Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor Read online

  Gabriel Garcia Marquez

  Gabriel Garcia Marquez was born in Colombia in 1927. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1982. He is the author of many works of fiction and nonfiction, including One Hundred Years of Solitude, Love in the Time of Cholera, The Autumn of the Patriarch, The General in His Labyrinth, and News of a Kidnapping. He died in 2014.

  BOOKS BY GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ

  Novels

  One Hundred Years of Solitude

  In Evil Hour

  The Autumn of the Patriarch

  Vive Sandino

  Chronicle of a Death Foretold

  Love in the Time of Cholera

  The Fragrance of Guava

  The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor

  The General in His Labyrinth

  The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World: A Tale for Children

  Of Love and Other Demons

  Memories of My Melancholy Whores

  Collections

  No One Writes to the Colonel and Other Stories

  Leaf Storm and Other Stories

  Innocent Erendira and Other Stories

  Collected Stories

  Collected Novellas

  Strange Pilgrims

  Nonfiction

  The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor

  Clandestine in Chile: The Adventures of Miguel Littin

  News of a Kidnapping

  A Country for Children

  Living to Tell the Tale

  First Vintage International Edition, March 1989

  Copyright (c) 1986 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc.

  Map Copyright (c) 1986 by Rafael Palacios

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Originally published in Spain as Relato de un naufrago by Tusquets Editores, Barcelona.

  Copyright (c) 1955, 1970 by Gabriel Garcia Marquez.

  This translation was originally published, in hardcover, by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. in 1986.

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Garcia Marquez, Gabriel, 1928-The story of a shipwrecked sailor. Translation of: Relato de un naufrago. (Vintage International) Reprint. Originally published: New York: Knopf, 1986.

  1. Velasco, Luis Alejandro. 2. Survival (after airplane accidents, shipwrecks, etc.) I. Title. [G530. V442G3713 1987] 910'.091636 86-46175

  ISBN 0-679-72205-x (pbk.)

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-10191109-9

  Cover design by John Gall

  Cover art courtesy of Mary Evans Picture Library, London v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Map

  The Story of This Story

  1: How My Shipmates Died at Sea

  2: My Last Minutes Aboard the "Wolf Ship"

  3: Watching Four of My Shipmates Drown

  4: My First Night Alone in the Caribbean

  5: A Companion Aboard the Life Raft

  6: A Rescue Ship and an Island of Cannibals

  7: The Desperate Recourse of a Starving Man

  8: Fighting Off the Sharks for a Fish

  9: The Color of the Sea Begins to Change

  10: Hope Abandoned ... Until Death

  11: On the Tenth Day, Another Hallucination: Land

  12: Resurrection in a Strange Land

  13: Six Hundred Men Take Me to San Juan

  14: My Heroism Consisted of Not Letting Myself Die

  The Story of This Story

  February 28, 1955, brought news that eight crew members of the destroyer Caldas, of the Colombian Navy, had fallen overboard and disappeared during a storm in the Caribbean Sea. The ship was traveling from Mobile, Alabama, in the United States, where it had docked for repairs, to the Colombian port of Cartagena, where it arrived two hours after the tragedy. A search for the seamen began immediately, with the cooperation of the U.S. Panama Canal Authority, which performs such functions as military control and other humanitarian deeds in the southern Caribbean. After four days, the search was abandoned and the lost sailors were officially declared dead. A week later, however, one of them turned up half dead on a deserted beach in northern Colombia, having survived ten days without food or water on a drifting life raft. His name was Luis Alejandro Velasco. This book is a journalistic reconstruction of what he told me, as it was published one month after the disaster in the Bogota daily El Espectador.

