A Long Time Between Beers

Bill mumbled in the darkness. I nudged him to switch positions. We shifted awkwardly in the cramped bow, and I welcomed the body warmth on my back. Soon he was shivering. At least we were somewhat dry. It was calmer. The waves gently rolled the 16-foot Lazy, but even so our shoulders, elbows and knees kept knocking against hard wood.

I drifted toward sleep, dreaming a hazy dream about fruit we had hidden in the engine. "There's no real point in saving it now," Bill said in the dream. "There's plenty to last." "It's not that we've been saving it. Bill," I said. It was just that we'd forgotten where we'd put it. Awake again, I listened to the creaking boards. Maybe the storm was leaving us in peace. I dozed more than on any other night we'd been adrift and finally woke to the cold on my back when Bill left the bow. I followed him, pulling after me the two small towels and the clammy deflated dinghy that served as our blanket and the four cushions that served as our mattress. The Gulf of California was blue-gray in the dawn, with long graceful swells. There were no whitecaps.

Bill was filling the burners of the still. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth. Still no saliva, but the swelling of lips and tongue was definitely down. Yesterday, in the midst of the storm, we'd been able to coax half a pint or so of water from that strange conglomeration of cans and fishing gear.

It was difficult to believe that two days ago the still hadn't existed, or to remember the hours and hours which had gone into its construction.

The boiler was a gallon gas can, partially filled with salt water and set on its side on two quart oil cans, in which we burned a mixture of gas and oil. Steam condensed as it passed from the boiler through a length of bait-tank hose into a gallon plastic bottle. The bottle rested in a tackle box filled with cold sea-water. Two days ago, braced against the waves, I had used needle-nosed pliers to nibble holes in the caps of the gas can and the bottle, fitting in the ends of the hose, sealing the joints with frayed nylon rope, then layer after layer of wound monofilament fishing line and electrician's tape. The "extras" had been added later, in attempts to outsmart wind, waves and fire. An open-ended oil can packed with frayed nylon rope was sleeved around the condensing hose near the boiler to insulate it from the flames. Parts of Bill's captain's chair served as braces, holding the burners in place. Cut-open oil cans served as windshields. Today we didn't need them.

I helped Bill light the burners by sparking the wires from the battery against gas-soaked strips of cardboard. We had run out of matches. We decided to drink what we produced in the first hour, then take full advantage of the calm and run the still as long as we could without breaking the cycle. I decided ahead of time to drink first and make sure Bill finished off the water. He'd gotten it into his head that I had more right to live than he. more to return home to.

"Can you handle the dinghy alone?" he asked.

"Sure."

The dinghy was bright orange and during the daytime we pushed it onto the bow. where it could better be seen from the air. I pushed it into position carefully, a few inches at a time. The third day at sea I'd been thrown against the gunwale and must have cracked a rib. It ached, but working was easy when there wasn't a whipping wind. Other days we'd struggled together to get the dinghy into place. I secured it on the bow, then took off my yellow T shirt and hung it on a fishing rod at the stern. It was the only other brightly colored article on board. I put the towels and cushions out to dry, then sat near Bill.

Methodically he soaked a rag in the cool sea, draped it over the hose of the still, turned it as it absorbed the heat, soaked it again, draped it, breaking the rhythm occasionally to change the sea-water in the tackle box. If the hose wasn't kept cool, pressure would build up to the point where it might explode. On the still's maiden run it had become almost bubbling hot—no condensation. The black sooty smoke rose above us, then drifted away. My fingers itched for a cigarette, but there weren't any. Anyway, I'd decided I'd quit smoking for good if I stayed alive. The decision would be a present to take back to my wife and daughters. That and a beard.