Attilio Canale
Herbert Bayer
ABOARD, at a ship’s helm,
http://pedraapedra.weblog.com.pt/arquivo/1060851141_angel_sea2.jpg"Between the past and the present was an ineffable abyss. But imagination has the wings of an angel of light and travels safely through or over the seas where we have been almost shipwrecked, the darkness in which our illusions are lost, the precipice whence our happiness has been hurled and swallowed up."
Alexandre Dumas – Twenty Years After
Luc Besson
Proof that inadequate, even childish measures, may serve to rescue one from peril.
To protect himself from the Sirens Ulysses stopped his ears with wax and had himself bound to the mast of his ship. Naturally any and every traveller before him could have done the same, except those whom the Sirens allured even from a great distance; but it was known to all the world that such things were of no help whatever. The song of the Sirens could pierce through everything, and the longing of those they seduced would have broken far stronger bonds than chains and masts. But Ulysses did not think of that, although he had probably heard of it. He trusted absolutely to his handful of wax and his fathom of chain, and in innocent elation over his little stratagem sailed out to meet the Sirens.
Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence. And though admittedly such a thing has never happened, still it is conceivable that someone might possibly have escaped from their singing; but from their silence certainly never. Against the feeling of having triumphed over them by one's own strength, and the consequent exaltation that bears down everything before it, no earthly powers could have remained intact.
And when Ulysses approached them the potent songstresses actually did not sing, whether because they thought that this enemy could be vanquished only by their silence, or because of the look of bliss on the face of Ulysses, who was thinking of nothing but his wax and his chains, made them forget their singing.
But Ulysses, if one may so express it, did not hear their silence; he thought they were singing and that he alone did not hear them. For a fleeting moment he saw their throats rising and falling, their breasts lifting, their eyes filled with tears, their lips half-parted, but believed that these were accompaniments to the airs which died unheard around him. Soon, however, all this faded from his sight as he fixed his gaze on the distance, the Sirens literally vanished before his resolution, and at the very moment when they were nearest to him he knew of them no longer.
But they--lovelier than ever--stretched their necks and turned, let their cold hair flutter free in the wind, and forgetting everything clung with their claws to the rocks. They no longer had any desire to allure; all that they wanted was to hold as long as they could the radiance that fell from Ulysses' great eyes.
If the Sirens had possessed consciousness they would have been annihilated at that moment. But they remained as they had been; all that had happened was that Ulysses had escaped them.
A codicil to the foregoing has also been handed down. Ulysses, it is said, was so full of guile, was such a fox, that not even the goddess of fate could pierce his armour. Perhaps he had really noticed, although here the human understanding is beyond its depths, that the Sirens were silent, and opposed the afore-mentioned pretence to them and the gods merely as a sort of shield.
Kafka
From http://www.ac.wwu.edu/~n9648471/kafka/ksilence.html
Her lute hangs shadowed in the apple-tree,
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Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Dylan Thomas
From The Poems of Dylan Thomas, published by New Directions. Copyright © 1952, 1953 Dylan Thomas. Copyright © 1937, 1945, 1955, 1962, 1966, 1967 the Trustees for the Copyrights of Dylan Thomas. Copyright © 1938, 1939, 1943, 1946, 1971 New Directions Publishing Corp.
While, thankfully, the chances of anybody being swallowed by a large marine creature are extremely low 1 there is hope for those that do come face to face with this situation.
Literary Reference
Biblical reference in Christian belief cites that Jonah survived in the belly of a great fish without ill effect, but consistent attacks have been made on this story and its veracity. Strong opinions have been put to paper that something like this could not possibly occur and that the story is pure fabrication.
Rudyard Kipling, in his short tale ‘How The Whale Got His Throat’, tells of a shipwrecked Mariner who is swallowed by a whale. He causes such a fuss in the belly of the beast that it agrees to release him, and to prevent further instances of swallowing unwary seamen the Mariner pulls a wooden grating into its gullet so it will only be able to eat fish and small marine creatures in future.
While it is possible that Jonah’s experiences have more to do with analogies than reality, and Kipling’s story is just a fanciful tale, there are much more recent accounts of individuals becoming trapped inside marine creatures' bellies, only to emerge some while later alive – if not necessarily in perfect condition.
