On many nights I was convinced I saw a light in thedistance. Each time I set off a flare. When I had used up therocket flares, I expended the hand flares. Were they ships thatfailed to see me? The light of rising or setting stars bouncingoff the ocean? Breaking waves that moonlight and forlorn hopefashioned into illusion? Whatever the case, every time it was fornothing. Never a result. Always the bitter emotion of hoperaised and dashed. In time I gave up entirely on being savedby a ship. If the horizon was two and a half miles away at analtitude of five feet, how far away was it when I was sittingagainst the mast of my raft, my eyes not even three feetabove the water? What chance was there that a ship crossingthe whole great big Pacific would cut into such a tiny circle?
Not only that: that it would cut into such a tiny circle and seeme – what chance was there of that? No, humanity and itsunreliable ways could not be counted upon. It was land I hadto reach, hard, firm, certain land.
I remember the smell of the spent hand-flare shells. Bysome freak of chemistry they smelled exactly like cumin. It wasintoxicating. I sniffed the plastic shells and immediatelyPondicherry came to life in my mind, a marvellous relief fromthe disappointment of calling for help and not being heard. Theexperience was very strong, nearly a hallucination. From asingle smell a whole town arose. (Now, when I smell cumin, Isee the Pacific Ocean.)Richard Parker always froze when a hand flare hissed to life.
His eyes, round pupils the size of pinpricks, fixed on the lightsteadily. It was too bright for me, a blinding white centre witha pinkish red aureole. I had to turn away. I held the flare inthe air at arm's length and waved it slowly. For about aminute heat showered down upon my forearm and everythingwas weirdly lit. Water around the raft, until a moment beforeopaquely black, showed itself to be crowded with fish.