I survived 227 days. That's how long my trial lasted, over seven months.
I kept myself busy. That was one key to my survival. On a lifeboat, even on a raft, there's always something that needs doing. An average day for me, if such a notion can be applied to a castaway, went like this:
Sunrise to mid-morning:
wake up
prayers
breakfast for Richard Parker
general inspection of raft and lifeboat, with particular attention paid to all knots and ropes
tending of solar stills （wiping, inflating, topping off with water） breakfast and inspection of food stores
fishing and preparing of fish if any caught （gutting, cleaning, hanging of strips of flesh on lines to cure in the sun）
Mid-morning to late afternoon:
prayers
light lunch
rest and restful activities （writing in diary, examining of scabs and sores, upkeeping of equipment, puttering about locker, observation and study of Richard Parker, picking-at of turtle bones, etc.）
Late afternoon to early evening:
prayers
fishing and preparing of fish
tending of curing strips of flesh （turning over, cutting away of putrid parts） dinner preparations
dinner for self and Richard Parker
Sunset:
general inspection of raft and lifeboat （knots and ropes again）
collecting and safekeeping of distillate from solar stills
storing of all foods and equipment arrangements for night （making of bed, safe storage on raft of flare, in case of ship, and rain catcher, in case of rain） prayers
Night:
fitful sleeping
prayers
Mornings were usually better than late afternoons, when the emptiness of time tended to make itself felt.
Any number of events affected this routine. Rainfall, at any time of the day or night, stopped all other business; for as long as it fell, I held up the rain catchers and was feverishly occupied storing their catch. A turtle's visit was another major disruption. And Richard Parker, of course, was a regular disturbance. Accommodating him was a priority I could not neglect for an instant. He didn't have much of a routine beyond eating, drinking and sleeping, but there were times when he stirred from his lethargy and rambled about his territory, making noises and being cranky. Thankfully, every time, the sun and the sea quickly tired him and he returned to beneath the tarpaulin, to lying on his side again, or flat on his stomach, his head on top of his crossed front legs.
But there was more to my dealings with him than strict necessity. I also spent hours observing him because it was a distraction. A tiger is a fascinating animal at any time, and all the more so when it is your sole companion.
At first, looking out for a ship was something I did all the time, compulsively. But after a few weeks, five or six, I stopped doing it nearly entirely.
And I survived because I made a point of forgetting. My story started on a calendar day—July 2nd, 1977—and ended on a calendar day—February 14th, 1978—but in between there was no calendar. I did not count the days or the weeks or the months. Time is an illusion that only makes us pant. I survived because I forgot even the very notion of time.
What I remember are events and encounters and routines, markers that emerged here and there from the ocean of time and imprinted themselves on my memory. The smell of spent hand-flare shells, and prayers at dawn, and the killing of turtles, and the biology of algae, for example. And many more. But I don't know if I can put them in order for you.
My memories come in a jumble.
CHAPTER 64
My clothes disintegrated, victims of the sun and the salt. First they became gauze-thin.
Then they tore until only the seams were left. Lastly, the seams broke. For months I lived stark naked except for the whistle that dangled from my neck by a string.
Saltwater boils—red, angry, disfiguring—were a leprosy of the high seas, transmitted by the water that soaked me. Where they burst, my skin was exceptionally sensitive; accidentally rubbing an open sore was so painful I would gasp and cry out. Naturally, these boils developed on the parts of my body that got the most wet and the most wear on the raft; that is, my backside. There were days when I could hardly find a position in which I could rest. Time and sunshine healed a sore, but the process was slow, and new boils appeared if I didn't stay dry.
CHAPTER 65
I spent hours trying to decipher the lines in the survival manual on navigation. Plain and simple explanations on living off the sea were given in abundance, but a basic knowledge of seafaring was assumed by the author of the manual. The castaway was to his mind an experienced sailor who, compass, chart and sextant in hand, knew how he found his way into trouble, if not how he would get out of it. The result was advice such as "Remember,