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Walter E. Traprock - The Cruise of the Kawa
"Look here!" cried Swank excitedly, "do you suppose I want to go in for one of these slow starvation
stunts, perishing miserably on half a biscuit a day! O man! that's old stuff. Every explorer that ever wrote
has done that, you know - falling insensible in the boat, drifting around for weeks, being towed into port,
sunbaked, like mummies. Not on your life! What I propose is one final party - let's eat the whole outfit
tonight, hook, line and sinker."
We carried the proposition by acclamation, except Triplett who spat sourly to windward, a thing few men
can do. And we were as good as our word.
Late into the night we roared our sea-songs over the indifferent ocean, pledging our lost ones, singing,
laughing and weeping with the abandon of lost sheep. With Triplett it was a case of forcible feeding for
he kept trying to secrete his share of the menu in various parts of his person, slipping fistsful of crawfish
in his shirt-bosom and pouring his cup of hoopa into an old fire-extinguisher which rolled in the
ship's waist. Pinioning his arms we squirted the fiery liquid between his set jaws, after which he too gave
himself up to unrestrained celebration.
Our supplies lasted for two days, and for two days our wild orgy continued.
We have all read of the hunter lost in trackless forest wilds who finally falls exhausted on his pommel
and is brought safely home by his loose-reined mustang.
That is exactly what happened to us. I know I am departing from literary custom when I abandon the
picture of slow starvation, with its attractive episodes of shoe-eating, sea-drinking, madness, cannibalism
and suicide which make up the final scene of most tales of adventure. But I must tell the truth.
While we caroused, our helm was free, the tiller banging, sail flapping, boom gibing, blocks rattling. It
was as if we had thrown the reins of guidance on the neck of our staunch little seahorse and she, superbly
sturdy creature, proceeded to bring us home. On we went across the waters, steered only by fate.
In the midst of a rousing rendering of "Hail, hail, the gang's all here," we were startled by a grinding
crash that threw us in a heap on the floor. Down the companion way burst a flood of green water through
which we struggled to the steeply slanting deck, where on ourport bow I glimpsed the picture of a
pleasant sandy beach, trees, ships, docks, a large white hotel and hundreds of people - white and brown,
in bathing! In one thundering burst of amazement the truth swept over me; we were in the harbor of
Papeete! In the next instant strong arms seized me and I was borne through the breakers and up the
beach.
Well, they were all there! O'Brien - dear old Fred, and Martin Johnson, just in from the Solomons with
miles of fresh film; McFee, stopping over night on his way to the West Indies; Bill Beebe, with his
pocket full of ants; Safroni, "Mac" MacQuarrie, Freeman, "Cap" Bligh - thinner than when I last saw him
in Penang - and, greatest surprise of all, a bluff, harris-tweeded person who peered over the footboard of
my bed and roared in rough sea-tones:
"Well, as I live and breathe, Walter Traprock!"
It was Joe Conrad.
I told my story that night in the dining-room of the Tiare, or, at least, I told just enough of it to
completely knock my audience off their seats. For many good reasons I avoided exact details of latitude,
longitude, and the like.
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