Titanic and Other Ships By Charles Lightoller
Chapter 20 A SURFBOAT TRAGEDY
We had arrived off Grand Bassam to take in mahogany logs, but it happened to be a "surf day," and as a result there was no communication between ship and shore, and no logs could be floated off to the ship for loading. The question to be settled was, should we stay in hopes of the weather moderating, or should we push on homeward.
Waters gave the Chief orders to go in with the surf boat, and get in touch with the shore and find out if they proposed to ship off any logs. This the Chief proceeded to do; anchoring and trying to signal to the shore when he was as close to the surf as he could get, with any degree of safety. Grand Bassam is open to the full force of an Atlantic swell, and if there is, or has been, a good westerly gale within a few hundred miles, the sea banks up, with the shoaling water, curling over as it rushes in, to finally crash down the beach throwing up sheer volcanoes of surf. To be caught in one of these mountainous breakers, even a surf boat (double ended like a lifeboat) is almost sure to be fatal, unless every member of that surf boat's crew is trained to the last hair, and even then, the chances are odds on being capsized. Our boys were quite good in the surf boat, but not by a long shot equal to tackling anything the sea running that day. Waters sent for me and asked "Why the hell can't the Chief get in touch with the beach? He's too far out." As a matter of fact, from where we were it did seem as if he might get closer in. I replied that "although he seemed well clear of the breakers, it was impossible to form an opinion unless one were to take a boat and see for oneself." He gallingly sneered, "I don't know what the blazes you fellows are afraid of," This jeer was calculated to a nicety, knowing full well that it held just the right sting to make me carry out any crazy attempt to make touch with the shore. Naturally my reply was pointed and pungent. "All right," said he, with biting contempt, "take the gig and let's see what you can do."
Like a fool I took the gig, a boat with a square stern, the very worst type of boat for the work in hand; called away a crew, and off we went, in full view of the first and second class passengers, many of whom were witnesses both to the "dare" and the disastrous results. They gave their opinions in no measured terms a little later on, for it all happened within a mile or so of the ship. The Captain's last instructions were "take a lead line, sound in, and see how far I can bring the ship." This called for a Quartermaster.
We sounded in as far as was necessary, and then coiled the lead line down in the stern sheets, and went on to make touch with the Chief. When we got alongside of him, we found he was riding right on the edge of the breakers, one instant shooting skyward on the lip of a sea, and the next, dropping like a stone into the trough. He certainly couldn't get in any closer. I said I would pull a little way of the coast and see if I could make contact further along.
Nursing the gig up to the seas, I worked her along the coast line. One minute we were pulling like mad up the face of a curler, and the next buried away down out of sight of everything in the trough, and, all the time, right on the edge of the breakers. Every wave had an ugly lip to it, and threatened to smash down on us.
With the Quartermaster I tried to signal the shore. This was no easy matter whilst at the same time keeping just out of the clutches of the breaking seas. Every now and then, we had to pull her head sharply round, and work her over a comber that had just reached breaking point.
What exactly happened in the next few moments I don't know. Either my attention was drawn too much to the beach, or one sea, out of pure cussedness, determined to break further out than the others, but turning my head seaward, I was just in time to look up at a gigantic comber on the point of crashing down right on top of us. It was literally over us, and I could see the pale sickly green light of the sun filtering through the overhanging water, some fifteen feet above us.
I gave the order sharply to "pull port, back starboard," but although I got her head up to the sea, before I could get way on her, the sea broke, right square into the boat; filled us up, and drove us right down to the bottom under the weight of tons of water. I felt the heel of the boat actually hit the sand, and, marvellous to relate, we all came to the surface with the boat, and sitting in our places.
Even then, I believe I could have got through, if I had had a white crew, or if these negro boat boys, although born and brought up to the surf, had not lost their heads. They looked round, and, seeing the next big curler just preparing to break, they cowered over their oars in funk, instead of pulling to meet it as it rushed at us. This time, the boat was rolled over and over, and I went to the bottom with the infernal lead line would round my feet.
I had not noticed that I had been sitting with my feet in the middle of the coil.
After disentangling this mess under water, I came up to find the boat bottom up, and a man's hands flapping helplessly above the water, close by. That was the Quartermaster, and he was drowning. There was no time for any recognized life saving methods, I grabbed him by the back of the wrist, gave him a sharp jerk towards the keel of the boat and put his hand on the keel before he had time to grab me. Instinctively, he pulled himself up on to the boat, only to be washed off a moment later by the next sea. I got him up again, but it was no use, there was nothing in the smooth planking of the boat for him to hang on to. By the third time, I was getting done up myself, so I took some of the gratings and oars that were floating about, and shoved them under his arms. That was the last we ever saw of him.
To make matters worse for myself, I was wearing a very thin blue serge uniform; although anything but white ducks is almost unheard of as wearing apparel in this climate, yet for some unknown reason that morning I had donned this wretched thing.
When I made up my mind to swim for the shore I discarded the coat and released a spring belt I was wearing to rid myself of my pants, but only added to my difficulties through my pants jamming round my ankles.
With a thundering crash would come the sea and down I would go, literally rolling over and over in the sand on the bottom, coming up with my lungs bursting. Barely on the surface with hardly time to catch a breath, then down again.
This was drowning
One hears about the panorama of one's past life passing in sort of a mental review during those memorable moments.
