THE LAUNCH

He said he was born in Bermeo, but the truth was that he came from a little town across the mouth of the Mundaca river, a settlement which was known by no name, or by many names, which is the same thing. The beaches and cliffs of this area were all that he knew of the world. For him, the Machichaco, Potorroari and Uguerriz marked Ultima Thule; for him, Sollube was Olympus; Bermeo, Paris; and the Atalaya mall, the Elysian Fields. The wide expanse of his world, his Sahara, was the Laida, and the end of his world to the east was the steep, flat-topped, reddish Ogoño. Beyond was Elanchove and the gentlemen of Lequeitio, in hell. His mother was the daughter of an overseer in an arms factory in Guernica. His father was a miner from Matamoros: he did not live long. They called him "El Chirto," perhaps because he was half crazy. When he became ill he left the Franco-Belgian mines of Somorrostro, and went to work in a sawmill factory. There, among the woodplaning and dovetailing machines, Erramón Churrimendi grew up.

He was fond of the little steamboats the tunny boats, the pretty little sardine fishing smacks; the fishing tackle: the trotlines, the sieves, the fish traps, the nets. The world was the sea, and the only living beings were the hake, the eels, the sea bass, and the tunny. And he loved to catch moving fish in the water with a deep fisherman's net, to fish for anchovies and sardines with a light, or at dusk; and to catch the bonito and tuna with a spinning tackle.

But he no sooner put his feet in a boat than he became seasick. And there was nothing he could do about it. He tried all the official medicines, and all the recondite ones, and all advice, spoken and whispered. He followed the advice of Don Pablo, of the drugstore; of Don Saturnio, of the City Council; of Candida, Don Timoteo's maid; of the doctor from Zarauz, who was a native of Bermeo. To no avail. He had only to put one foot in a boat, and he became seasick. He tried a hundred stratagems: he would get aboard on an empty stomach, or after a good breakfast, sober, or drunk, or without having slept; he even tried the magic cures of Sebastiana, the woman from the edge of town; he tried crosses, lemons, the right foot, the left foot, at 7:00 A.M. on the dot, at low tide and at high tide, on the right day of the week. He went after Mass, after several "Our Fathers," and he tried pure will power and even in his sleep he heard: "I'll never be seasick again, I'll never be seasick again...." But nothing helped. As soon as he put his foot on a moving plank, his insides turned round and round, he lost all sense of balance, and he was forced to huddle in the corner of the boat to keep out of the others' way, hoping to stay unnoticed. He spent some hoping to stay unnoticed. He spent some terrible moments. But he was not among those who despair, and for many years he repeatedly dared the adventure. Because, naturally, the people were laughing at him — not much, but they were laughing at him. He took to wine. What else could he do? Chacolf wine is a remedy. Erramon never married, the idea never even occurred to him. Who would marry him? He was a good man. Everyone admitted that. He was not even guilty of anything. But he got seasick. The sea made sport of him, and without any right.

He slept in a cabin by the estuary. It belonged to him. There was a beautiful oak there — if I say there was, it's for a good reason. It was really a splendid tree, with a tall trunk and high branches. A tree the likes of which there are not many. It was his tree, and every day, every morning, every evening, on passing by, the man would touch it as if it were a horse's croup or the side of a beautiful woman. Sometimes he even spoke to it. It seemed to him that the bark was warm and that the tree was grateful to him. The roughness of the tree perfectly matched the rough skin on the man's hand. There was a perfect understanding between him and the tree.

Erramón was a methodical man. So long as there was variety in his work he did whatever he was asked, willingly and tidily. He was asked to do a hundred odd chores: to repair nets, to dig, to help in the sawmill, which had been his father's; to him it was all the same whether he raised a thatch or calked, or earned his few pesetas by helping to bring in the fish. He never said no to anything. Erramón also sang, and sang well. He was greatly respected in the tavern. One of his Basque songs went something like this:

All the Basques are alike.
All save one.
And what's the matter with that one?
That's Erramón.
And he's like all the rest.

