I wanted scallops or a langosta to roast over the fire. I didn’t dare go out off north beach for scallops because of the sharks. But I thought there might be a langosta clinging to coral at the bottom of the fishing hole.
From what Timothy had told me, the sea entrance to the hole was too narrow for a large fish, a shark, to swim through. Barracuda, he’d said, could go through, but they were not usually dangerous. If there happened to be an octopus down there, it would have to be a very small one. The big ones were always in deep water. So he’d said it was safe for him to dive in the hole.
I sharpened a stick the way Timothy had done, but I knew that if I felt a langosta with my left hand, I would have to be very quick with my right hand, or he would use his tail to push away from me across the sand.
With Stew Cat, I went down to the reef and felt my way along it until I found the familiar edges of the hole. I told Stew Cat, “If I’m not out in twenty minutes, you better jump in and get me.”
The crazy cat rubbed along my leg and purred.
Holding the sharpened stick in my right hand, I slipped into the warm water, treading for a moment, waiting to see if anything came up. Then I ducked my head underwater, swam down a few feet, and came up again. I was certain that nothing was in the hole aside from the usual small fish I yanked out each morning.
After a few minutes, I had my courage up and dived to the bottom, holding the sharp stick in my left hand now, and using my right hand to feel the coral and rocks. Coming up now and then for air, I slowly felt my way around the bottom of the small pool, touching sea fans that waved back and north, feeling the organ-pipe coral and the bigger chunks of brain coral.
Several times I was startled when seaweed or sea fans would brush against my face and swam quickly on the surface. It must have taken me nearly thirty minutes to decide that I could hunt langosta in the hole.
This time, I dived in earnest. I went straight down, touched the bottom, and then took a few strokes toward the coral sides of the pool. Timothy had said that langosta were always on the bottom, usually over against the rocks and coral. To my amazement, I touched one on the first sweep and drove the sharp stick into him, swimming quickly to the surface.
Panting, I shouted to Stew Cat, “Lobster tonight!”
I swam to the edge, pushed the langosta off the stick, caught my breath again, and dived.
I dived many times without again touching the hard shell that meant langosta. I began sticking my hands deeper into the shelves and over the ledges near the bottom.
I rested a few minutes, then decided I’d make one more dive. I was happy with the lobster that was now on the reef, but it was quite small, barely a meal for Stew Cat and myself.
I dived again, and this time found what seemed to be an opening into a deep hole. Or at least, the hole went far back. There has to be a big lobster in there, I thought. Up I came again, filled my lungs, and dived immediately.
I ran my hand back into the hole, and something grabbed it.
Terrified, I put my feet against the rocks to pull away. The pain was severe. Whatever had my wrist had the strength of Timothy’s arms. I jerked hard and whatever it was came out with my arm, its tail smashing against my chest. I kicked and rose to the surface, the thing still on my wrist, its teeth sunk in deep.
I’m sure I screamed as I broke water, flailing toward the edge of the hole. Then the thing let loose, and I made it up over the side and out of the hole.
Pain shooting up my entire arm, I lay panting on the edge of the pool and gingerly began to feel my wrist. It was bleeding, but not badly. But the teeth had sunk in deep.
It wasn’t a fish, because the body felt long and narrow. Some time later, I made an informed guess that it had been a large moray eel. Whatever it was, I never got back into the hole again.
CHAPTER
Eighteen
THERE WAS NO DAY or night that passed when I didn’t listen for sounds from the sky. Both my sense of touch and my sense of hearing were beginning to make up for my lack of sight. I separated the sounds and each became different.
I grew to know the different cries of the birds that flew by the cay, even though I had no idea what any of them were. I made up my own names for them according to the sound of their cries. Only the occasional bleat of the gull gave me a picture of that bird, for I had heard and seen them many times around the sea wall in Willemstad.
I knew how the breeze sounded when it crossed the sea grape. It fluttered the small leaves. When it went through the palm fronds the storm hadn’t ripped away, it made a flapping noise.
I knew the rustle of the lizards. Some were still on the island after the storm. I could only guess they’d somehow climbed high into the palms. Otherwise, how could they have lived with water lapping over the entire cay?
I even knew when Stew Cat was approaching me. His soft paws on a dried leaf made only a tiny crackle, but I heard it.
One midmorning in early August, I was on the hill, near the camp, when I heard the far-off drone of an airplane. It was up-wind from me, but the sound was very clear. I reached down to feel Stew Cat. He had heard it too. His body was tense; his head pointed toward the sound.
I dropped to my knees by the fire, feeling around the edges until I grasped the end of a stick. I drew it back. Timothy had taught me to lay the fire sticks like a wheel, so that the fire burned slowly in the center, but always had a few unburned ends on the outside. I tended the fire a half dozen times each day.
I spit on the stick until I heard a sizzle. Then I knew there was enough fire or charring on it to light off the base of fried palm fronds beneath the signal fire.
I listened again for the drone. Yes, it was still there. Closer now.
