RECORD OF PERIL ON THE HIGH SEAS

At the end of the fall of the yiwei year of the Daoguang reign [1835], I finished the metropolitan examination and was on my way home to the south. When I arrived at Xiamen (also called Heron Island), it was the time for the birthday of my teacher, circuit intendant Zhou Yungao. (At that time he was the intendant of the Xing[hua]-Quan[zhou]-Yong[chun] Circuit, stationed at Xiamen.) I followed the group in raising a glass, happily feasting for several days. Then I crossed over to Jinmen (Jinmen isle east of Xiamen) to go to my ancestral home (where my family has lived for generations). At Liaoluo (Liaoluo station on the southeast side of Jinmen), I found a boat. I was on my way back to Penghu to pay my respects to my mother (who at that time had moved to Penghu), and then I planned to go to Taiwan, thinking that I would arrive in less than ten days. (That year I was lecturing at the Yinxin Academy in the prefectural seat of Taiwan.)

On the second day of the tenth month [November 21, 1835], the sailors came to urge me to go. I led my younger brother Tingyang along with some attendants to hurry to the seaside, where we saw that the boat had already pulled up the anchor (which was made out of heavy wood; oceangoing vessels use them to stop the ship), hoisted the tall phâng (the main sail; the common [Hokkien] name for “sail”), and was about to leave. We hurriedly hailed a small boat and pumped the oars until we caught up. As the sun sank in the west, we saw strands of clouds floating over the sea to the southeast, mixing continually with dark blue mist. This lasted a long time before dissipating. When night fell, the whole sky was full of bright, twinkling stars. I pointed out that this is a sign for upcoming wind and advised the sailors that we ought to slow down our advance to the sea (the unbounded part of the ocean is what I call “sea”—there is the inner sea and outer sea). The captain insisted otherwise. We saw that a few boats near us were also gradually losing the coast. I was already seasick, so I flung myself into the cabin and curled up under the quilt, holding my breath, listening to where we were going. After three watches, I heard the wind whistling and the keel of the boat slapping the waves.¹ It made a sound like boulders crashing, powerfully jolting the boat. Although I could barely withstand it, I still reasoned that the winds and waves of the open water could certainly be that strong, so for the time I disregarded it. Again we burned watch incense and waited (on the boat, we used a stick of incense to measure the watch, and we called it “watch incense”). After the boat sailed fast for more than two watches, I thought that we had already passed over the Black Ditch (in the sea there is the Blackwater Ocean, where the water is deep and black, and the easterly current is fast and shallow, called “the Black Ditch”), and that we would come ashore in the morning. The boat sailed on faster, the waves were even higher, and the wind was raging.

At first, the sailors said that black clouds were massing in the northwest. The clouds sped to the southeast, galloping like horses. A fierce wind arose in a flash, the seawater was churning, and the boat listed to the side as though it would flip. I was in the cabin, reeling from side to side. It was hard to remain seated or lying down. As I shook with fear, I heard the sailors shouting, “If we go east, we are going to crash against the coast! Quick, turn the rudder to go back!” The wind was so violent, the rudder was dragged under the water and the hàkim [下金] got jammed (the hàkim is located in the back of the boat under the water; it is used to fasten the rudder). More than ten people pushed it without budging it. Then they lowered the sail and jettisoned their cargo, hoping that if they lightened it, the boat would go. When the day dawned, everywhere we looked was hazy. There were white breakers as tall as mountains, with our solitary boat bobbing on the waves. The compass still indicated southeast, but we did not know which ocean we were in. We went on like this for three days. The sailors said, “If we’re lucky, this will take us to Siam or Luzon, and we will still be able to go back. But if we crash into Nan’aoqi [Nan’ao Island off the northern coast of Guangdong], then we will luoji. (Luoji means “entering the current.” The water is especially deep, and once you enter it you cannot get out. From Nan’aoqi you would be blown into the One Thousand Li Stone Embankment and Ten Thousand Li Sandy Shoal, which are just south of the Taiwan Sea.) Then our lives are over.”² The prevailing wind seemed to be somewhat calmer. We all gathered around a small fire to eat and had our fill.

After a short while, the Mazu flag started to flutter (the Empress of Heaven, we commonly call her Mazu).³ The wind was now coming from the northeast, whistling and howling, raging and surging. Droplets of water seemed to be everywhere. We were soaked through as if in a downpour, wet from head to toe, cold inside and out. We stared at one another, our faces drained of color. Suddenly, there was the sound of enormous waves. The front of the boat shook as though we had crashed against stones near the shore. The boat sank into the water but immediately started to rise again. The sêngkài and wooden boards around the cabin all started to float (the walls and ceiling of the cabin are called “sêngkài”) as the water deluged the cabins and flowed out the other side. I was submerged and fell prostrate, sure I would die, but my brother grabbed a rope and, sobbing, tied it around my waist, heaving it up to the deck while falling to his knees to entreat heaven to spare our lives. The sailors were all wailing in grief. I called out to the chhut-hái (the captain is called “chhut-hái” or “the one who goes out to the sea”) saying, “Crying is no use! Quick, chop down the main mast!” The mast sank into the water and the boat started to calm, drifting along with the waves as light as a duck.

