A Story Told after It Happened.
It Is What Four Men Lived through When Their Ship, The ‘Commodore’, Sank.
None of the men knew what color the sky was. They kept their eyes straight ahead, watching the waves that came at them. The waves were dark like slate, but the tops were white with foam. All the men knew the colors of the sea very well. The horizon looked like it was moving—getting smaller, bigger, going up and down—and its edge was always rough with sharp waves, like pointed rocks.
Many people should have a bathtub bigger than the boat these men were now in. The waves were very tall and sudden. They were not fair. The white tops of the waves made it hard to handle the small boat.
The cook was sitting low in the boat and looked with both eyes at the six inches of the boat’s edge that kept him from falling into the sea. His sleeves were rolled up over his fat arms. His open vest hung loose as he bent down to scoop out water. He often said, “Gawd! That was close.” Every time he said it, he looked toward the east over the rough sea.
The oiler was at the back of the boat, using one of the oars to steer. Sometimes he had to stand quickly to avoid water splashing in. The oar was thin and looked like it might break.
The correspondent was using the other oar to row. He looked at the waves and asked himself why he was here.
The captain, who was hurt, lay at the front of the boat. He was very sad and didn’t seem to care about anything at the moment. Even brave men feel hopeless for a while when their ship sinks or their plans fail. This captain felt very connected to his ship, even if he had only been in charge for a short time. He kept thinking about the early morning when he saw the faces of seven men and later saw the broken top of the ship’s mast with a white ball on it, swinging back and forth in the sea, until it sank. Since then, his voice had changed. It was calm but full of sadness, deeper than any speech or crying.
“Turn her a little more to the south, Billie,” he said.
“A little more south, sir,” answered the oiler in the back.
Sitting in this boat felt like riding a wild horse. And a wild horse isn’t even much smaller. The boat jumped, rocked, and went up and down like a living thing. Each time a wave came, the boat rose up as if it were jumping over a very high wall. How the boat climbed these big waves seemed almost like magic. And at the top of each wave was white foam rushing down, making it even harder, as if the boat had to jump again through the air. Then, after hitting the top of the wave, the boat would slide and rush down the other side, splashing into the next wave, getting ready for the next challenge.
One big problem with the sea is this: when you get past one wave, there is always another one right behind it, just as big and just as ready to turn the boat over. In a small ten-foot boat, like theirs, you can really see how powerful the sea is. People who have never been in such a small boat at sea can’t imagine what it’s like. Each wave looked like a wall of dark water, hiding everything else from the men’s view. It was easy to think that each wave might be the last, most powerful one—the final attack of the ocean. The waves moved with a kind of dangerous beauty. They made no sound except the hissing and growling at their tops.
In the weak light, the men’s faces must have looked pale. Their eyes probably shone in strange ways as they kept looking behind the boat to watch the waves. From far away, maybe from a high place, the whole scene might have looked oddly beautiful. But the men in the boat had no time to think about how it looked. And even if they had time, they had other things to worry about.
The sun slowly rose in the sky. The men knew it was daytime because the sea changed color. It turned from dark grey to green, with lines of golden light, and the foam looked like falling snow. They did not notice the sun coming up—they only saw how the light changed the sea.
The cook and the correspondent began to talk in short, broken sentences. They were trying to understand the difference between a “life-saving station” and a “house of refuge.”
The cook said: “There’s a house of refuge just north of the Mosquito Inlet Light. As soon as they see us, they’ll come with their boat and save us.”
“Who will see us?” asked the correspondent.
“The crew,” answered the cook.
“But houses of refuge don’t have crews,” said the correspondent. “They’re just buildings with food and clothes for people who survive a shipwreck. No one works there.”
“Oh yes, they do,” said the cook.
“No, they don’t,” said the correspondent.
“Well, we’re not there yet anyway,” said the oiler from the back of the boat.
“Maybe I was wrong,” said the cook. “Maybe it’s not a house of refuge near Mosquito Inlet Light. Maybe it’s a life-saving station.”
“We’re not there yet,” the oiler repeated.
