Ted Dawe on the folk-lore of children born in a caul
It wasn’t an island, more just a tooth of rock rearing hundreds of feet straight up from the Andaman Sea. The little wooden long-tail we had hired gently pitched and tossed on the ebb tide as we waited for the cave to reveal itself. There were about 10 vessels now forming a motley flotilla.
Jane and I perched on the bow of our little craft, there were two others: the fisherman who had had picked us up an hour earlier from the beach on Koh Muk, and an Israeli tourist called Esther. We all had our eyes fixed on the sheer rock face.
As the tide receded a dark recess slowly revealed itself. Soon it was staring back at us like a huge eye, waiting for someone to make a move. A group of scuba divers swam over from a large tourist launch flying a Malaysian flag. The divers formed a brief conference circle in front of the blinking slit of the cave. Moments later they disappeared, all that remained were bubbles.
By the time they returned there must have been a metre of clearance between the waterline and the jagged ceiling. A signal was given and a group of twenty young Thai men exited an official looking launch as though they were on a mission. They all wore matching life-jackets and helmets. As they dog-paddled over towards the opening other groups joined them. Soon the water around the opening was littered with bobbing figures.
"Now you go!" the fisherman said.
The three of us exchanged looks; there was no helmet or life jacket on offer. Jane and Esther obediently dropped over the side, so I knew there was no backing out. The heaving sea was teeming with tiny jellyfish, virtually invisible to the eye. The evidence of their presence was in the tiny sting they gave each time one bumped against my skin.
The first groups had disappeared into the cave, while the cadets waited in a conga line for some signal. Esther, who was clearly no swimmer, brushed against the barnacle-encrusted wall as we made our way towards the darkness. I could see a thin film of blood on her shoulder. The group up ahead were all carrying torches. There was enough time to see the reason behind the plastic helmets. The roof clearance was minimal.
There was nothing else to do but push on after them. It was just a brief respite as they were soon gone and up ahead of us was blacker than midnight. Behind us a chant rang out. The cadets had been commanded to make their move. They surged up behind us so we moved to one side to let them pass. The idea was to tailgate them to the other end of the tunnel.
One of their number broke ranks in order to grope Esther as they dogpaddled past. She screamed "Fuck off’" so loudly it broke their chant for a few beats. There was hesitation and confusion, but then they moved on. Jane swam up behind the last of the cadets as planned.
Esther and I joined her.
The troop, with the aid of torches moved on quickly and disappeared around an unexpected dogleg in the passage. We were stranded in darkness again. Sound was all we had to go by. The chant was softer now, less challenging, more meditative. We edged towards it. After banging my head on a low-hanging rock I paddled with only one hand, the other was shielding my face from collisions. None of us said a word, all focus now was on making it through to the other side and avoiding face-plants.
In total darkness and zero gravity, time and space cease to have meaning. It was like being in a state of unconsciousness. Just as I began to feel all was lost and hopeless I sensed a glimmer ahead of us. Soon there was enough light to see each other’s faces. Moments later we were luxuriating in luminous turquoise water as the light emanated from deep below us.
We rounded a corner. Ahead of us, in the glare of daylight, was a small lagoon, enclosed by sheer vine-covered walls. We paddled over to the little beach crowded with the earlier swimmers.
Esther threw herself down on the sandy margin drained and shivering. Jane put her hand on the still bleeding shoulder. She began to weep. It was some time later that she told us, "I was so sure we were going to drown back there."
I nodded, but Jane shook her head.
"Not drown. Not me. I was born in a caul."
*
I have always been fascinated by the effect that early promises or predictions have on one’s life. How growing up with an expectation can play havoc with the notion of free will. The prediction soon becomes an expectation which dances in front of a person throughout their entire life, luring and cajoling them towards a specific destiny.
I have recently written a novel, Answering the Caul, based on the traditions surrounding babies born in a caul.
It’s an uncommon phenomenon; fewer than one in 80,000 births. The caul (or cowl) is the amniotic sac, and when the baby is born with this over their head they are said to be born in (or with) a caul.
Because of the rarity of this event, a powerful folk-lore has grown around these births over the centuries. Such babies were seen as special, marked for greatness, or, at the very least, they could never die by drowning. This last prediction is probably the best known.
In Victorian times cauls were preserved and sold on for big money. Going to sea was such a perilous activity that the best thing you could do for a sailor was to give him one of these dried pieces of tissue to carry with him on his voyages.
There are plenty of notable people who began their days born in a caul. The boy-emperor Diadumenian (208–218) was so named because he was born with a diadem formed by a rolled caul. You can see by his life span that the caul didn’t do much for his longevity.
Others, such as Lord Byron, Sigmund Freud and the candelabra-wielding piano player Liberace fared better.
Charles Dickens’ David Copperfield began his tumultuous life as a caul-bearer – his caul was famously auctioned off at the "low price of fifteen guineas".
I was unaware of any of this until I married a caul-bearer.
Over the years Jane and I have had more than our fair share of water-borne adventure. We swum in places (or at times) when we had the sea completely to ourselves. Been stranded on rocky ledges inundated by huge waves. Stormy weather, turning tides, sudden rips, rising rivers... places where sensible people kept well clear. I’ve never believed we’re thrill-seekers by nature but maybe my wife has sanctioned this risky behaviour because of her birthright.
Jane was born in Tripoli in the Lebanon in 1952. The ex-patriot Welsh family were living in a desert community set up by the Shell Oil Company. Her hydrologist father was redeployed from the Royal Engineers Regiment in WW2 where he had served in North Africa. The allies were scrambling to get their hands on Middle Eastern assets. Lebanon was part of this. After wartime austerity it must have seemed a luxurious life; Beirut with its promenades and elegant architecture was called ‘the Paris of the Middle East’. They had come from slate-roofed cottages in ‘the valleys’ to walled gardens and palm trees, drivers and nannys. Like David Copperfield, Jane never got to keep her caul, or even see it for that matter. It went ‘missing’ in the delivery room. Even in the desert, far from the sea, the caul had its own mysterious currency.
Answering The Caul by Ted Dawe (Mangakino University Press, $30) is available direct from the author or from selected bookstores nationwide. It has been reviewed by Sam Finnemore for Kete.
