(14)

Watching the ships creep toward them, silhouetted against the ebbing sparks of the August sun, Bob’s first reaction was bitterness, a curse for the timing. Why couldn’t the rescue ships have reached them yesterday, to save Linda before she died? Failing that, the least they could have done would have been to appear on the horizon but two minutes earlier, before he dropped his wife’s body irrevocably into the sea.

But Jim considered none of this. Transfixed, murmuring gratitude to the Lord, he stood with arms outstretched, convinced that his prayers had been answered. God for His reasons had taken Linda, but His immediately sending the ships was divine revelation that He was not abandoning the two men.

The ships bore down so purposefully that there seemed to be a planned rendezvous. Perhaps, thought Jim, a plane flew over earlier and fixed our position and radioed our whereabouts to the searching ships. Perhaps, he dared to imagine, Wilma and the boys are on one of those ships at this very moment, leaning over the rail, beckoning. In moments he would see their faces. “Praise God!” he cried. “Thank you, Jesus!”

But the ships suddenly turned. It was as if two friends were walking a straight path together, only to say goodbye and strike out in opposite directions. And the Triton bobbed unseen between them.

A scream rose in Bob’s throat and it burst. “They’re not coming!” he cried. “Oh, please! See us! We’re here!” Ripping one of the orange life preservers from the place where he had nailed it, Bob waved hysterically. He dashed below and found Linda’s purse on the bed where she had so recently died and took it back up where he could flash the mirror at the departing ships. At the same time he blew energetically on a police whistle which he’d found in the purse.

Jim was bound to the place he stood, unable to move. He seemed incapable of anything but standing mutely as the ships steamed past them, one far to each side.

When there was nothing more to see, when the frail wisps of smoke had vanished in the west, Jim spoke confidently. “They’ll be back,” he said, “because the Lord sent them.”

“They’ll be back on their return from Tokyo,” said Bob angrily. “By then who knows where we’ll be.”

“Then the Lord will send another one,” said Jim. “There must be a reason why they didn’t stop for us.”

“They didn’t stop because they didn’t see us. We only stick up a few inches above the water,” snapped Bob. “Tomorrow we’re going to spend putting everything we can lay our hands on, on top of this boat.”

“It won’t be necessary,” said Jim.

“Then while you pray for us, I’ll nail for us.”

The two ships, even with their terrible disappointment, gave the two men something to think about during the night. And it would have been an unbearable night without their appearance. For the first time since July 12—twenty-six nights ago—Bob was alone on the narrow place, the scent of Linda tormenting him, his body curling automatically into a position to accommodate hers.

Most of his thoughts were of Linda—her last hours, her death, her burial—remembering her as he waited for a sleep that he felt would not come this night. But the vision of the two ships kept intruding, pushing Linda briefly away. Bob abused the intrusion to his mourning. But the ships sailed again and again across his eyes. One thing was certain, he figured. Because of them, he would not entertain suicide again. He would live until there was no more life within him.

Survival, he reasoned as he grew sleepy—much faster than he had imagined—survival is the most powerful of human instincts. In fact, it is the only one that really matters. Survival or death.

Early the next morning, August 7, Bob festooned the Triton with everything he could find to make her more vivid to potential rescue. The tripod of Jim’s camera he fastened to the exposed bottom of the Triton. Then he changed his mind and turned the tripod upside down so that the three legs would jut into the air; perhaps the sun would bounce against one of the metal shafts. He nailed more orange curtains around the edges of the boat as gaudy trim. A piece of metal rod from the bow pulpit became a six-foot flagpole, flying a banner of plastic liner from the ship’s head. Not satisfied, Bob seized the steering wheel where it rested under water and tore it away and fastened it to the top of the flagpole, secured with sixty feet of cable wound about like a barber pole. Finally, with Jim’s help, the galley sink and stainless steel cooking plates were removed and fastened to the two outriggers as one more hope that exposed metal would send forth flashes in the sun.

As an afterthought, Bob picked up a duffel bag and some soggy towels and nailed them about the flagpole. Well, thought Bob, we now look like Dust Bowl exiles sailing to California.

By mid-morning all of the work was done, and Bob stopped, almost disappointed that there was nothing left to nail. The outburst of labor had exhilarated him. Now there was nothing to do but fall back in his bunk, where Linda had been beside him only yesterday. He had not waited for breakfast before his frenzy of activity, and he was hungry.

