the front cross seat and providing braces. He padded the bottom of the mast to prevent it from chafing or punching a hole in the rubber floor. For a rudder he used an oar. “Now,” he told the others, “let’s try to get someplace. It doesn’t seem that anyone’s looking for us.”
“We haven’t reached anyone, that’s why,” the copilot said, still cranking the Gibson Girl.
“I think we’ve got a pretty good chance of finding something,” the navigator told them for the first time. “According to my estimate …”
Their eyes turned to him, pleading and hopeful. “I could be wrong,” he went on. “Don’t get all steamed up. But there’s a chance, a good one, that we might sight land today. Keep looking.”
The late-afternoon sky was clear except for a strangecloud that hovered close to the sea. The atmosphere there had more of a greenish tint than the area around it—as if, perhaps, it was a reflection of sunlight from shallow lagoons or shelves of coral reefs. All the rest of the sea was either dark green or dark blue, indicating deep water.
The crew watched the hovering cloud. Might it not mean that land was near? Didn’t the survival manual state that sometimes such a cloud in a clear sky hangs over or floats downwind from an island?
They sniffed the air for smells of land which would carry a long way over the sea with the right wind. They hoped to smell the musty odor of mangrove swamps and mud flats, and that of burning wood. They listened for the roar of the surf and the cries of sea birds that might already be roosting on some nearby land. Their eyes searched the skies for birds flying homeward at dusk. Finally they saw a flock far in the distance, a long file making a beeline for the center of the hovering cloud! They watched the flowing stream of birds in dead silence, afraid to speak, even to hope, able only to pray. They watched so intently that each and every one thought he could actually hear the soft, humming swish of wings and, below the birds, the roar of the surf breaking on an island shore.
After a long while the captain shifted his gaze from the cloud and studied the sea. There was no doubt that the pattern of the waves was changing. He turned to the others, saying quietly, “I think it’s safe to say we’re approaching land.”
“If it’s land, it’s the island of Antago, according to my reckoning, the most windward of the Lower Antilles,” the navigator said.
“I don’t care what it is, ol’ buddy, just as long as it’s solid ground,” the copilot answered.
“You’d better care,” the navigator retorted. “Why be stranded on a deserted island? Antago’s got people, plenty of them, and ships to take us
home.”
The wind was strong on their quarter as they sailed westward, and by sunset they were within sight of land. It rose from the sea in a series of rolling hills of green cane rimmed by palm-fringed beaches. But more heartening to the survivors than the beauty of the land were the villages rising from the waterfront to high, well-cultivated plains. There was nothing remote or primitive about the island; it was productive, civilized, a place where they could easily get help.
The rays of the setting sun shone in the captain’s eyes as he tried to select his landing point carefully. He watched for gaps in the surf line and headed for them. He ordered everybody to put on life vests again and trailed the sea anchor over the stern with as much line as he had. The anchor together with the oars would help keep the raft pointing toward shore. If possible they’d ride in on the crest of a wave. He didn’t expect any trouble. It was only a medium surf with a small coral reef to cross. They had won! They had staved off death. They were going
home
. It was good to think about. He had a wife and four kids.
“It won’t be long now,” he said aloud but softly.
They were all nodding quietly back at him, all but the boy Alec, who wanted with all his heart to know
“We haven’t reached anyone, that’s why,” the copilot said, still cranking the Gibson Girl.
“I think we’ve got a pretty good chance of finding something,” the navigator told them for the first time. “According to my estimate …”
Their eyes turned to him, pleading and hopeful. “I could be wrong,” he went on. “Don’t get all steamed up. But there’s a chance, a good one, that we might sight land today. Keep looking.”
The late-afternoon sky was clear except for a strangecloud that hovered close to the sea. The atmosphere there had more of a greenish tint than the area around it—as if, perhaps, it was a reflection of sunlight from shallow lagoons or shelves of coral reefs. All the rest of the sea was either dark green or dark blue, indicating deep water.
The crew watched the hovering cloud. Might it not mean that land was near? Didn’t the survival manual state that sometimes such a cloud in a clear sky hangs over or floats downwind from an island?
They sniffed the air for smells of land which would carry a long way over the sea with the right wind. They hoped to smell the musty odor of mangrove swamps and mud flats, and that of burning wood. They listened for the roar of the surf and the cries of sea birds that might already be roosting on some nearby land. Their eyes searched the skies for birds flying homeward at dusk. Finally they saw a flock far in the distance, a long file making a beeline for the center of the hovering cloud! They watched the flowing stream of birds in dead silence, afraid to speak, even to hope, able only to pray. They watched so intently that each and every one thought he could actually hear the soft, humming swish of wings and, below the birds, the roar of the surf breaking on an island shore.
After a long while the captain shifted his gaze from the cloud and studied the sea. There was no doubt that the pattern of the waves was changing. He turned to the others, saying quietly, “I think it’s safe to say we’re approaching land.”
“If it’s land, it’s the island of Antago, according to my reckoning, the most windward of the Lower Antilles,” the navigator said.
“I don’t care what it is, ol’ buddy, just as long as it’s solid ground,” the copilot answered.
“You’d better care,” the navigator retorted. “Why be stranded on a deserted island? Antago’s got people, plenty of them, and ships to take us
home.”
The wind was strong on their quarter as they sailed westward, and by sunset they were within sight of land. It rose from the sea in a series of rolling hills of green cane rimmed by palm-fringed beaches. But more heartening to the survivors than the beauty of the land were the villages rising from the waterfront to high, well-cultivated plains. There was nothing remote or primitive about the island; it was productive, civilized, a place where they could easily get help.
The rays of the setting sun shone in the captain’s eyes as he tried to select his landing point carefully. He watched for gaps in the surf line and headed for them. He ordered everybody to put on life vests again and trailed the sea anchor over the stern with as much line as he had. The anchor together with the oars would help keep the raft pointing toward shore. If possible they’d ride in on the crest of a wave. He didn’t expect any trouble. It was only a medium surf with a small coral reef to cross. They had won! They had staved off death. They were going
home
. It was good to think about. He had a wife and four kids.
“It won’t be long now,” he said aloud but softly.
They were all nodding quietly back at him, all but the boy Alec, who wanted with all his heart to know
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