Adrift: Seventy-six Days Lost at Sea

Steven Callahan

Language: English

Pages: 237

ISBN: 0618257322

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


Before The Perfect Storm, before In the Heart of the Sea, Steven Callahan’s dramatic tale of survival at sea was on the New York Times bestseller list for more than thirty-six weeks. In some ways the model for the new wave of adventure books, Adrift is an undeniable seafaring classic, a riveting firsthand account by the only man known to have survived more than a month alone at sea, fighting for his life in an inflatable raft after his small sloop capsized only six days out. “Utterly absorbing” (Newsweek), Adrift is a must-have for any adventure library.

The Three Musketeers (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition)

Tom Swift in the Caves of Ice: Or, the Wreck of the Airship (Tom Swift, Book 8)

Crusader Gold (Jack Howard, Book 2)

Scorpion Strike

The Black Circle (The 39 Clues, Book 5)

Resurrection

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ripping at it. I hear a growl a long way off, toward the heart of the storm. It builds like a crescendo, growing louder and louder until it consumes all of the air around me. The fist of Neptune strikes, and with its blast the raft is shot to a staggering halt. It squawks and screams, and then there is peace, as though we have passed into the realm of the afterlife where we cannot be further tortured. Quickly I yank open the observation port and stick my head out. Solo's jib is still snapping

the battery dies. A commercial airline can hear its silent cry for help and send a search plane to home in on the radio beam. Ships in the vicinity are then notified. I will be saved. Who am I kidding? I'm 800 miles west of the Canaries, 450 miles north of the Cape Verde Islands, and some 450 miles east of the nearest major shipping lane. Flights to the islands probably come by way of Europe and Africa. I had never seen a plane traveling to or from the Canaries across my current position. My

to thirty miles per day. It is still a long way to the shipping lanes, but with the increase in speed, I feel a glimmer of optimism. At least now theoretically I can make it. The sea anchor pulses through the water like a jellyfish and tows the ocean behind. It is made of a square of cloth that is joined to the raft by a bridle, a swivel to prevent tangling, and a long painter. In effect, the sea anchor is an aquatic parachute that acts horizontally rather than vertically. It adds resistance

leak contained. On the third day, I see a freighter pass about a mile away. I radio to him and learn that he has seen twenty-two of the twenty-six boats in the fleet behind me. I'm greatly encouraged. The wind grows. Solo beats into stiff seas. I must make a choice, either to risk being pushed into the notorious Bay of Biscay and try to squeak past Finisterre, or to tack and head out to sea. I choose the bay, hoping for the front to pass and to give me a lift so I can clear the cape. But the

struggle to hang on to but not break the thread that connects me to my world. At the beginning of my voyage, there was little distinction between my rational mind and the rest of me. My emotions were ruled by nearly instinctive training and my body did not complain about having to work. But the distinction between the parts of myself continues to grow sharper as the two-edged sword of existence cuts one or another of them more deeply each day. My emotions have been stressed to the point of

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