Speaker 1: Man overboard by Winston Spencer Churchill. It was a little
after half past nine when the man fell overboard. The
mail steamer was hurrying through the Red Sea in the
hope of making up the time which the currents of
the Indian Ocean had stolen. The night was clear, though
the moon was hidden behind clouds. The warm air was
laden with moisture. The still surface of the waters was
only broken by the movement of the great ship, from
whose quarter the long, slanting undulations struck out like the
feathers from an arrow shaft, and in whose wake the
froth and air bubbles churned up by the propeller, trailed
in a narrowing line to the darkness of the horizon.
There was a concert on board. All the passengers were
glad to break the monotony of the voyage, and gathered
around the piano in the companion house. The decks were deserted.
The man had been listening to the music and joining
in the songs, but the room was hot, and he
came out to smoke a cigarette and enjoy a breath
of the wind which the speedy passage of the liner created.
It was the only wind in the Red Sea that night.
The accommodation ladder had not been unshipped since leaving Aden,
and the man walked out onto the platform as on
to a balcony. He leaned his back against the rail
and blew a puff of smoke into the air reflectively.
The piano struck up a lively tune, and a voice
began to sing the first verse of the Rowdy Dowdy Boys.
The measured pulsations of the screw were a subdued but
additional accompaniment. The man knew the song. It had been
the rage at all the music halls when he had
started for India seven years before. It reminded him of
the brilliant and busy streets he had not seen for
so long, but was soon to see again. He was
just going to join in the chorus when the railing,
which had been insecurely fastened, gave way suddenly with a snap,
and he fell backwards into the warm water of the
sea amid a great splash. For a moment he was
physically too much astonished to think. Then he realized that
he must shout. He began to do this even before
he rose to the surface. He achieved a hoarse, inarticulate
half choked scream. A startled brain suggested the word help,
and he bawled this out lustily and with frantic effort,
six or seven times without stopping. Then he listened, High, Hi,
Clear the way for the rowdy dowdy boys. The chorus
floated back to him across the smooth water, for the
ship had already passed completely by, and as he heard
the music, a long stab of terror drove through his heart.
The possibility that he would not be picked up dawned
for the first time on his consciousness. The chorus started again.
Then I say, boys, who's for a jolly spree? Rum tumdilium?
Who'll have a drink with me? Help? Help, Help, shrieked
the man, in desperate fear. Fond of a glass now,
and then fond of a row or noise, High High,
Clear the way for the rowdy dowdy boys. The last
words drawled out faint and fainter. The vessel was steaming fast.
The beginning of the second verse was confused and broken
by the ever growing distance. The dark outline of the
great hull was getting blurred. The stern light dwindled. Then
he set out to swim after it, with few curious energy,
pausing every dozen strokes to shout long, wild shouts. The
disturbed waters of the sea began to settle again to
their rest. The widening undulations became ripples. The aerated confusion
of the screw fizzed itself upwards and out. The noise
of motion and the sounds of life and music died away.
The liner was but a single fading light on the
blackness of the waters, and a dark shadow against the
paler sky. At length, full realization came to the man,
and he stopped swimming. He was alone, abandoned. With the understanding,
his brain reeled. He began again to swim, only now,
instead of shouting, he prayed, mad incoherent prayers, the words
stumbling into one another. Suddenly, a distant light seemed to
flicker and brighten. A surge of joy and hope rushed
through his mind. They were going to stop, to turn
the ship and come back. And with the hope came gratitude.
His prayer was answered. Broken words of thanksgiving rose to
his lips. He stopped and stared after the light, his
soul in his eyes. As he watched it, it grew
gradually but steadily smaller, then the man knew that his
fate was certain. Despair succeeded hope. Gratitude gave place to curses.
Beating the water with his arms, he raved impotently. Foul
oaths burst from him, as broken as his prayers, and
as unheeded. The fit of passion passed, hurried by increasing fatigue,
he became silent, silent as was the sea, for even
the ripples were subsiding into the glassy smoothness of the surface.
He swam on mechanically along the track of the ship,
sobbing quietly to himself in the misery of fear, and
the stern light became a tiny speck yellower but scarcely
bigger than some of the stars which here and there
shone between the clouds. Nearly twenty minutes passed, and the
man's fatigue began to change to exhaustion. The overpowering sense
of the inevitable pressed upon him. With the weariness came
a strange comfort. He need not swim all the long
way to Suez. There was another course. He would die,
He would resign his existence. Since he was thus abandoned,
he threw up his hands impulsively and sank down, down,
he went through the warm water. The physical death took
hold of him, and he began to drown. The pain
of that savage grip recalled his anger. He fought with it, furiously,
striking out with arms and legs. He sought to get
back to the air. It was a hard struggle, but
he escaped, victorious and gasping to the surface, despair awaited him. Feebly,
splashing with his hands, he moaned in bitter misery, I can't,
I must, Oh, God, let me die. The moon, then,
in her third quarter, pushed out from behind the concealing
clouds and shed a pale, soft glitter upon the sea.
Up in the water, fifty yards away was a black
triangular object. It was a fin It approached him slowly.
His last appeal had been heard. End of Man Overboard.