Bartley and the Star of the East
In the late winter of 1891, the whale-ship 'Star of the East' was in the vicinity of the Falkland Islands when it came within sight of a whale. Two boats were dispatched with harpoons to snare and kill the great beast of the sea, but the lashing of its tail capsized one of the launches spilling the crew into the sea. All were accounted for except for a single sailor, James Bartley 2 .
Ultimately the whale was killed and the carcass drawn aboard the vessel to begin the process of salvaging valuable resources. By the next day good progress had been made in removing the layers of blubber from the beast, so tackle was attached to its stomach to hoist it on deck. Sailors were startled by spasmodic life within the belly of the whale, and upon further inspection the missing sailor was found.
Bartley was quite mad for two weeks, but upon recovering his senses he recounted what little he could recall of being dragged under the water. Struggling for his life he had been drawn into darkness within which he felt a terrible and oppressive heat. He found slimy walls that gave slightly to his touch, but could find no exit. When his situation finally dawned on him Bartley lost his senses completely and lapsed into a state of catatonia.
During his time inside the whale the gastric juices effected his exposed skin. His face, neck and hands were bleached a deathly white with a texture like parchment, a condition from which the skin never recovered. Bartley believed that he would probably have lived inside his house of flesh until he starved, as breathing was not a problem.
Other Tales
Whales have been recorded attacking whaling ships, with references existing from the 19th century. While similar attacks may occur in modern whaling, the structural integrity of ships and enhanced sensor equipment mean that catastrophic attacks are less likely to occur.
In the winter of 1820, a Sperm Whale attacked the American whaling boat ‘Essex’ in the South Pacific, holing and capsizing her 3 . While many of the crew were able to get to safety, a number were never accounted for.
In March 1863 near Cape Cod, a whaling boat was struck by a whale sending a crewman overboard into the creature’s open mouth. His legs caught in between the teeth of the whale and after it died, due to injuries from exploding harpoons, he was rescued and revived.
Whale Attitude
While not actually a whale the Killer Whale, or Orca, has been known to attack and consume creatures as big as the Great White Shark, a dozen feet in length. In 1997 video footage was recorded of such an attack off the Farallon Islands 4 .
The Sperm Whale has a voracious appetite, and 11-inch teeth. They consider Sharks and Giant Squid fair game in making up the ton of food they can consume in a day.
Conclusions
By and large, the chances of being swallowed by a whale are small, so the need to worry about surviving inside one is extremely limited. Baleen whales prefer plankton, krill and the like, so large, flailing humans are only likely to be consumed accidentally. However, there are 65 species of toothed whale, including the Sperm Whale, and they are known to eat very large creatures whole. By comparison with a Great White Shark the average human swimmer is snack-sized. News reports usually arise when survivors live to tell the tale, so the absence of recent reports of people being swallowed by whales doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.
Once inside, the advice seems to be to sit tight and try not to touch anything if at all possible. Gastric processes are invasive and skin does not recover well from encounters with organic acids. The process by which gastric acid handles food is slow and wearing clothing, especially of the synthetic variety, is likely to buy you some time.
Escape from the belly of a whale, aside from simple survival, may be far more difficult as the majority of whales - especially the Baleen whales that rely on sieving minuscule marine lifeforms for their diet - have complex digestive systems. They may have up to four stomach chambers, rather like the multi-stomach system of a cow, which allows a controlled channelling of foodstuffs through the digestive system. There is also the constant intake of seawater that results from their feeding processes. Unless someone is looking for you, or you have a very large cutting implement and a strong stomach, you may have to be satisfied with simply surviving until starvation takes you or good fortune saves the day.
If all else fails you might consider using pepper or a small fire to smoke your way out!
1 Certainly there’s more chance of you being hit by a bus, or probably an asteroid for that matter.
2 There are reports that suggest that this whole story may be apocryphal, purely an effort by Bartley to raise his own status and popularity - refer to TSR - The Skeptical Review.
3 Events expanded upon in the book ‘In the Heart of the Sea : The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex’ by Nathaniel Philbrick.
