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 in different 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.