I ran down the hill straight to the signal fire, felt around the palm fronds, and then pushed the stick over them. I blew on it until I heard the crackle of flames. In a few minutes the signal fire was roaring, and I ran to south beach where I would be able to hear the aircraft without hearing the crackling fire.
Standing on south beach, I listened. The plane was coming closer!
I yelled toward the sky, “Here! Down here!”
I decided to run back to east beach to stand near the fire and the new arrangement of rocks that spelled out “Help.”
Thinking any moment the plane would dive and I would hear the roar of its engines across the cay at low altitude, I stood with Stew Cat a few feet from the sloshing surf. I waited and waited, but there was no thundering sound from the sky. I could hear nothing but the crackling of the fire, the washing sound of the surf.
I ran back to south beach, where I stood very still and listened.
The plane had gone!
Slowly, I returned to east beach and sat down in sea-grape shade. I put my head down on my arms and sobbed, feeling no shame for what I was doing.
There seemed to be no hope of ever leaving the cay, yet I knew I could not always live this way. One day I would become ill or another storm would rage against the island. I could never survive alone.
There had been many bad and lonely days and nights, but none as bad as this.
Stew Cat came up, purring, rubbing along my legs. I held him a long time, wondering why the aircraft had not come down when the pilots saw the smoke.
At last I thought, perhaps they didn’t see the smoke. I knew it was going up into the sky, but was it white smoke that might be lost in the blue-white sky, or was it dark and oily smoke that would make a smudge against the blueness? There was no way to tell.
If only there were some oily boards! The kind that drifted around the waters of the Schottegat. But I knew that the wood floating up on the beach consisted mostly of branches or stumps that had been in the water for weeks or months. There was nothing in them to make dark smoke.
I began to think of all the things on the island. Green palm fronds might send off dark smoke, but until they were dried, they were too tough to tear off the trees. The vines on north beach might make dark smoke, but the leaves on
them were very small.
The sea grape! I snapped some off, feeling it between my fingers. Yes, there was oil in it. I got up and went over to the fire, tossing a piece in. In a moment, I heard it popping the way hot grease pops when it is dropped into water.
I knew how to do it now.
The smoke would rise from the cay in a fat, black column to lead the planes up the Devil’s Mouth. If I heard another aircraft, I’d start a fire and then throw bundles of sea grape into it until I was certain a strong signal was going up from the island.
Timothy hadn’t thought about black smoke, I was sure. That was it!
Feeling better now, I walked back up the hill to gather the few palm fronds that were left for a new fire base.
I woke up at dawn on the morning of August 20, 1942, to hear thunder and wondered when the first drops of rain would spatter on the roof of the shelter. I heard Stew Cat, down near my feet, let off a low growl.
I said, “It’s only thunder, Stew Cat. We need the water.”
But as I continued to listen, it did not seem to be thunder. It was a heavy sound, hard and sharp, not rolling. More like an explosion or a series of explosions. It felt as if the cay were shaking. I got up from the mat, moving out from under the shelter.
The air did not feel like rain. It was dry and there was no heavy heat.
“They’re explosions, Stew,” I said. “Very near us.”
Maybe destroyers, I thought. I could not hear any aircraft engines. Maybe destroyers fighting it out with enemy submarines. And those heavy, hard, sharp sounds could be the depth charges that my father said were used by the Navy to sink U-boats.
This time, I didn’t bother to take a piece of firewood down to east beach. I dug into the tin box for the cellophane wrapped package of big wooden matches. Four were left. I ran down the hill.
At the signal fire, I searched around for a rock. Finding one, I knelt down by the fire and struck a match against it. Nothing happened. I felt the head of the match. The sulphur had rubbed off. I struck another. It made a small popping noise and then went out.
I had two more matches left, and for a moment, I didn’t know whether to use them or run back up the hill to the campfire.
I stopped to listen, feeling sweat trickle down my face. The explosions were still thundering across the sea.
Then I heard the drone of an aircraft. I took a deep breath and struck the next to last match. I heard it flare and ran my left hand over the top of it. There was heat. It was burning.
I reached deep into the fire pile, holding the match there until it began to burn the tips of my fingers. The fire caught and in a moment was roaring.
I ran across the beach to begin pulling sea grape down. I carried the first bundle to the fire and threw it in. Soon, I could smell it burning. It began to pop and crackle as the flames got to the natural oils in the branches.
By the time I had carried ten or fifteen bundles of sea grape to the fire, tumbling them in, I was sure that a column of black smoke was rising into the sky over the cay.
Suddenly, a deafening roar swept overhead. I knew it was an aircraft crossing the cay not much higher than the palms. I could feel the wind from it.
Forgetting for a moment, I yelled, “Timothy, they’ve come.”
The aircraft seemed to be making a sharp turn. It roared across the cay again, seeming even lower this time because the rush of wind from it was hot. I could smell exhaust fumes.
I yelled, “Down here, down here,” and waved my arms.
The plane made another tight circle, coming back almost directly over me. Its engine was screaming.
I shouted at Stew Cat, “We’ll be rescued!” But I think that he’d gone to hide in the sea grape.