4 The Farallon Islands are situated 28 miles due west of the Golden Gate Bridge, San Francisco.
Courtesy of www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2
“Stop drivelling” rasped a voice in my ear, wrenching me away from the seaside as O’Farrell’s smug, overweighed bookshelves fuzzily came into view again. Row after row of leather-bound volumes, fastidiously classified and neatly placed, giving the impression of a vast and solid learning, the illusion of having an answer to every question, the solution for every client’s problem.
“Get down there, set up the Trust and be back on Friday to celebrate. The Firm has a big stake in this, and I’m counting on you. You know some of my associates don’t think the world of you after that conflict of interests in the Capriati Case, they find you unreliable. Anyway, don’t let me down!”. The interview was over, O’Farrell had his mind on a brief that waited on his large oak desk, so I let myself out of the office, picked up my plane tickets at his secretary’s desk (“Have a nice trip” she said perfunctorily, while talking on the ‘phone) and pushed through the meandering aisles and boxes of O’Farrell, Milton, Meinhaus and Mills’ Law firm.
I’m walking along the seaside now. My feet have become hardened by the sand, the salt in the air tickles my nose, its paths criss-cross over my tightened skin, my hair stands on end effortlessly. A persistent breeze, such as sailors pray for, skims over the waves carrying the distant thunder of tempests, of galleons cracking like nutshells, of cannon-fire. I sense the silent movement of dark grey predators lunging and the slow, steady expansion of pale red coral.
It took some time before daylight imposed it’s realm. At first it was all quite painful. Perhaps the initial surprise, the shock, was bearable, almost comic, when you attained a certain perspective. But, offence, was much harder to take. The sense of disappointment weighed on me. I had always cherished other people’s trust, thinking it made me feel worthy. Of course I never really acknowledged how it rapidly became tension in my back and neck, how my stomach seemed to close up and obsessive thoughts of failure pursued me. That was no one’s fault but my own. The inherent laziness which seduces us away from our better selves, the distraction of trivialities and nonsense, a weakness not to be allowed or forgiven.
One day a young promise, the willing bearer of other people’s hopes, even dreams, the next I was Judas, Quisling, one who put his own (and, naturally, unacceptable) concerns above all else, biting the hand that fed him, spitting on everything once held dear. And, what for? Something incomprehensible, indecorous, foolish, perhaps even obscene, like some pathetic old man in a porn theatre, shuffling up to young boys around the toilets.
The tide rises slowly and licks at my feet. A maroon sail cuts across the skyline, heading out into the faraway blue, as waves spray out white at the schooner’s hull; a curious dolphin, a hungry cormorant, my mind follows behind, lost between sky and water.
I suppose there is something unholy about straying from the established path, an unforgivable insolence that others receive as a slap in the face. The cause of such unnatural behaviour had to be found in some uncondonable character trait. Naturally, there is always a generous roster of sins and vices to which deviant behaviour can be attributed. In such circumstances, all poetic references to “distant drums” are rapidly extinguished in the purifying flames of outrage and rejection.
I come upon a large chunk of driftwood embedded in the sand. A family of spidery crabs scrabbles beneath it, and warily spy outwards. Two seagulls screech at each other over a morsel of fish. It falls to the sea as they battle and curse. The log offers me the comfort of its smooth sides, I gently let myself down and lean my shoulders on it, my head falls backwards filling my eyes with gold gilded clouds and a deep, fathomless sky. The sun goes down majestically in a sea of liquid fire.
I completed my mission in the
Night has overtaken me, there is a soft chill, the wind races the waves and triumphantly leaps over the beach into the forest. My rest piece seems to have become harder, I discover parts of my back I never knew existed, I wonder why knowledge is so often painful, but... no time for that... those stars, up there, falling out of the black velvet sky need to be watched, revered, drunk down thirstily in wide unblinking eyefuls, even at the risk of inebriation. I can’t seem to weary of them, though at times the unbearable deepness of the night sky refuses to pacify the soul, and the planets shoot through your body like lightning, twitching muscles, dizzying, too vast, too bright, too far away. Then, there is no option but to seek refuge in some low ceiling tavern, drowning in the sounds of drinking and laughter, their awful, silent roar.