  What neither the sailor nor I knew when we tried to reconstruct his adventure minute by minute was that our exhaustive digging would lead us to a new adventure that caused a certain stir in the nation and cost him his honor, and could have cost me my skin. At that time Colombia was under the military and social dictatorship of General Gustavo Rojas Pinilla, whose two most memorable feats were the killing of students in the center of the capital when the Army broke up a peaceful demonstration with bullets, and the assassination by the secret police of an undetermined number of Sunday bullfight fans who had booed the dictator's daughter at the bullring. The press was censored, and the daily problem for opposition newspapers was finding politically germ-free stories with which to entertain their readers. At El Espectador, those in charge of that estimable confectionary work were Guillermo Cano, director; Jose Salgar, editor-in-chief, and I, staff reporter. None of us was over thirty.

  When Luis Alejandro Velasco showed up of his own accord to ask how much we would pay him for his story, we took it for what it was: a rehash. The armed forces had sequestered him for several weeks in a naval hospital, and he had been allowed to talk only with reporters favorable to the regime and with one opposition journalist who had disguised himself as a doctor. His story had been told piecemeal many times, had been pawed over and perverted, and readers seemed fed up with a hero who had rented himself out to advertise watches (because his watch hadn't even slowed down during the storm); who appeared in shoe advertisements (because his shoes were so sturdy that he hadn't been able to tear them apart to eat them); and who had performed many other publicity stunts. He had been decorated, he had made patriotic speeches on radio, he had been displayed on television as an example to future generations, and he had toured the country amid bouquets and fanfares, signing autographs and being kissed by beauty queens. He had amassed a small fortune. If he was now coming to us without our having invited him, after we had tried so hard to reach him earlier, it was likely that he no longer had much to tell, that he was capable of inventing anything for money, and that the government had very clearly defined the limits of what he could say. We sent him away. But on a hunch, Guillermo Cano caught up with him on the stairway, accepted the deal, and placed him in my hands. It was as if he had given me a time bomb.

  My first surprise was that this solidly built twenty-year-old, who looked more like a trumpet player than a national hero, had an exceptional instinct for the art of narrative, an astonishing memory and ability to synthesize, and enough uncultivated dignity to be able to laugh at his own heroism. In twenty daily sessions, each lasting six hours, during which I took notes and sprang trick questions on him to expose contradictions, we put together an accurate and concise account of his ten days at sea. It was so detailed and so exciting that my only concern was finding readers who would believe it. Not solely for that reason but also because it seemed fitting, we agreed that the story would be written in the first person and signed by him. This is the first time my name has appeared in connection with the text.

  The second, and more important, surprise occurred during the fourth day of work, when I asked Luis Alejandro V
elasco to describe the storm that caused the disaster. Aware that his statement was worth its weight in gold, he answered with a smile, "There was no storm." It was true: the weather bureau confirmed that it had been another clear and mild February in the Caribbean. The truth, never published until then, was that the ship, tossed violently by the wind in heavy seas, had spilled its ill-secured cargo and the eight sailors overboard. This revelation meant that three serious offenses had been committed: first, it was illegal to transport cargo on a destroyer; second, the overweight prevented the ship from maneuvering to rescue the sailors; and third, the cargo was contraband--refrigerators, television sets, and washing machines. Clearly, the account, like the destroyer, was loaded with an ill-secured moral and political cargo that we hadn't foreseen.

