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I
Ilandedonthenearestisletbeforetheboatlefttheship’sside.Iheardthempullingaboutinthedark,hailing,andsoon,butafterabittheygaveup.Everythingquieteddownandtheanchoragebecamestillasdeath.Isatdownonastoneandbegantothink.Ifeltcertaintheywouldstartsearchingformeatdaylight.Therewasnoplacetohideonthosestonythings—andiftherehadbeen,whatwouldhavebeenthegood?ButnowIwasclearofthatship,Iwasnotgoingback.SoafterawhileItookoffallmyclothes,tiedthemupinabundlewithastoneinside,anddroppedtheminthedeepwaterontheoutersideofthatislet.Thatwassuicideenoughforme.Letthemthinkwhattheyliked,butIdidn’tmeantodrownmyself.ImeanttoswimtillIsank—butthat’snotthesamething.Istruckoutforanotheroftheselittleislands,anditwasfromthatonethatIfirstsawyourridinglight.Somethingtoswimfor.Iwentoneasily,andonthewayIcameuponaflatrockafootortwoabovewater.Inthedaytime,Idaresay,youmightmakeitoutwithaglassfromyourpoop.Iscrambleduponitandrestedmyselfforabit.ThenImadeanotherstart.Thatlastspellmusthavebeenoveramile.”
Hiswhisperwasgettingfainterandfainter,andallthetimehestaredstraightoutthroughtheporthole,inwhichtherewasnotevenastartobeseen.Ihadnotinterruptedhim.Therewassomethingthatmadecommentimpossibleinhisnarrative,orperhapsinhimself;asortoffeeling,aquality,whichIcan’tfindanamefor.