This time, however, the aircraft did not circle back. It did not make another low pass over the island. I heard the sound going away. Soon, it had vanished completely. Then I realized that the explosions had stopped too.
A familiar silence settled over the cay.
All the strength went out of my body. It was the first real chance of rescue, and maybe there would not be another. The pilot had flown away, perhaps thinking I was just another native fisherman waving at an aircraft. I knew that the color of my skin was very dark now.
Worse, I knew that the smoke might have blotted out the lines of rocks that spelled help.
Feeling very ill, I climbed the slope again, throwing myself down on the mat in the hut. I didn’t cry. There was no use in doing that.
I wanted to die.
After a while, I looked over toward Timothy’s grave. I said, “Why didn’t you take us with you?”
CHAPTER
Nineteen
IT WAS ABOUT NOON when I heard the bell.
It sounded like bells I’d heard in St. Anna Bay and in the Schottegat. Small boats and tugs use them to tell the engineer to go slow or fast or put the engines in reverse.
For a moment, I thought I was dreaming.
Then I heard the bell again. And with it, the slow chugging of an engine. And voices! They were coming from east beach.
I ran down there. Yes, a small boat had come into the Devil’s Mouth and was approaching our cay.
I yelled, “I’m here! I’m here!”
There was a shout from across the water. A man’s voice. “We see you!”
I stood there on east beach, Stew Cat by my feet, looking in the direction of the sounds. I heard the bell again; then the engine went into reverse, the propeller thrashing. Someone yelled, “Jump, Scotty, the water’s shallow.”
The voice was American, I was certain.
The engine was now idling, and someone was coming toward me. I could hear him padding across the sand. I said, “Hello.”
There was no answer from the man. I suppose he was just staring at me.
Then he yelled to someone on the boat, “My Lord, it’s a naked boy. And a cat!”
The person on the boat yelled, “Anyone else?”
I called out, “No, just us.”
I began to move toward the man on the beach.
He gasped. “Are you blind?”
I said, “Yes, sir.”
In a funny voice, he asked, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine now. You’re here,” I said.
He said, “Here, boy, I’ll help you.”
I said, “If you’ll carry Stew Cat, you can just lead me to the boat.”
After I had climbed aboard, I remembered Timothy’s knife stuck in the palm tree. It was the only thing I wanted off the cay. The sailor who had carried Stew Cat went up the hill to get it while the other sailor asked me questions. When the first sailor came back from the hill, he said, “You wouldn’t believe what’s up there.” I guess he was talking about our hut and the rain catchment. He should have seen the ones Timothy built.
I don’t remember everything that happened in the next few hours but very soon I was helped up the gangway of a destroyer. On deck I was asked so many questions all at once that one man barked, “Stop badgering him. Give him food, medical care, and get him into a bunk.”
A voice answered meekly, “Yes, sir, Cap’n.”
Down in sick bay, the captain asked, “What’s your name, son?”
“Phillip Enright. My father lives in Willemstad. He works for Royal Dutch Shell,” I answered.
The captain told someone to get a priority radio message off to the naval commander at Willemstad and then asked, “How did you get on that little island?”
“Timothy and I drifted on to it after the Hato was sunk.”
“Where’s Timothy?” he asked.
I told the captain about Timothy and what had happened to us. I’m not sure the captain believed any of it, because he said quietly, “Son, get some sleep. The Hato was sunk way back in April.”
I said, “Yes, sir, that’s right,” and then a doctor came in to check me over.
That night, after the ship had been in communication with Willemstad, the captain visited me again to tell me that his dest
royer had been hunting a German submarine when the plane had spotted my black smoke and radioed back to the ship.
There was still disbelief in his voice when he said he’d checked all the charts and publications on the bridge; our cay was so small that the charts wouldn’t even dignify it with a name. But Timothy had been right. It was tucked back up in the Devil’s Mouth.
The next morning, we docked at the naval base in Cristóbal, Panama, and I was rushed to a hospital, although I really didn’t think it was necessary. I was strong and healthy, the doctor on the destroyer had said.
My mother and father flew over from Willemstad in a special plane. It was minutes before they could say anything. They just held me, and I knew my mother was crying. She kept saying, “Phillip, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
The Navy had notified them that I was blind, so that it would not be a shock. And I knew I looked different. They’d brought a barber in to cut my hair, which had grown quite long.
We talked for a long time, Stew Cat on my bed, and I tried to tell them all about Timothy and the cay. But it was very difficult. They listened, of course, but I had the feeling that neither of them really understood what had happened on our cay.
Four months later, in a hospital in New York, after many X rays and tests, I had the first of three operations. The piece of timber that had hit me the night the Hato went down had damaged some nerves. But after the third operation, when the bandages came off, I could see again. I would always have to wear glasses, but I could see. That was the important thing.
In early April, I returned to Willemstad with my mother, and we took up life where it had been left off the previous April. After I’d been officially reported lost at sea, she’d gone back to Curaçao to be with my father. She had changed in many ways. She had no thoughts of leaving the islands now.