September 15, 1925

The storm hit at dawn. I was at the helm of the Sea Witch, my hands on the wheel, the salt spray in my face, and the Atlantic rolling beneath us like a living thing. Patrick was on the foredeck, securing the mainsail, and I could hear him singing—some Irish ballad, off-key and loud.

Then the wave came. It was not a wave, not really. It was a wall of water, black and towering, and it took the Sea Witch like a child's toy and threw her sideways. The mainmast snapped with a sound like a gunshot. Patrick was on the foredeck when it fell. I reached for him. I always reach for him. But my fingers closed on empty air and wet rope, and then he was gone, swallowed by the white foam.

Margaret took the injured crew members to the lifeboat. She looked back once, just once, and then she was gone into the rain.

I was alone with a broken ship and a broken man.

September 17, 1925

Five days at sea. The Sea Witch is taking on water. The hull is cracked, the rudder is damaged, and the mainmast is gone. I have lashed a jury rig to the bow, but it will not hold for long. The radio is dead—the antenna was torn away in the storm—and I have no way to call for help.

I am drifting somewhere in the North Atlantic, perhaps two hundred miles from the nearest shipping lane. The stars are my only compass, and the stars do not care if I live or die.

September 22, 1925

I had a letter today. From Julia. She wrote: "Arthur, I am with child. Come home." I held the letter in my hands and read it three times, and then I realized it was not a letter at all. It was a piece of driftwood, white as paper, with seaweed written on it in the language of the sea.

I laughed. I laughed until I cried, and then I cried until I was empty.

October 2, 1925

I wrote in my log today: "I am no longer afraid of death. I am afraid that I never told Julia I loved her."

The words sat on the page like a verdict. I have spent my whole life running from things—running from the war, running from myself, running from the truth that I was a coward in France and a coward everywhere else. And now, two hundred miles from shore, with a broken ship and a broken heart, I finally understand what I have been running from.

October 8, 1925

A ship appeared on the horizon today. I lit the signal fire, and I waved my arms, and I shouted until my voice gave out. But it was a ship of the imagination, a phantom vessel that appeared and disappeared in the mist. By evening, I knew it was not real. But I kept sailing anyway.

October 15, 1925

I untied the lifeboat today and set it adrift with the last case of fresh water. I am staying on the Sea Witch. This is my ship. I will die on her if I have to.

October 20, 1925

I wrote the last entry in my log. I lit a cigar—the good one Patrick saved for a special occasion, though neither of us knew it would be this occasion—and I sat in the captain's chair and looked at the North Star.

The Sea Witch was found at dawn by a British Royal Navy patrol vessel. They found me in the captain's chair, dead, with a cigar between my fingers and a logbook open on my lap.

Julia found the logbook three months later. She kept it on her nightstand for the rest of her life. She never married. She never stopped loving me.

And the Sea Witch? She sank in the North Atlantic, two hundred miles from shore, where no one will ever see her go down.

Objective Code Encoding (OTMES v2): M1=7.0 M2=1.0 M3=2.5 M4=7.0 M5=1.0 M6=4.0 M7=3.0 M8=5.0 M9=8.0 M10=6.0 N1=0.35 N2=0.65 K1=0.50 K2=0.50 V=0.85 I=1.00 C=0.80 S=0.50 R=0.30 TI=55.0 (T3 殉情级) Theta=90° (浪漫型) E_total=13.8