Nothing of the kind. I was worried because I had always told my chum sister that I would never be drowned.
She fussed a lot over me at times, so I used to say to her:
"Don't you bother, the sea is not wet enough to drown me. I'll never be drowned," and that was on my mind and making me feel really mad. I kept saying to myself, "Here am I, after what I've said, being drowned after all."
The pounding I was getting must have knocked me stupid, or I would never have let it go on. I came to the surface on one such occasion, to see a sea already bearing down on me, just curling over and falling and here was I sort of crouching away, hating the damn thing; when it suddenly dawned on me, "swim into it, you fool." This, of course, is the only way to get the better of a surf; get on its back; whatever you do don't get under. A couple of strokes, and I drove right straight into the hollow under the crest that was already falling. Almost immediately I was whipped up on the back of the breaker and carried at race-horse speed for the shore. In riding a surf, all one need do is to keep in a certain position on its back; the knowledge of this particular spot can only be gained through surf riding experience--which fortunately I had had at odd times indifferent parts of the world.
I was swept up on the beach, but it was far too steep to get a foothold, and in consequence I was carried back with the next backwash out into the surf again. Rolled over a few times, then up on the crest of the next; a lightning sweep to the shore, crash on the beach, and back once again with the undertow.
This had gone on just about long enough when I saw some negroes running along the sore joining hands with the evident intention of forming a human chain into the breakers, and I remembered no more. When I regained consciousness, I was trying to disentangle my pants from my feet, and drag the former up to respectability round my waist. As there was no one to be seen, I got rid of some of the sea and headed for the nearest habitation, which happened to be one of Swanzi's Factories.
The negroes had gone to the French Authorities post haste, to inform them of the defunct. They will not touch a dead white body and would not have pulled me out only they had seen that I was still alive.
I was now supposed to be dead, and the French authorities came down to view the corpse, but by this time the corpse was in the said Swanzi's Factory absorbing whisky.
Three boys and a Quartermaster were drowned, and Bully Waters learned the lesson of his life--and earned a dandy dressing down when he got home.
Never again did he dare an officer, just to serve his own purpose, and I gained the unsolicited honour of being the only white man to have swum through the surf at Grand Bassam.
I might say the Chief's difficulties were by no means imaginary. Under such conditions, even a trained crew could hardly have made the beach, and certainly not without the help of a surf man on shore. For one thing, the psychological moment for running on the back of the breaker can never be detected from the sea. There is a man on shore who has probably done nothing else all his life but signal the surf boats when to "run." He has a long bamboo staff in his hand, on the end of which is a flag which he keeps at the "dip" until he sees the opportunity. Meantime the surf boat, with or without a cargo, has approached the edge of the breakers, and there it stays, alternately shooting in the air and dropping into the trough.
Four surf boys aside, each with his paddle poised ready for the signal. The big toe of his right or left foot, according to which side he is on tucked into a rope becket, The coxswain holds her stern steady onto the seas, as they come rolling along; with the boys quietly back paddling to keep her in position.
This may go on for ten, twenty minutes, or even half an hour, until at last the man on shore sees the chance. Up goes his staff and he races backwards and forwards along the beach waving his flag, for it must be remembered that the boat may be anything up to half a mile off shore. Instantly they see the flag, placing complete reliance in this man's judgment, they dig in their paddles and drive like fury for the beach, shouting with all their native excitement at the top of their voices. If the man ashore has judged aright, and he rarely makes a mistake, the boat is picked up on the back of a huge comber and rushed for the beach at simply race-horse speed. They must just keep on the forward edge of the crest, but not too far ahead or the stern will kick up, the nose go down, and the boat will be flung end over end. Not too far back, or the drag will get them, and holding them back at the mercy of the next breaker to come crashing down into the boat when the chances are that no one will get ashore.
There are many days after a westerly gale that it is impossible to get any boat whatever to and from the beach. This had unluckily happened to be one of them. All the way home. Bully Waters was a sadder, wiser, and quieter man. It was peace, perfect peace. Nevertheless, I, for one, had had enough of Bully Waters.
Another thing that helped me make my decision was the fact that on the passage home I had a whole-time does of malaria. This in itself was not so bad, but unfortunately we had a doctor--thorough good scout--who said he believed in allowing patients any amount of latitude to follow their own inclinations. Whether it was because I made a particularly bad patient, I don't know, but the fact remains that he allowed me to have iced drinks, lie in my pyjamas, and have my boy fan me; take cold baths--in fact, do everything I ought not to have done. The ultimate result of this was my temperature soared to 106.2°. Down the coast, 105° is usually fatal, and on this day in particular, one of the crew passed out at 105°.
I was lying under a punkah, and some of the chaps kept coming down; in fact, nearly all the officers, on one pretest or another, came along to say a few words, and sort of give me a pat on the shoulder and say, "Cheerio old boy." I little thought it was the long cheerio they were wishing me, as, in their opinion, I could not last the night. However, later on, that same night, to their surprise, I showed a slight improvement, and, and some of them put their heads together and decided to take the law in their own hands and see if they could not induce a sweat. Forthwith three or four of them, armed themselves with hot bottles and hot blankets, in which they rolled me like a mummy, using sheer brute force, with the result that they broke the fever on the spot, and I eventually recovered. But it had given me the shaking up that was necessary to make up my mind to give up the West Coast with all its attractions--and they are many.
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