“How much food is left exactly?” asked Bob. “Let’s take inventory.”

Jim nodded, moving to the end of his bed where he kept the supplies. He called them out: “Almost three cans of sardines, about one half a jar of peanut butter, one pack freeze-dried peas, couple packs of Kool-Aid, one can of root beer, and some caramel chips.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all.”

“And the water?” Bob knew well, almost to the drop, the extent of their supply, but he wanted to have the amount spoken.

“Two full jugs. And this one, minus one cup.” Jim held up the container currently in use, not elaborating on the missing cup because both men realized that it had been Linda’s final nourishment.

Bob thought silently for a few minutes. Then, urgently, he spoke. “I feel that it is even more important for us to keep up our schedule,” he said. “There’s just the two of us, and we’ve got to keep our minds occupied. More important now than … before.”

Jim disagreed. “There isn’t any need to stretch out the food,” he insisted. “It’s almost over for us. Rescue will be here, very soon.”

“I hope you’re right. But in the event you’re not, we’ve got to conserve what’s left. We’ve been taking half a cup of food a day. Let’s cut that down to one quarter of a cup. And let’s try to get by on one half of a cup of water.”

Jim did not quarrel with the notion. In fact, he did not respond at all. He seemed occupied with something else.

“Do you remember the ABC’s of prayer?” asked Jim suddenly, waking Bob from the late morning drowsiness brought on by his work. Pushed instantly into the past, moving effortlessly back to a time he had wanted to forget, Bob could hear the voices of the preachers and teachers drumming his ears. “Ask! Believe! Challenge! These are the ABC’s of prayer. God will answer!” Did he remember them? It would be easier for a man to deny a tattoo on his brow.

“Don’t you remember,” persisted Jim, oddly exuberant, “what they taught us? That wonders, that miracles could be worked through the power of Christ?” Like a defiant fist, Jim’s words shot out to grab Bob, the words holding him, refusing to let him go.

Dumbly, Bob nodded. But he quickly shook his head to clear the thought. He would not give in so easily. “Your power of Christ didn’t help Linda much, did it?” he accused mockingly.

At this, Jim’s face lit. “Linda is saved! She asked me if she was sanctified, and I told her she was. She died believing. She died in the arms of Christ.”

“She died in the arms of her husband. She died because she dwindled down to nothing and she just gave up.”

“Listen to me!” Jim commanded. He grabbed the water jug and held it high between them. “I make you this promise. There’s enough water in this container to last us five days—according to your rationing. Five days! But if we believe, if we give our hearts to Christ, if we commit these five days to nothing but Him, then Jesus will send rescue. At the end of the fifth day, when the last drop of this water is gone, then we will be delivered.”

Scoffing, Bob shook his head in denial.

But Jim would not lower the jug. In triumph he held it, an icon, a relic as awesome as a sliver of the true cross. Against his will, Bob was drawn to it, the water sparkling within, the moment more seductive than when he was briefly tempted to join Linda in the sea.

“I knew a woman,” said Jim, “whose son got hooked on drugs. He overdosed and almost died. His mother asked Jesus to save her son. She believed in His power, she challenged Jesus to heal the boy and open his eyes to the church. It happened. Just that way! Jesus healed him. Then the boy repented, accepted Christ, renounced drugs. Today he is a fine member of the congregation. I’ve seen it happen over and over again. I could tell you stories from now till midnight.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Bob. He could feel the balance of power between them shifting. His will was draining from him.

“Join with me!” Jim cried. “Dedicate the next five days to believing in the power of Christ. Worship with me! Sing with me! Praise the Lord with me! And at the end of the fifth day, be ready for rescue with me!”

Bob held up his hands. Wait a minute. All right, he reasoned to himself, unexplained events can happen. Intellectually, they have no defense, but what of those cancers that shrink and vanish, and those shriveled legs that suddenly become whole? There are miracles in this world. What harm can Jim’s faith do to me for one week? I am not surrendering what I believe, rather what I do not believe, for what I am today took a torturous period to realize. But for five days, only five days, there is no peril in singing Jim’s prayers and waiting for Jim’s God.

