Butchering a turtle was hard work. My first one was a smallhawksbill. It was its blood that tempted me, the "good,nutritious, salt-free drink" promised by the survival manual. Mythirst was that bad. I took hold of the turtle's shell andgrappled with one of its back flippers. When I had a goodgrip, I turned it over in the water and attempted to pull itonto the raft. The thing was thrashing violently. I would neverbe able to deal with it on the raft. Either I let it go – or Itried my luck on the lifeboat. I looked up. It was a hot andcloudless day. Richard Parker seemed to tolerate my presenceat the bow on such days, when the air was like the inside ofan oven and he did not move from under the tarpaulin untilsunset.
I held on to one of the turtle's back flippers with one handand I pulled on the rope to the lifeboat with the other. It wasnot easy climbing aboard. When I had managed it, I jerkedthe turtle in the air and brought it onto its back on thetarpaulin. As I had hoped, Richard Parker did no more thangrowl once or twice. He was not up to exerting himself in suchheat.
My determination was grim and blind. I felt I had no timeto waste. I turned to the survival manual as to a cookbook. Itsaid to lay the turtle on its back. Done. It advised that a knifeshould be "inserted into the neck" to sever the arteries andveins running through it. I looked at the turtle. There was noneck. The turtle had retracted into its shell; all that showed ofits head was its eyes and its beak, surrounded by circles ofskin. It was looking at me upside down with a sternexpression. I took hold of the knife and, hoping to goad it,poked a front flipper. It only shrank further into its shell. Idecided on a more direct approach. As confidently as if I haddone it a thousand times, I jammed the knife just to the rightof the turtle's head, at an angle. I pushed the blade deep intothe folds of skin and twisted it. The turtle retreated evenfurther, favouring the side where the blade was, and suddenlyshot its head forward, beak snapping at me viciously. I jumpedback. All four flippers came out and the creature tried to makeits getaway. It rocked on its back, flippers beating wildly andhead shaking from side to side. I took hold of a hatchet andbrought it down on the turtle's neck, gashing it. Bright redblood shot out. I grabbed the beaker and collected about threehundred millilitres, a pop can's worth. I might have got muchmore, a litre I would guess, but the turtle's beak was sharpand its front flippers were long and powerful, with two clawson each. The blood I managed to collect gave off no particularsmell. I took a sip. It tasted warm and animal, if my memoryis right. It's hard to remember first impressions. I drank theblood to the last drop.
I thought I would use the hatchet to remove the tough bellyshell, but it proved easier with the sawtoothed edge of theknife. I set one foot at the centre of the shell, the other clearof the flailing flippers. The leathery skin at the head end of theshell was easy cutting, except around the flippers. Sawing awayat the rim, however, where shell met shell, was very hardwork, especially as the turtle wouldn't stop moving. By the timeI had gone all the way around I was bathed in sweat andexhausted. I pulled on the belly shell. It lifted reluctantly, with awet sucking sound. Inner life was revealed, twitching andjerking – muscles, fat, blood, guts and bones. And still theturtle thrashed about. I slashed its neck to the vertebrae. Itmade no difference. Flippers continued to beat. With two blowsof the hatchet I cut its head right off. The flippers did notstop. Worse, the separated head went on gulping for air andblinking its eyes. I pushed it into the sea. The living rest of theturtle I lifted and dropped into Richard Parker's territory. Hewas making noises and sounded as if he were about to stir.
He had probably smelled the turtle's blood. I fled to the raft.
I watched sullenly as he loudly appreciated my gift andmade a joyous mess of himself. I was utterly spent. The effortof butchering the turtle had hardly seemed worth the cup ofblood.
I started thinking seriously about how I was going to dealwith Richard Parker. This forbearance on his part on hot,cloudless days, if that is what it was and not simple laziness,was not good enough. I couldn't always be running away fromhim. I needed safe access to the locker and the top of thetarpaulin, no matter the time of day or the weather, no matterhis mood. It was rights I needed, the sort of rights that comewith might.
It was time to impose myself and carve out my territory.