Lucky Stars

I was grateful that the tide was now with me. I was near to total exhaustion, well, extremely tired at least. I had been holding station for most of the night, paddling against the tide just to stay the same tantalising distance from the shoreline. Now, I was slowly making progress towards the shore. Dawn had come and the last vestige of the night sky was disappearing. I calculated that I had another hour to keep paddling, then I would have about four or five hours to rest.

As I rested, the tide would carry me towards the shore. Then the tide would change again. I had thought to try and paddle hard with the tide, to reach the shore before the tide turned, but I rejected it. There was a slim chance I could make it, but a greater chance that I would not, and then, the tide would draw me back out further than the point I was at now. By resting, now, I could fight against the tide. I would, at its strongest point, lose some of the ground I had made, but, by the time it turned again I would be near enough that the next favourable tide would see me to the shore.

There was no notice; the first anyone knew was the two explosions just seconds apart. The first struck midship, the second, caught the prow. If it had been just the first one, maybe we would not have sunk, maybe; but for sure, it would have taken longer to sink, more would have been saved. But we had been steaming at around twenty knots, and with a hole in the bows my guess was that she had gone under in less than four minutes. I have no idea how many others might have survived, not that it could have been many.

I could feel the strength of the tide had increased so I stopped paddling and checked my supplies. Not for the first time I offered up a silent prayer to my lucky stars. I had been taking two insulated containers of tea to the Bridge when the torpedoes hit, as the ship came from full speed to dead stop I lost my footing and was thrown into the sea. My second stroke of luck, if you can call it that, was surfacing to find a Charley Float just a few yards from me.

Cold tea, especially more than two days old, isn’t anyone’s first choice of beverage, but in the absence of any other potable fluid I was grateful for it. I had finished the first canister and had started on the second last night. There was around two thirds remaining. Although I was fairly sure I would make landfall by tonight, I was still cautious. I allowed myself one full cup, and the settled on to the deck and closed my eyes.

I woke with a start, checked my watch and saw that I had been asleep for just over two and a half hours. Despite the hunger, I hadn’t eaten for one and half days, despite the tiredness, I’d had around six to eight hours fitful sleep since the sinking, and despite the fading strength, the habits and reflexes of a sailor in wartime overruled everything else. I pulled myself up and looked around, the nearer I got to the shore the greater the possibility of being spotted. At this point, I didn’t care if it was by a neutral craft or the enemy, both would provide me with something hot to eat and drink, dry clothes and safety. But there was nothing to be seen. Except the shore, closer than when I had closed my eyes, but not by much. I took another drink of the cold tea and settled into as comfortable position as was possible in a Carley. The tide was strong enough so that I was still making headway towards the shore. I tried to remember if I had heard any voices, but nothing came to my mind. Possibly the sounds of a breaking ship and the after shock of the explosion could have made me deaf for a while. I don’t know, and it wasn’t worth worrying about it. Once again I gave a silent prayer of thanks to my lucky stars. My natural pessimism and caution had driven me to study the charts carefully and spend time off duty thinking of an “escape plan”, or should that be “survival plan” in the event we were sunk.

I knew roughly how far we would be from the coastlines, and had a pretty good idea of which countries we would be passing, if they were hostile, friendly or neutral; and of course, what I could expect from the tidal waters. I had kept my mind in those first hours. Carley floats are not really designed to be steering crafts; they are what the name suggests, floats. They could hold eight men, and at a push you could cram two more. Then you just floated and waited to be picked up. The theory was great, in peacetime. But in war, you might be part of a convoy with orders not to stop and pick up survivors.

A harsh reality, but why present another target to the enemy, especially one that was stationary. Or you could, like us, be a lone ship, a straggler from the convey, engine trouble that meant you cold not keep up. Or on a special mission, it didn’t matter, if you went down, you were on your own. I had searched the water for wreckage, anything that could be used as a paddle. I had pulled several spars and planks onto the float. They had served well.

I sensed I was in the last hour of the current tide. Wrapping the rags around my hands once again I took up one of the salvaged planks and started to paddle towards land.

We had been hit just as sunset was starting. I had drifted with the waves for a while, until I was able to orientate myself and then started towards land. I couldn’t see it, of course, but I knew it would be there and as the morning sun rose this morning I had seen it. I must have got within sight last night, but in the darkness would not have seen it. looking towards it now was all that was keeping me going.

Please, I prayed, let me be lucky again, let this one have been a low and not a high. 

Most people, even those who have never seen the sea, know that there are high tides and low tides, but only those who have been to sea understand that a high tide can be a “low-high or a “high-high. The high-high is when the waters come further and further into the land, and are generally associated with greater force when they turn and ebb back. The reverse being true of the low-high, when the waters do not come fully up the shore and are weaker when they ebb. Having no charts or reference sheets or instruments I had no way of trying to work out what the tides might be at this time, but in my weakened state the tide flowing out from the shore was going to push me back and lose some of the ground I had gained this morning, and the stronger the tide, the further I would be pushed back. Although the air was warm at the moment, the night temperature would drop drastically. I was fairly sure that, if I was pushed back to sea, my weakened state, lack of food, and by tonight, lack of fluid, would mean that I would succumb to hypothermia before morning. 

That thought was the stick, and the shoreline ahead was the carrot, all I needed to keep forcing myself to paddle. I was ignoring the pain, ignoring the aching arms and shoulders, ignoring the blisters on my hands that once again were letting blood seep into the rags I was using as padding.

Time passed, I could see caves on the side of the hills, it meant I was getting closer. There was more detail each time I studies a different part of the land. I forced my self to keep a steady paddle stroke, it would be madness to try and race at this point, I would just bring myself to total exhaustion.

The light was fading, I could no longer make out the detail on the shore that earlier had been so encouraging, I fought back tears, I wasn’t going to give in. Not now. Time passed. The plank I was using struck something, it jarred up my arm to my shoulder and I cried out with the pain. Then again, this time the bleeding blisters on my palms protested.

In my tired, state I was slow to realise what was happening. The paddle was striking the seabed. I was on the shoreline. The float wasn’t moving, it was aground. I struggled to my feet, not easy after two days sitting and kneeling on the float. I clambered off the thing and stumbled onto my knees. Using the float as leverage, I regained my feet. A dozen paces and I was on dry sand. Once again I sank to my knees. 

Raising my eyes to the heavens I looked at the stars, to the right was the North Star and the Plough. My lucky stars. After the ship had been sunk I had just drifted until the stars had appeared. The North Star; that was how I orientated myself and began to paddle, I looked again at the constellations. Their unchanged position on the second night had kept me on track, and now they confirmed I had made it. I was kneeling on the shore in neutral Portugal. As I looked up, I could see, not more that 500 yards away, the light of a fisherman’s cottage. I could make that last bit. Once again, I gave a prayer of thanks for my lucky stars.

For me, the war was over, internment beckoned.