  The story, divided into installments, ran for fourteen consecutive days. At first the government applauded the literary consecration of its hero. Later, when the truth began to emerge, it would have been politically dishonest to halt publication of the series: the paper's circulation had almost doubled, and readers scrambled in front of the building to buy back issues in order to collect the entire series. The dictatorship, in accordance with a tradition typical of Colombian governments, satisfied itself by patching up the truth with rhetoric: in a solemn statement, it denied that the destroyer had been loaded with contraband goods. Looking for a way to substantiate our charges, we asked Luis Alejandro Velasco for a list of his fellow crewmen who owned cameras. Although many of them were vacationing in various parts of the country, we managed to find them and buy the photographs they had taken during their voyage. One week after the publication of the series, the complete story appeared in a special supplement illustrated with the sailors' photographs. Behind the groups of friends on the high seas one could see the boxes of contraband merchandise and even, unmistakably, the factory labels. The dictatorship countered the blow with a series of drastic reprisals that would result, months later, in the shutdown of the newspaper. Despite the pressure, the threats, and the most seductive attempts at bribery, Luis Alejandro Velasco did not recant a word of his story. He had to leave the Navy, the only career he had, and disappeared into the oblivion of everyday life. After two years the dictatorship collapsed and Colombia fell to the mercy of other regimes that were better dressed but not much more just, while in Paris I began my nomadic and somewhat nostalgic exile that in certain ways also resembles a drifting raft. No one heard anything more about that lone sailor until a few months later, when a wandering journalist found him seated behind a desk at a bus company. I have seen the photograph taken of him then: he had grown older and heavier, and looked as if life had passed through him, leaving behind the serene aura of a hero who had had the courage to dynamite his own statue.

  I have not reread this story in fifteen years. It seems worthy of publication, but I have never quite understood the usefulness of publishing it. I find it depressing that the publishers are not so much interested in the merit of the story as in the name of the author, which, much to my sorrow, is also that of a fashionable writer. If it is now published in the form of a book, that is because I agreed without thinking about it very much, and I am not a man to go back on his word.

  G. G. M.

  Barcelona, February 1970

  1

  How My Shipmates Died at Sea

  On February 22 we were told that we would be returning to Colombia. For eight months we had been in Mobile, Alabama, where the electronic equipment and gunnery of the Caldas were being repaired. While on liberty we did what all sailors do ashore: we went to the movies with our girlfriends and afterward met at a bar in the port, the Joe Palooka, where we drank whiskey and sometimes started brawls.

  My girlfriend was named Mary Address, and I met her through another sailor's girlfriend after I had been in Mobile for two months. Mary had some fluency in Spanish, but I don't think she ever understood why my friends called her, in jest, "Maria Direccion." Each time we had shore leave I took her to the movies, although she preferred going out for ice cream. With my half-English and her half-Spanish we could just about make ourselves understood, but we always did understand each other, at the movies or eating ice cream.

  There was only one time I didn't go out with Mary: the night we saw The Caine Mutiny. Some of my friends had heard it was a good movie about life aboard a minesweeper. That was the reason we went to see it. The best part of the movie, however, wasn't the minesweeper but the storm. We all agreed that the thing to do in a situation like that was to change the vessel's course, as the mutineers had done. But none of us had ever been in a storm like that one, so nothing in the movie impressed us as much as the storm did. When we returned to the ship that night, one of the sailors, Diego Velazquez, who was very impressed by the movie, figured that in just a few days we would be at sea and wondered, "What if something like that happened to us?"

  I confess that the movie also made an impression on me. In the past eight months, I had grown unaccustomed to the sea. I wasn't afraid, for an instructor had shown us how to fend for ourselves in the event of a shipwreck. Nonetheless, the uneasiness I felt the night we saw The Caine Mutiny wasn't normal.

  I don't mean to say that from that moment I began to anticipate the catastrophe, but I had never been so apprehensive before a voyage. When I was a child in Bogota, looking at illustrations in books, it never occurred to me that one might encounter death at sea. On the contrary, I had a great deal of faith in the sea. And from the time I had enlisted in the Navy, two years before, I had never felt anxious during a voyage.

  But I'm not ashamed to say that I felt something like fear after seeing The Caine Mutiny. Lying face up in my bunk, the uppermost one, I thought about my family and about the voyage we would have to make before reaching Cartagena. I couldn't sleep. With my head resting in my hands, I listened to the soft splash of water against the pier and the calm breathing of forty sailors sleeping in their quarters. Just below my bunk, Seaman First Class Luis Rengifo snored like a trombone. I don't know what he was dreaming about, but he certainly wouldn't have slept so soundly had he known that eight days later he would be dead at the bottom of the sea.

