Of all the dorados, I remember one in particular, a specialdorado. It was early morning on a cloudy day, and we were inthe midst of a storm of flying fish. Richard Parker was activelyswatting at them. I was huddled behind a turtle shell, shieldingmyself from the flying fish. I had a gaff with a piece of nethanging from it extended into the open. I was hoping to catchfish in this way. I wasn't having much luck. A flying fishwhizzed by. The dorado that was chasing it burst out of thewater. It was a bad calculation. The anxious flying fish gotaway, just missing my net, but the dorado hit the gunnel like acannonball. The thud it made shook the whole boat. A spurt ofblood sprayed the tarpaulin. I reacted quickly. I droppedbeneath the hail of flying fish and reached for the dorado justahead of a shark. I pulled it aboard. It was dead, or nearlythere, and turning all kinds of colours. What a catch! What acatch! I thought excitedly. Thanks be to you, Jesus-Matsya. Thefish was fat and fleshy. It must have weighed a good fortypounds. It would feed a horde. Its eyes and spine wouldirrigate a desert.
Alas, Richard Parker's great head had turned my way. Isensed it from the corner of my eyes. The flying fish were stillcoming, but he was no longer interested in them; it was thefish in my hands that was now the focus of his attention. Hewas eight feet away. His mouth was half open, a fish wingdangling from it. His back became rounder. His rump wriggled.
His tail twitched. It was clear: he was in a crouch and he wasmaking to attack me. It was too late to get away, too late evento blow my whistle. My time had come.
But enough was enough. I had suffered so much. I was sohungry. There are only so many days you can go withouteating.
And so, in a moment of insanity brought on by hunger –because I was more set on eating than I was on staying alive– without any means of defence, naked in every sense of theterm, I looked Richard Parker dead in the eyes. Suddenly hisbrute strength meant only moral weakness. It was nothingcompared to the strength in my mind. I stared into his eyes,wide-eyed and defiant, and we faced off. Any zookeeper will tellyou that a tiger, indeed any cat, will not attack in the face of adirect stare but will wait until the deer or antelope or wild oxhas turned its eyes. But to know that and to apply it are twovery different things (and it's a useless bit of knowledge ifyou're hoping to stare down a gregarious cat. While you holdone lion in the thrall of your gaze, another will come up toyou from behind). For two, perhaps three seconds, a terrificbattle of minds for status and authority was waged between aboy and a tiger. He needed to make only the shortest oflunges to be on top of me. But I held my stare.
Richard Parker licked his nose, groaned and turned away.
He angrily batted a flying fish. I had won. I gasped withdisbelief, heaved the dorado into my hands and hurried awayto the raft. Shortly thereafter, I delivered to Richard Parker afair chunk of the fish.
From that day onwards I felt my mastery was no longer inquestion, and I began to spend progressively more time on thelifeboat, first at the bow, then, as I gained confidence, on themore comfortable tarpaulin. I was still scared of Richard Parker,but only when it was necessary. His simple presence no longerstrained me. You can get used to anything – haven't I alreadysaid that? Isn't that what all survivors say?
Initially I lay on the tarpaulin with my head against itsrolled-up bow edge. It was raised a little – since the ends ofthe lifeboat were higher than its middle – and so I could keepan eye on Richard Parker.
Later on I turned the other way, with my head resting justabove the middle bench, my back to Richard Parker and histerritory. In this position I was further away from the edges ofthe boat and less exposed to wind and spray.