One night Erramón dreamed that he was not seasick. He was alone in a little boat, far out on the sea. He could see the coastline clearly in the distance. Only the red Ogoño shone like a fake sun which was sinking in the middle of the earth. Erramon was happier than he had ever been in his life. He lay down in the bottom of the boat and began to watch the clouds. He could feel the incessant rocking motion of the sea. The clouds were flying swiftly by, pushed by a wind which greeted him without stopping; and the circling seagulls were shouting his welcome:

"Erramon, Erramon!"

And again:

"Erramon, Erramon!"

The clouds were like lace doves. Erramon closed his eyes. He was on the water and he was not seasick. The waves rocked him in their hammock back and forth, back and forth, up and down, in a sweet cradling motion. All his youth was about his neck, and yet, at that moment, Erramón had no memories, no other desire than to continue forever just as he was. He caressed the sides of his boat. Suddenly his hands were speaking to him. Erramón raised his head in surprise. He was not mistaken! His boat was made of the wood of his oak tree!

So shocking was the effect that he woke up.

From that moment on, Erramón's life began to change completely. It entered his head that if he made a boat out of his tree he would never again become seasick. In order to prevent himself from committing this crime, he drank more chacolí than usual; but he could not sleep. He turned over and over in his bed, hounded by the stars. He listened to his dream. He tried to convince himself of the absurdity of all this:

"If I've always been seasick, I'll continue being seasick."

He turned over on his left side.

He got up to look at his tree, and caressed it.

"Will I end by winning or losing?"

But deep inside he knew he should not do it, that it would be a crime. Was it his tree's fault that he got seasick? But Erramon could not resist the temptation for long. One morning he himself, aided by Ignacio, the one from the sawmill, cut down the tree. When the tree fell, Erramón felt very sad and alone as if the most beloved member of his family had died. It was hard for him now to recognize his cabin, it was so lonely. Only with his back to it, facing the estuary, did he feel easy.

Every afternoon he went to see how his tree was changing into a boat. This took place on the beach where his friend Santiago, the boatwright, was building it. The whole thing was made of the trunk; the keel, the floor timbers, the frame, the stem, the beams, even the seats and the oars, and a mast, just in case.

And so it was that one August morning when the sea did not seem like one, it was so calm, Erramon plowed outward on it with his new boat. It was a marvelous boat, it flew at the slightest urging of the man; he dipped the oars gently, throwing back his shoulders before he slightly contracted his arms, which made the boat fly. For the first time Erramon felt drunk, ecstatic. He drew away from the shore. He dipped the right oar a few times to make a turn, then the other in order to zigzag through the water. Then he drew the oars in and began to caress the wood of his boat. Slowly, the boards were letting in a little water. Erramon raised his hands to his forehead to dampen it a little. The silence was absolute; not a cloud, not a breeze, not even a seagull. The land had disappeared, submerged. Erramon put his hands on the gunwale to caress it. Again he removed his hands wet. He was a little surprised: splashes on the wood had long since dried in the sun. He glanced over the inside of the boat: from every part water was slowly seeping in. On the bottom there was already a small puddle. Erramón did not know what to do. Again he passed his hands over the sides of his boat. There was no question about it; the wood was gradually letting water in. Erramon looked around; a slight uneasiness was beginning to gnaw his stomach. He had himself helped in caulking the boat and was sure that the work had been well done. He bent down to inspect the seams: they were dry. It was the wood that was letting the water in! Without thinking, he raised his hand to his mouth. The water was sweet!

Desperately, he began to row. But despite his frantic efforts the boat did not move. It seemed to him that his boat was caught among the branches of a giant underwater tree, held as if in a hand. He rowed as hard as he could, but the boat did not budge. And now he could see with his own eyes how the wood of his tree was exuding clean, fresh water! Erramon fell to his knees and began to bail with his hands, because he had no bucket.

But the hull continued to ooze more and more water. It was already a spring with a thousand holes. And the sea seemed to be sprouting branches.

Erramon crossed himself.

He was never seen again on the shores of Biscay. Some said that he had been seen around San Sebastian, others that he was seen in Bilbao. ” A sailor spoke of an enormous octopus which had been seen about that time. But no one could give any information about him with any certainty. The oak tree began to grow again. The people shrugged their shoulders. The rumor spread that he was in America. Then, nothing.