“Touch it!” urged Jim. A command! Slowly Bob raised his hand and, almost fearfully, pressed his fingertips to the water jug. They trembled, both men.

Wreathed in ecstasy, Jim began to pray. But it was a different kind of prayer. No longer was he humbling himself, staring up at an invisible, faraway God. Now he was man-to-man, on almost earthy terms with his Lord. It could have been a business deal he was explaining. “We ask for rescue, Lord, because we believe in Your power. And we challenge You to deliver us from this long ordeal. We are testing the power of prayer, Lord. We will drink this water for five days, and when it is gone, we challenge You to deliver us, to lift us with Your grace. Ask! Believe! Challenge! Thank you, Jesus. Amen.”

Jim threw his hand across Bob’s, and together they held the jar.

“Say ‘Amen!’” cried Jim.

“Amen,” said Bob.

“Again!”

“Amen!” This time, from Bob, a full-blooded shout.

The five days spun by in an orgy of evangelism, a camp meeting somewhere in the Pacific. As if setting the stage for the promised miracle, the sea became smooth, a soft breeze appearing like an invited guest to make their chamber pleasant. The men prayed together from the moment they awoke, throughout the day, and even at night in the darkness when they were too excited to sleep. Over and over, until the words became a chant, they repeated two verses from the book of John, “Whatsoever you ask in my name, I will do,” and “Ask and you shall receive.” One would begin the words, and the other would seize them, crying out their promise to the vastness that surrounded the Triton.

Never did they play the Bible game with such enthusiasm. For hours, they tried to stump one another with characters and verses. There was laughter and good feelings. Never in their relationship had the brothers-in-law been so close.

On the second day, another great tuna swam into their room and stayed for a time, insolently splashing near the surface and flipping spray onto the beds with his tail. In their fervor, it was easy to believe that the Lord had dispatched the fish. Quickly Jim fashioned a new harpoon from the last strip of bow pulpit railing. With the hack saw, Bob cut notches to create barbs about an inch long. During the hour or more it took to prepare the new spear, the fish stayed near their bunks, apparently a visitor with deistic instructions. Finally Jim rose to a crouch and, praying, hurled the harpoon. As it struck the tuna squarely, Bob yelled in glee.

But the fish began to thrash and fight the barbs, so violently that Jim lost his grip and dropped the harpoon into the water. Seconds later, both fish and spear were lost.

But that was not worth mourning, for there were but three more days left until rescue. “Three more days,” they began to chant, “three more days!” Setting the declaration to music, Jim found a tune on his harmonica that became, in their passion, the organ of a cathedral. And as the water in the jug dwindled, their spirits rose.

On the third day, near sundown, Bob went topside to stretch his legs, and what he saw on the horizon made him summon Jim hurriedly.

Toward the east, settled across a large portion of the lower part of the sky, was a bank of mustard yellow. “What is it?” asked Jim, not understanding Bob’s excitement.

“Smog!” fairly shouted Bob. “It’s smog! We must be near Los Angeles.”

On the fourth day, convinced now that the winds were sending them so close to the coast of southern California that the Triton would surely come within sight of a fishing boat, Bob set about to surprise Jim. He would, in fact, hasten their rescue. Jim could not complain if they were found on the fourth day rather than the fifth. It had been on Bob’s mind for some time that perhaps he could start a fire with a mixture of the paint, diesel fuel, and oil—all having been found two days after they capsized.

While Jim napped during the midday free period, Bob slipped quietly topside and poured the fluids onto a pile of rags. Now for the flame. Removing the magnifying lens from the binoculars, he held it patiently at an angle through which the sun’s noon rays would pass. He waited for a chemical reaction to occur; the tiniest of sparks would set aflame his makeshift torch. Within thirty minutes, a wisp of smoke was born, Bob blowing anxiously to encourage its growth. Moments later, the rags began to burn. Only now did he yell in triumph for Jim to hurry and see what his ingenuity had wrought.

When Jim saw the black smoke curling from the wadded rags, he burst toward the torch, hands outstretched, as if prepared to smother it with his raw hands. “No!” he cried, distraught. For a moment Bob thought he feared that the boat would catch on fire, but there was scant likelihood of that. Bob even had a jar of salt water at the ready should a spark begin to smolder on the damp deck.

