like the Moors of Africa, or light like a Norse maiden, perhaps tanned and brown like the beauties of Catalan? Or will she be gray and silent and hungry like you, relentless beast?

Is that you, Francisco Two, come back to welcome Álvarez to the Indies? Soon I will feel the sands of the Indies between my toes, ready to pick fruit from the trees and to sway in the warm moonlight with a sweet Indies woman.

Look trees! Tantalizing trees, swaying on a sandy shore, just beyond my reach. Let the force of your will and the strength of your faith pull them to you. Obey me, sea winds! Obey the Navigator. Bring him ever closer to the land of his dreams. Come, Indies trees, bend to the will of a desperate Spaniard. Sway, trees, and sweep me to you. Pull Álvarez home before his death comes on the angry winds of this relentless storm.

The waves are cresting higher now, the wind freshening out of the south. The rain comes in brief gusts, enough to catch in my cloth basin. So I drink desperately, precious little sips. I mustn’t drink the seawater. I tried sipping a bit from my fingertips. It made me sick the first time. I knew better. Bitter, I knew—bitter salt. Then the sour taste of my bile when my stomach turned over. Why then would I drink a second time? Why be ill again? Ill? Ill is an improvement over dead, isn't it? Dead is what I felt. Getting sick told me I was still alive. Still—I lay in stillness and fear the rising waves. Again they hide the relentless grey sea creatures. But the monsters are close. They are watching, with their cold black eyes of death.

Still, I lay still, lapsing into bizarre dreams. What does death feel like, anyway? How close to the boundary am I? Beyond it once, I believe, as I saw a figure clothed in a brilliant light. It might have been the Angel of Death ready to lead me to San Pedro, Gatekeeper of the Lord. Via con Dios, Francisco. Angel of Light lead me away from this wet hell. Where are the fires to cleanse me or burn me? I have been an honorable man. I do not let the sins of the flesh overwhelm me. I drink in moderation. Well, not lately; lately, I do not drink at all. I wish I could sip a few precious drops of fresh water.

The shore is coming closer. No, I am getting closer, to be precise. Stop it! Stop the madman’s word games. The wind is freshening, waves increasing, battering my flimsy craft. Will it break apart so close to land? I do not believe that it can hold up under this violent movement, this kind of motion. It needs a kinder motion. Ha! You are mad, Álvarez, truly mad. Where is the surf line? How will I get through it?

With the wind out of the south, which direction is the tide? Where are the waves breaking? High tide or low, ebb and flow. The storm surges against the tide, lashing the coast. There might be a riptide, with the winds across the normal flow. If the waves dump me out, it could be too far from shore. The riptide could carry me away. Would it not be ironic to drown only a few hundred paces from this storied land of the Indies? No, Álvarez, I do not believe that the Angel of Death has come yet. Feel the rain, feel it pelt you, and drink, drink while you can.

Oh Lord, must you drive the winds so hard. The shore is close, but lost in the rain. The howling winds drown out the sounds of the surf. The surf line! It is here. The skiff rises and falls rapidly. You have lashed yourself to its spar, Álvarez. Are you sure that it will carry you? Will the planks hold together in the surf? Be ready! The waves are breaking. Hold on, hold on. Oh Lord, protect me, your faithful servant, Álvarez, servant of God, and his Queen. Servant in the surf. On the surface of the surf. Oh, Lord! Over we go. Keep your mouth closed, fool. When the waves have done their crashing and spinning, the wood will bring you back to the surface.

Air, gulping for air, spinning, coughing, the spar slapping against you. Hold on, hold on. You are close. See no angels yet. Spinning again. Oh, Lord! Sand and foam. Coughing and spinning. Sand, your foot is dragging in the sand. Push! Push! Push! Another wave, oh Lord, why do you knock me to my knees? It is Álvarez, your servant, and I kneel before you willingly.

Push against the tide. Do not let it drag you out. Push. Use the spar. Ride, Álvarez, ride onto the Indies shore. Quickly away from the surf, get to the beach. Goodbye, angels. Álvarez has arrived alive and on one knee. Thank you, Lord; your grateful servant thanks you. He humbly kneels before you, Álvarez, Assistant Navigator of the Alhambra. Navigator to the Indies! Oh, Lord!