As the little boat bounced on top of each wave, the strong wind blew through the men’s hair. None of them had hats. When the back of the boat hit the water again, the sea spray splashed past them. Each wave had a high top like a hill, and when the boat reached the top, the men could see a wide view of the wild, windy sea. It looked big and powerful, with green, white, and gold lights shining on the waves.
“It’s a good thing the wind is blowing toward the land,” said the cook. “If it were blowing the other way, we wouldn’t have a chance.”
“That’s true,” said the correspondent.
The oiler, busy rowing, nodded in agreement.
Then the captain, lying at the front of the boat, gave a little laugh. His laugh sounded like it meant many things at once—like a joke, like sadness, and like something serious.
“Do you really think we have much of a chance now, boys?” he asked.
After that, the three other men were quiet. They coughed or cleared their throats a little, but said nothing. It felt childish and silly to say something too hopeful. Still, each man probably had some quiet hope inside. At the same time, it didn’t feel right to say something too hopeless either. So they stayed silent.
“Oh, well,” said the captain gently, “we’ll get to shore all right.”
But his voice didn’t sound confident, and the others noticed.
“Yes! If this wind keeps blowing toward the shore,” said the oiler.
The cook was still scooping water out of the boat. He said, “Yes! If the waves at the beach don’t get us first.”
White and gray seagulls flew near the boat. Some of them landed on the water near patches of brown seaweed. The seaweed floated like rugs on a clothesline in the wind. The birds sat calmly in little groups, and some of the men in the boat felt jealous. The waves didn’t bother the birds at all—just like how wind doesn’t bother chickens in a field far from the sea.
Sometimes the birds came very close and stared at the men with their small, black eyes. This felt creepy and strange. The men shouted at the birds to make them go away. One bird came very close and looked like it wanted to land on the captain’s head. It flew next to the boat, jumping from side to side in the air like a chicken. Its eyes stayed fixed on the captain’s head.
“Ugly bird,” said the oiler. “You look like someone carved you out of wood with a knife.”
The cook and the correspondent swore quietly at the bird. The captain wanted to hit it away with a heavy rope, but he didn’t dare. Any sudden movement could turn the small, full boat over. So, very slowly, he waved his hand to scare the bird away.
When the bird finally flew off, the captain felt better because his hair was safe. The others felt better too, because the bird had seemed scary and like a bad sign.
While all this happened, the oiler and the correspondent kept rowing. And then they rowed some more.
The two men sat close together in the same seat, and each held an oar. First, they rowed one oar each. Then the oiler took both oars. Later, the correspondent took both oars. Then they switched again and again. They kept rowing and rowing.
The hardest part was switching places. The man sitting at the back had to take a turn rowing. But it was very tricky to change seats in the small boat. It was almost easier to steal eggs from under a hen! First, the man at the back slowly moved his hand along the seat and carefully slid forward. He acted like he was made of fragile glass. Then the man who had been rowing also slowly moved back. They moved very slowly and carefully so the boat wouldn’t flip. As they moved, everyone watched the waves closely. The captain called out, “Watch out now! Be careful!”
Now and then, they saw brown mats of seaweed floating on the water. They looked like little islands. These seaweed patches didn’t seem to move forward or backward. They stayed still. When the men saw them, they knew the boat was moving slowly toward the land.
The captain carefully stood up at the front of the boat. When the boat rose high on a big wave, he looked far ahead and said he had seen the lighthouse at Mosquito Inlet. Soon after, the cook said he had seen it too.
The correspondent was rowing at that time, and he wanted to look too. But his back was to the shore, and he needed to focus on the waves. It took a while before he could turn his head. Then came a softer wave, and when the boat reached the top, he quickly looked toward the west.
“See it?” asked the captain.
“No,” said the correspondent slowly. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Look again,” said the captain. He pointed and added, “It’s right in that direction.”
At the top of another wave, the correspondent looked again. This time, he saw something tiny and still on the far horizon. It looked like the tip of a pin. It was hard to see such a small lighthouse far away.
“Do you think we’ll make it, captain?” he asked.
“If the wind keeps blowing this way and the boat doesn’t flip, we’ll probably get there,” the captain said.