H. P. PERRIL, CAPTAIN of the American gunboat Yorktown, had never ever had anything to do with Clipperton. The place did not intrigue him. Quite the contrary, it inspired in him a deep lack of interest and even an uneasy feeling. Against his will, however, that isle was fated to acquire great importance for him. En route from his naval base in California, and due to a whim of fate, he not only arrived there but did so at the right time. Not a moment too soon, not a moment too late.
He wished to leave a record in his own words of that story, which he considered unique in his long experience at sea and, as he commented to his family after returning to California, he had the impression of “carrying Robinson Crusoe tied to the mast.” He meant that the misfortunes of this shipwrecked legendary figure seemed like only the first chapter of those suffered by the Clipperton castaways, which he had been able to see with his own eyes.
When the captain finished writing, he had spent the whole night of July 18, 1917, telling the recent events in exact detail. It had been his lot to become witness and actor, both judge and participant. He stayed awake in his cabin until dawn, writing a long letter to his wife, Charlotte. Once in a while he would pause, absorbed in the metallic coldness of the moon reflecting on the waters. He felt he had to control the turmoil of the day’s memories so that he would not allow them to trample his measured and precise prose. “Tonight,” he wrote to his wife, “I have something really interesting to tell you.”
Twenty-four hours before, he had been sure that on his tedious voyage through Mexican waters only a few routine entries would be made in the ship’s log. However, strange things happened. So strange that they touched the heart of the unflappable Captain Perril, and made his hand tremble as he wrote to Charlotte: “It is something I will remember as long as I live. I hope to be able to tell you about it in a way that you and the children can also appreciate.”
He wanted to tell his wife the story in every minute detail, but begged her not to read it in haste, because: “In order to develop it in the proper chronological order, I am going to begin with its less important aspects.” He did not wish to render chaotic a story already confusing in itself, so he at first avoided broaching the heart of the matter. That would have to wait until later, and he was counting on her patience to last.