Free Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor by Gabriel García Márquez Page A

over a thousand times without my losing it.
    That was a fact. But there was one thing I hadn’t foreseen. A quarter of an hour after the first one, the raft did a second spectacular somersault. First I was suspended in the icy, damp air, whipped by the gale. Then I saw hell right before my eyes: I realized which way the raft would turn over. I tried to move to the opposite side to provide equilibrium, but I was bound to the ropes by the thick leather belt. Instantly I realized what was happening: the raft had overturned completely. I was at the bottom, lashed firmly to the rope webbing. I was drowning; my hands searched frantically for the belt buckle to open it.
    Panic-stricken but trying not to become confused, I thought how to undo the buckle. I knew I hadn’t wasted much time: in good physical condition I could stay underwater more than eighty seconds. As soon as I had foundmyself under the raft, I had stopped breathing. That was at least five seconds gone. I ran my hand around my waist and in less than a second, I think, I found the belt. In another second I found the buckle. It was fastened to the ropes in such a way that I had to push myself away from the raft with my other hand to release it. I wasted time looking for a place to grab hold. Then I pushed off with my left hand. My right hand grasped the buckle, oriented itself quickly, and loosened the belt. Keeping the buckle open, I lowered my body toward the bottom, without letting go of the side, and in a fraction of a second I was free of the ropes. I felt my lungs gasping for breath. With one last effort, I grabbed the side with both hands and pulled with all my strength, still not breathing. Bringing my full weight to bear on it, I succeeded in turning the raft over again. But I was still underneath it.
    I was swallowing water. My throat, ravaged by thirst, burned terribly. But I barely noticed. The important thing was not to let go of the raft. I managed to raise my head to the surface. I breathed. I was so tired. I didn’t think I had the strength to lift myself over the side. But I was terrified to be in the same water that had been infested with sharks only hours before. Absolutely certain it would be the final effort of my life, I called on my last reserves of energy, leaped over the side, and fell exhausted into the bottom of the raft.
    I don’t know how long I lay there, face up, with my throat burning and my raw fingertips throbbing. But I do know I was concerned with only two things: that my lungs quiet down and that the raft not turn over again.
The sun at day break
    That was how my eighth day at sea dawned. The morning was stormy. If it had rained, I wouldn’t have had the strength to collect drinking water. I thought rain would revive me, but not a drop fell, even though the humidity in the air was like an announcement of imminent rain. The sea was still choppy at daybreak. It didn’t calm down until after eight, but then the sun came out and the sky turned an intense blue again.
    Completely spent, I lay down at the side of the raft and took a few swallows of sea water. I now know that it’s not harmful to the body. But I didn’t know it then, and I only resorted to it when the pain in my throat became unbearable. After seven days at sea, thirst is a feeling unto itself; it’s a deep pain in the throat, in the sternum, and especially beneath the clavicles. And it’s also the fear of suffocating. The sea water relieved the pain.
    After a storm the sea turns blue, as in pictures. Near the shore, tree trunks and roots torn up by the storm float gently along. Gulls emerge to fly over the water. That morning, when the breeze died down, the surface of the water turned metallic and the raft glided along in a straight line. The warm wind felt reassuring to my body and my spirit.
    A big old dark gull flew over the raft. I had no doubt then that I was near land. The sea gull I had captured a few days earlier was a young bird. At that age they can fly