  My uneasiness lasted all through that week. The day of departure was alarmingly close, and I tried to instill some confidence in myself by talking to my mates. We talked more insistently about our families, about Colombia, and about our plans for our return. Little by little, the ship was loaded with the gifts we would take home: radios, refrigerators, washing machines, and stoves. I had bought a radio.

  Unable to shake off my worries, I made a resolution: as soon as I reached Cartagena I would quit the Navy. The night before we sailed I went to say goodbye to Mary. I thought I would speak to her about my fears and about my resolution. But I didn't, because I had promised her I'd come back, and she wouldn't have believed me if I told her I had decided never to sail again. The only person I did tell was Seaman Second Class Ramon Herrera, who confided that he, too, had decided to leave the Navy as soon as we reached Cartagena. Sharing our misgivings, Ramon Herrera and I went with Diego Velazquez to have a whiskey and bid farewell to the Joe Palooka.

  We thought we would have one whiskey, but we ended up having five bottles. Practically all our girlfriends knew we were leaving and they decided to say goodbye, get drunk, and cry to show their gratitude. The bandleader, a serious fellow who wore eyeglasses that made him look nothing like a musician, played a program of mambos and tangos in our honor, thinking this was Colombian music. Our girlfriends wept and drank whiskey at a dollar and a half a bottle.

  Since we had been paid three times that week, we decided to raise the roof. Me, because I was worried and wanted to get drunk. Ramon Herrera, because he was happy, as always, and because he was from Arjona and knew how to play the drums and had a singular talent for imitating all the fashionable singers.

  Shortly before we left, a North American sailor came up to our table and asked permission to dance with Ramon Herrera's girlfriend, an enormous blonde, the one who was
drinking the least and crying the most--and she meant it! The North American asked permission in English and Ramon Herrera shook him, saying in Spanish, "I can't understand you, you son of a bitch!"

  It turned out to be one of the best brawls Mobile ever had, with chairs broken over people's heads, radio patrol cars and cops. Ramon Herrera, who managed to throw a couple of good haymakers at the North American, went back to the ship at one in the morning, singing like Daniel Santos. He said it was the last time he would go aboard. And, indeed, it was.

  At three in the morning on the twenty-fourth, the Caldas weighed anchor at Mobile, bound for Cartagena. We were all happy to be going home. And we were all taking along gifts. Chief Gunner's Mate Miguel Ortega seemed happiest of all. I don't think another sailor was ever as prudent as Miguel Ortega. During his eight months in Mobile he hadn't squandered a dollar. All the money he got he invested in presents for his wife, who was waiting for him in Cartagena. As we boarded that morning, Ortega was on the bridge, talking about his wife and children, which was no coincidence, because he never talked of anything else. He had a refrigerator, an automatic washer, a radio, and a stove for them. Twelve hours later, Ortega would be stretched out in his bunk, dying of seasickness. And twenty-four hours later, he would be dead at the bottom of the sea.

  Death's guests

  When a vessel weighs anchor, the order is issued: "Service personnel, to your stations." Everyone is supposed to remain at his station until the ship has left port. Standing quietly at my station in front of the torpedo tubes, I watched the lights of Mobile fade into the mist, but I wasn't thinking of Mary. I thought about the sea. I knew that on the following day we would be in the Gulf of Mexico, and at that time of year it was a dangerous route. Since dawn I hadn't seen Lieutenant Jaime Martinez Diago, second in command and the only officer to die in the catastrophe. He was tall and husky, a taciturn man whom I had seen on very few occasions. I knew that he was a native of Tolima and a fine person.

  But that morning I did see First Warrant Officer Julio Amador Caraballo, a tall, well-built man, who passed by me, looking at the fading lights of Mobile, and went off to his station. I think it was the last time I saw him aboard the ship.