Laura appeared on my doorstep a cloudy afternoon about a fortnight after I’d announced I was staying. She looked as fresh and bright as usual, though her eye rims were redder and her smile faltered. I just stood there, not knowing whether to hug her or dive out the window. “Please... come in, come in” I stammered looking hopelessly around, throwing some clothes off a chair and beckoned her to sit. She surveyed the dingy, furnished cabin I was renting, with all the reserve she could command, while I busied myself making coffee. I felt her eyes boring through me while my back was turned, but somehow we managed to postpone looking at each other directly, until I finally sat down in front of her with the most undrinkable coffee I’d ever made. “So... how are you?” she asked almost in a whisper.
I am mesmerised by the sea. Perhaps it is natural, being an islander; but this is not the sea of my early youth, which seemed to batter the proud castle walls of the coast of
As I sit here, motionless, awed… the sea runs through me... these eyes -suddenly turquoise- pierce the bottomless abyss, my coral bones reach out to the thin sunlight filtering past the waves, seaweed flows from my head.
And I knew then, and often felt thereafter, however hard I tried to bury the feeling, that some essential flaw of mine, a kind of spiritual handicap, would always come between me and the multifold magic that I intuited life kept hidden among its many treasures. Some essential part of Laura was always as far away from me as that wild pony’s thoughts.
The grey water is becoming alive with colours, ripples pick up pinks and violets from the early morning sky, deep greens open and close like mouths, farther, speckles of gold and silver are tossed around on blue-green waves. My heart opens up to encompass them, a rainbow nestles behind my eyes.
Laura left silently. We could not bridge the sea that had unveiled between us. That night we made love with a soft desperateness and, as on those rare occasions when all our masks had fallen away, she giggled... and then wept, reverberating slowly, as if some hidden chord had been touched. We fell asleep clinging to each other, and when I awoke, she was gone.
These diaries are the casual offspring of some recent unrelated readings (Stephen Crane’s The Boat, García Marquez’ El Naufrago, Han Blumenberg’s Die Serge ghet über den Fluss) and a particularly dark phase in my ongoing mid-life crisis.
Whatever the context, images of shipwreck suddenly acquired a deeper and more poignant meaning. I myself felt not unlike a castaway adrift in a powerful, indifferent sea, all energy put into just not sliding of my own “slim spar” and slowly sinking.
Of course, another -probably worthier- reason for perpetrating this, is that I am in the process of quitting smoking and desperately need to do something with my hands.
Not that I volunteered for it. A bad case of pneumonia last Christmas which led to discovery of emphysema decided me to postpone suicide, at least by progressive asphyxia. I can’t say I’m really crazy about life, but I draw the line at long, slow and painful death.
Believe me, not being able to breathe is a disagreable affair. And that brings me back to one of the possible outcomes of shipwreck: drowning.
As German philosopher Hans Blumenberg points out (op.cit), ancient mariners did not bother to learn how to swim, an activity which, considering technology available in those times, just prolonged the agony. If we must drown, they probably considered shakespeareanly, “…twere well It were done quickly" (Macbeth -1.7.1-2).
…“Captain Mitchell ordered the three boats to be launched instantly, which was done—and so hurriedly that the longboat (the one he left the vessel in himself) had a hole as large as a man’s head stove in her bottom. A blanket was stuffed into the opening and fastened to its place. Not a single thing was saved, except such food and other articles as lay about the cabin and could be quickly seized and thrown on deck. Forty minutes after the fire alarm the provisions and passengers were on board the three boats, and they rowed away from the ship—and to some distance, too, for the heat was very great. Twenty minutes afterward, the two masts with their rigging and their broad sheets of canvas wreathed in flames, crashed into the sea....
All night long the thirty-one unfortunates sat in their frail boats and watched the gallant ship burn; and felt as men feel when they see a tried friend perishing and are powerless to help him. The sea was illuminated for miles around, and the clouds above were tinged with a ruddy hue; the faces of the men glowed in the strong light as they shaded their eyes with their hands and peered out anxiously upon the wild picture, and the gunwales of the boats and the idle oars shone like polished gold.....
At
A man adrift on a slim spar
A horizon smaller than the rim of a bottle.
Tented waves rearing lashy dark points
The near whine of froth in circles.
God is cold.
Stephen Crane, 'A man adrift on a slim spar'
