September 1218 BC. The Mediterranean, east of Sicily.
Noughtaless is the name. An inventor from Sicily, a good talker and a bit of a chancer, and I can describe myself as a man of the world. Well, I can’t actually, because I’m a cyclops. I’ve been to some amazing places and believe me, I’ve seen such unforgettable things I’ll still remember them when I’m dead.
Yes, I’m a cyclops, I’ve got just the one eye. But please don’t jump to conclusions. I’m not a big rough ogre or anything like that. I don’t eat people. Heaven forbid! There’s more to me than meets the eye.
I was away from Sicily for a few years, and I’ve got quite an adventure to relate. So how shall I begin? Well, to be honest it all happened by accident. I needed to get away, that’s for certain. It’s just that I made an unusually thorough job of it.
When I navigated safely out to sea from the bay where the boat had been at anchor, setting a course across the strait for the nameless island, everything seemed to be going well. The island lay on the horizon in the clear light of a cool late summer morning. No more difficult to get to, you’d think, than the full stop at the end of an uncomplicated short sentence. This was the first time I’d taken my boat out into the ocean. I should’ve been nervous and excited about it, every one of my senses heightened, concentrating to the last straining nerve, et cetera, et cetera. Instead I was so preoccupied with... well, certain other recent events, let me just say, and leave it there... that my attention was anything but fixed on sailing, which seemed an undemanding kind of employment. You see, the wind was so gentle and the sea was so calm, there wasn’t really anything for me to do.
Progress was slow. Behind me Etna lay, discharging its trail of light grey smoke, wilfully refusing to withdraw into the distance. It was like a guest you want to get rid of; you’ve said goodbye, but they won’t leave. Every time I looked back the great mountain loomed over the shore.
Now, the still conditions were certainly welcome, for I would’ve been reluctant to take the boat on its first voyage across the wine-dark sea in a gale. But it meant progress was wretchedly slow, and the boat didn’t require my full attention, and so it was hard to keep my thoughts from returning to... well, did I mention certain other recent events?
I tried to find things to do. I unfurled the awning so that I’d have some shelter from the sun, pulling the thick canvas sheet across the frame above the gondola. From time to time I got up and stood on the flat rectangular deck, striking poses as I scanned the horizon, wondering how Jason looked when he sailed away from Iolcos in the Argo with all his companions. I unpacked supplies from their storage compartment in one of the hulls and had something to eat. I moved the levers that turned the rudders, checking the steering mechanism. The boat weaved ponderously from side to side. I tried the horn, an abrasive klaxon that began with a drum roll before it unleashed its simple tune of a dozen notes or more.
Slowly, painfully slowly, the island edged closer. Time passed. The sun reached its zenith, and little by little sank towards the western horizon. It was a distance of just a few miles across the strait, but I realised it would be night before I made landfall. The water slapped eerily against the hulls. Navigating an unknown coast without daylight was a prospect that made me... well, it had my attention now. But even with my cyclops eye there were limits to how well I could see in the dark, and suddenly it occurred to me I’d acted with a very lackadaisical sort of recklessness. One firm collision with a rock would bring the excursion to a premature end. More to the point, me too.
And so as the light weakened over the next couple of hours, so did my resolve, and I was reduced to a state of near panic as I strained to see what lay in my path, giving every obstacle, real and imagined, a wide berth. I placed the lamps at the front of the boat. But that didn’t help much, because I had to hop all the way back into the gondola to steer. It was very stressful. Eventually I disengaged the paddle and decided I’d hold my position until morning, when I’d be able to plot an approach safely. Besides, who wanted to come skulking ashore in the dark? I’d embark on my new life with the sun lighting my way. I was going to reinvent myself as a man (yes, a man, not a cyclops) who would impress the haughty néreid. For Galatéa I’d been like a bad habit, something furtively indulged that left her feeling ashamed! But I was going to make myself worthy of her love. I stretched out on the floor of the cabin and covered myself with a blanket. Thoughts went round and round in my head, most of them burdened with regret, and I sighed many times. But I had a purpose. I could look forward to a fresh start. I’d forget about the past and all its mistakes, limitations and failings. Things would be different. I was moving on.
It wasn’t a good night’s sleep. I had the impression I was awake all night, though I must’ve slumbered at least fitfully. How else can I explain the fact that I started wide awake a dozen times? Every unusually vigorous slap of water and loud groan of wood, every sudden breeze and distant seagull’s cry set my pulse racing and left me staring wide-eyed at the awning over my head. I felt an almost irresistible urge to jump up, in case something awful was about to happen. But I told myself I was being irrational and scolded myself for spinelessness, and on each occasion I took a deep breath and forced myself to stay put. If I was going to impress Galatéa, I had to be able to show a modicum of fortitude.
But there were times when I was hanging on to my self-control by my ragged fingertips.
When I finally noticed the first horizontal streaks of dawn, I got up and walked onto the deck, desperate to complete the crossing. The gloom slowly dispelled and I stared round. There was nothing but empty sea! I turned full circle but there was no land anywhere in sight; a state of affairs that wasn’t altered as the improving light pushed back the horizon. I couldn’t believe it. The elusive island had seen me coming, waited until it got dark, and then slipped quietly away!
Only it hadn’t, of course. It soon occurred to me what must’ve happened, and I cursed my stupidity. The island, no doubt, was still exactly where it had been at twilight the previous evening. It was the boat that had moved. I’d stubbornly kept my head down, assuming it would remain stationary if it wasn’t under sail. But there was a notoriously strong current between the island and the mainland. It had carried me away. Overnight I’d drifted far from my intended destination.
“Now that was careless!” I muttered to myself.
In passing my test of nerve, I’d failed to observe an elementary rule of seamanship. Keep watch.
But I was philosophical. There was no need to panic. I’d solved many problems in my life, and I was sure a bit of simple logic would solve this one. Soon I had a plan. The current flowed southeast, from which it was only natural to assume I’d gone astray on the same bearing. All I needed to do was sail in the opposite direction, northwest, to return to my starting point. However, I had the presence of mind to realise that if I simply turned round and sailed straight back, the boat would be struggling against the same current that had swept me away in the first place. It would therefore make more sense to sneak up on the island by a different route. I’d run northeast for a while, then change my direction to northwest, eventually bearing round due west. In other words, I intended to proceed along three hitherto untravelled sides of a rectangle, rather than back along the first, the one already taken. This would bring me to the far side of the island, avoiding the troublesome current altogether.
I congratulated myself. It was all perfectly straightforward. The weather was fair, and the boat’s conduct wasn’t giving me any cause for concern. What could possibly go wrong? Soon enough the great volcano would appear on the horizon. And I believed I was entitled to be optimistic, for though I’d drifted quite blindly all night, I’d managed to avoid every single stray rock. My nautical inexperience had placed me in grave danger, but good fortune had saved me from disaster!
So I turned the mast to take full advantage of the light breeze, engaged the sails, which were soon spinning languidly, and set off on my new bearing. After an hour I changed course as planned, and started back towards the island. Taking my position from the sun, I headed northwest. The wind picked up, and after a few hours I turned west, expecting to see land at any moment. But the sea stretched before me without limits for the rest of the day. When darkness fell there’d been no sign of anything resembling terra firma, not so much as a solitary rock, let alone the familiar peak of Etna. My complacency ebbed away. It seemed there was a bit more to this business of navigating the open seas than I’d thought, and there really seemed only one thing to be said on the matter. Which I duly said.
“Feck!”