Because we saw that the water in the water tank was almost gone, it was sealed up and we were forbidden to draw water. We cooked taro with salt water to make our morning and evening meals. I fretted, thinking the water would not get us through. The next day I ate a little piece of taro and surprisingly forgot my hunger and thirst.

After four or five days, we saw a white bird soaring in the air. The ocean had turned a faint black color, and then a faint blue color. We expected that mountains were not far off. As the sun was about to go down, we saw a faint line among ominous dark clouds in the distance. It seemed to be stuck to the water and motionless, taking on the shape of mountains. When the morning broke and the mist evaporated, the array completely unfolded in front of our eyes. A few li away from the boat, I saw three small islets towering above us.⁴ They were covered in lush green vegetation and trees, surrounded by upright boulders, all forming a peril [for our ship]. Our ship floated with the tide, wending whither it went. We recognized that the approaching sails were all kahpán (the name for foreign boats), going back and forth continuously like shuttles on a loom. Seeing that those mountain ports had arrayed masts, like a big harbor, we all went wild with excitement, falling to our knees and thanking heaven.

In the afternoon, it drizzled in bursts, clouds gathered, the wind and rain arose. Miasmic mist obscured the view in every direction, the mountains blurred into the mist, and the facing sides were obscured from one another. The current gained speed, and billowing waves rose to the sky, striking the ship fore and aft. The shaking sounded like thunder, buffeting the ship until dusk. At around the first watch, we all thought we had run aground, and we all made our own plans. I asked myself if my life would end now. Clutching my brother, we sat and awaited our fate. Not long after, the wind stopped and the rain ceased, and even the waves settled down. We leaned out of the cabin and saw the moon in the east. Through the blackness we suddenly saw rays of sunlight. Peering into the distance, I sensed that we were encircled by mighty peaks to the north and south, as though we were approaching the coast. We cast in the “lead clock” to test it (the “lead clock,” made of lead, is a device with a rope knotted every ten feet to measure the depth of the water). The water was twenty or thirty feet deep. Beneath us was fine sand. We lowered the anchor and settled in. Counting on my fingers, I guessed it was the eleventh day of the tenth [lunar] month [November 30, 1835].

At daybreak, we saw a fishing boat passing by and conversed with it, but we did not understand their language. They wrote the two characters 安南 “Annam” with their fingers. After a while, a small boat came over, with a person who could speak Chinese [huayu] in it, who called himself a “Tang person” (Annamese call Chinese people “Tang people”).⁵ When I boarded the boat, he was stunned and asked, “You are from China? How did you end up here without knowing the port route?” We all told him what happened. He shook his head and was speechless. He said, “If spirits had not been watching over you, how could it be like this? The first islets you approached were the Chiêm Tất La islets [Chàm islands], with a strong current flowing on their east and west.⁶ In the center is a very narrow port, and ships cannot get in unless they go with the tide because they sink as soon as they hit boulders. Going west and then south from there, one can reach the inner harbor. But you had no mast or sail, so you could not reach it against the current. Its east and west sides are known to be extremely dangerous. The ocean floor is covered by reefs and a shoal (stones on the ocean floor are called “reefs,” and sand is called “shoal”), which are dozens of li long. The way to the harbor is circuitous. Even old fisherfolk do not know it well. Make one mistake and you would have been broken to bits.” I heard this and felt even more afraid.

I remembered my Penghu home in the middle of the ocean. Since childhood I played in the vast ocean, and I have crossed it dozens of times, all times peacefully and without fear. Wind and waves are to be expected, but nothing like the present dangers that we experienced. The chance of surviving was one in a million. I have heard that the ancients relied on loyalty and sincerity to cross rough seas, treading through peril as though it were solid ground. Through dangerous conditions, they [sat at ease], sheathing their swords and resting their jade ornaments, talking and laughing normally, all without changing expression. Those were sages and heroes with honest minds; their thoughts all resonated with heaven. Therefore, heaven could not bear to take their lives from this world. I asked myself how someone as insignificant as me, with no qualities to speak of, although I do conduct myself with loyalty and sincerity, could be jolted into these dire straits. How could I not be terrified? My heart was pounding, playing through scenes of my old mother. My final thoughts were of unfiliality. How could I still dare to think of the life ahead? I could only put my fate in the hands of heaven. Now I am surprised that I am alive and that I have arrived at this place. I did not realize that heaven would treat me so generously, that even though I washed up empty-handed in a distant wasteland, poverty stricken and depressed, I could still use poetry to earn a name in a foreign country.⁷ Who could have predicted that? But it is a fortunate thing. We all had our breakfasts, eating our fill without restraint. Then we sat around basking in the sun. Our wet clothes dried out, but the tracks of our tears had not yet faded away. I hastily recorded it.

Master Zhou Yungao’s commentary: [Cai Tinglan] wrote about facing danger, fully describing the bizarreness of the situation and his shock. At the end of this section, he wrote his innermost feelings, allowing us to see what kind of person he is.