Below the town of Benicia,where the Solano wharf projects,the Straits widen out into what bay-farers call the "Bight of Turner's Shipyard."I was in the shore-tide that swept under the Solano wharf and on into the bight.I knew of old the power of the suck which developed when the tide swung around the end of Dead Man's Island and drove straight for the wharf.I didn't want to go through those piles.It wouldn't be nice,and I might lose an hour in the bight on my way out with the tide.
I undressed in the water and struck out with a strong,single-overhand stroke,crossing the current at right-angles.Nor did Icease until,by the wharf lights,I knew I was safe to sweep by the end.Then I turned over and rested.The stroke had been a telling one,and I was a little time in recovering my breath.
I was elated,for I had succeeded in avoiding the suck.I started to raise my death-chant again--a purely extemporised farrago of a drug-crazed youth."Don't sing--yet,"whispered John Barleycorn.
"The Solano runs all night.There are railroad men on the wharf.
They will hear you,and come out in a boat and rescue you,and you don't want to be rescued."I certainly didn't.What?Be robbed of my hero's death?Never.And I lay on my back in the starlight,watching the familiar wharf-lights go by,red and green and white,and bidding sad sentimental farewell to them,each and all.
When I was well clear,in mid-channel,I sang again.Sometimes Iswam a few strokes,but in the main I contented myself with floating and dreaming long drunken dreams.Before daylight,the chill of the water and the passage of the hours had sobered me sufficiently to make me wonder what portion of the Straits I was in,and also to wonder if the turn of the tide wouldn't catch me and take me back ere I had drifted out into San Pablo Bay.
Next I discovered that I was very weary and very cold,and quite sober,and that I didn't in the least want to be drowned.I could make out the Selby Smelter on the Contra Costa shore and the Mare Island lighthouse.I started to swim for the Solano shore,but was too weak and chilled,and made so little headway,and at the cost of such painful effort,that I gave it up and contented myself with floating,now and then giving a stroke to keep my balance in the tide-rips which were increasing their commotion on the surface of the water.And I knew fear.I was sober now,and I didn't want to die.I discovered scores of reasons for living.
And the more reasons I discovered,the more liable it seemed that I was going to drown anyway.
Daylight,after I had been four hours in the water,found me in a parlous condition in the tide-rips off Mare Island light,where the swift ebbs from Vallejo Straits and Carquinez Straits were fighting with each other,and where,at that particular moment,they were fighting the flood tide setting up against them from San Pablo Bay.A stiff breeze had sprung up,and the crisp little waves were persistently lapping into my mouth,and I was beginning to swallow salt water.With my swimmer's knowledge,I knew the end was near.And then the boat came--a Greek fisherman running in for Vallejo;and again I had been saved from John Barleycorn by my constitution and physical vigour.
And,in passing,let me note that this maniacal trick John Barleycorn played me is nothing uncommon.An absolute statistic of the per centage of suicides due to John Barleycorn would be appalling.In my case,healthy,normal,young,full of the joy of life,the suggestion to kill myself was unusual;but it must be taken into account that it came on the heels of a long carouse,when my nerves and brain were fearfully poisoned,and that the dramatic,romantic side of my imagination,drink-maddened to lunacy,was delighted with the suggestion.And yet,the older,more morbid drinkers,more jaded with life and more disillusioned,who kill themselves,do so usually after a long debauch,when their nerves and brains are thoroughly poison-soaked.
