Position: 1,200 miles off the coast of Mexico
N 9° 20' 46.92'' – W 110° 34' 49.43''
Day 36
Watching the moon grow bright, Alvarenga calculated Christmas was near. Traditionally he would have feasted on roast turkey or chicken mole—roasted chicken bathed in a thick chili pepper sauce. The sauce includes a dollop of chocolate, allegedly a frantic effort by Mexican nuns attempting to impress a visiting bishop with their rich cuisine. Alvarenga and Córdoba would be lucky to have a few bites of raw fish and sun-roasted strips of meat, peeled off the skinny “ducks.”
In order to avoid arguments over who received a bigger portion, one man prepared the food and the other chose which serving to eat. Alvarenga diced four entire birds for their big meal. He had now learned not to pluck the feathers but to expertly peel the skin off the birds. A full bird, including the gut, provided as much meat as a hamburger. The saltwater flavoring helped mask the stench, but the men noticed that at night, inside their icebox refuge, they too were starting to smell like the flesh of seabirds—a rank and rotten odor like that of dead fish.
On the evening they estimated was Christmas Eve, as the men chatted, cleaned the birds and commenced their traditional meal—if there can be anything traditional about slicing, dicing and eating raw sea “ducks”—Córdoba coughed. “My stomach,” he groaned as his eyes bulged like he was going to be sick. Bubbles and liquid dribbled from his mouth.
Alvarenga, who had waded through his companion’s fears, tears and complaints, realized this was no exaggeration. A sudden, wrenching pain convulsed Córdoba’s body. Alvarenga handed him a half-liter bottle filled with rainwater and, ignoring their rations, Córdoba sucked the bottle down and then spat it out. Whatever had taken hold of his gut held tight and the pain intensified.
The men dissected the intestines of Córdoba’s “duck.” Often the stomach and intestines brought surprises like plastic bottle caps or entire sardines. This time the men found a six-inch, articulated skeleton. The skin had fallen off and most of the meat was gone, but enough remained for them to identify the remains of a venomous, yellow-bellied sea snake.
“Chancha, there’s a snake inside here!” Córdoba exclaimed.
“Yeah, and you already ate it,” responded Alvarenga.
“Oh shit, I am going to vomit,” stuttered Córdoba.
As Córdoba screamed and spewed white bubbles from his mouth, Alvarenga wondered if the poison had entered his mate’s bloodstream. Was it fatal? How did it kill its victims? Watching as, drop by drop, a bubbly foam leaked out of his companion’s mouth and listening to his guttural groans, Alvarenga considered his own fate. Had he also been poisoned? Was the venom going to hit?
Alvarenga didn’t get sick and after four hours of retching and coughing, Córdoba stabilized. The men huddled, looking for subtle signs of improvement—aware the poison might have spread to other organs. The men tried to recall cases of bites by the yellow-bellied snake. But they had only heard thirdhand versions and their only firm conclusion was that even the most hardened fishermen gave the snake a wide berth and tried to decapitate it with a machete.
The venom was not fatal, and Córdoba made a full physical recovery within two days. But in the realm of psychological terror, the poison possessed Córdoba. He retched at the thought of eating another raw seabird and withdrew from the world of food. Never again would he feast on one of Alvarenga’s “ducks.”