But that was not Jim’s worry. He ran headlong into Bob’s grip and fought his way toward the fire. “What’s the matter, Jim?” said Bob, dumbfounded. Jim began to weep, tears coming quickly to his eyes, his face contorted.

“You’re interfering with God!” he cried. “This is not God’s plan!”

And Bob understood. In Jim’s mind, the five-day drama was preordained. Every word, every gesture, every action was being played from that master script with which they could not tamper.

“I’ll put it out!” shouted Bob, seizing the jar of water and dumping it on the rags. But in the extinguishing, a cloud of smoke rose and spread about them.

Jim watched the cloud in despair, as if it were his life in ruins. Wordlessly, still crying, he descended to his bed and wept for more than an hour.

“I’m sorry,” murmured Bob. “I was only trying to help.”

Near dinner, Jim composed himself and forgave Bob. Rescue would still come tomorrow, he said, for his God was forgiving. But Bob must never again try to alter God’s will. If Bob’s fire had lured rescuers, then the thought would have been that they had accomplished the miracle, not God.

The fifth day. Saturday, August 11. The Sabbath, according to Jim. He was up early, before the 7 A.M. deadline. When Bob awoke, he saw that Jim was busily grooming himself, combing his hair, brushing his beard, now full from a month of not shaving. The beard was dark, in contrast to his blond hair. “By tonight,” said Jim, his fervor once again at the summit it had reached before the incident of the torch, “we will be at a feast.”

After they had prayed and chanted the texts from John, Bob reached for the jug of water and lifted it. There was but an inch left, enough for two portions. He unscrewed the cap and poured a swallow into his cup. He handed it to Jim, who looked at it curiously. Finally he shook his head in refusal.

“No,” he said, “I want to wait until the end of the Sabbath.” His holy day would end at sundown.

“Maybe,” said Jim, “there’ll be time to get to a church. When we get to shore, I’m going to ask to be taken to the nearest church. And I will give testimony to God’s power.” He clapped his hands together in excitement. “Do you think they’ll believe it?” he wondered. “This morning, lost at sea. Tonight, standing in God’s house, praising His name.”

So consumed was Jim with the passion of his belief, so convinced was he that rescue would come by nightfall that Bob was once again caught up in the ecstasy. It had been his custom to extend his daily cup of water with a swallow or two for breakfast, another portion at dinner, saving a small amount for the middle of the night when he always awoke with a parched throat.

But today, the fifth day, the day of deliverance, he would wait until the rescuers and their strong arms lifted him.

“Do you still have the can of root beer?” asked Bob. They were saving the last soda to drink in celebration.

Jim nodded.

“Good. We’ll drink it the moment we set foot on land and not before,” announced Bob.

The hours raced by. Conducting Sabbath services, Jim preached to his audience of one, and Bob listened attentively. During the week he had suffered feelings of ambivalence. I have not really returned to the church, he told himself in the dark hours of quiet. I’m just humoring Jim. It cannot hurt, he reassured himself. It cannot hurt. Once, during the five days, Bob had even wondered out loud what would happen if God did not send rescue. Jim would not answer the question. He had no response to a skeptic.

On this, the fifth day, in the final hours, Bob felt no such pinpricks of doubt. His commitment, for the moment, was total. In his lap he even held the souvenirs he would take ashore from their ordeal—the carved house, Linda’s purse, the cheap compass, the knives.

Near 5 P.M., when the air grew cool and the winds turned chill, Jim stopped praying and fell silent. He raised himself through the hole, and Bob followed, ready for the most important moment of his life. Slowly Jim lifted the water jug and with ceremony removed its cap. Pouring carefully, Jim held it upside down so that every last drop drained into their two cups.

With the solemnity of communion, the men drank, Bob sipping slowly, Jim throwing back his head and almost greedily consuming the water, precious drops splashing on his beard. When he was done, Jim lowered the cup and smiled. Had the whistle of the rescue boat shattered the silence, Bob would not have been surprised.

Now they waited.

They sat on top of the overturned trimaran and they waited, their eyes sweeping to the far corners of the horizon. Until the sun slipped away and blackness fell on the sea to end the Sabbath, they waited.

Finally Bob felt the cold and began to shiver. He went below, saddened. But Jim stayed on top, waiting, waiting, his lips moving in prayer. Waiting. Waiting for God.