Adrift, day 2

From the log of the Galleon Sol de los Mares, as written by Juan Carlos DeVila, drifter and ship’s Master.

June 15th, 1683

The morning brought no respite from the dread I feel at being stranded aboard this ship. We should have ported almost a week ago had the storm not blown us God knows where. Now, we ride the brink of starvation at sea. Giuseppe reported this morning that we have less than a weeks worth of edible food, and perhaps three days beyond that of fresh water. I think he enjoyed telling us this. He seems the sort to relish the pain and suffering of others. Would that it were he, and not Miguel who had been injured. If he glares at Sato again, we may be shorter by another crew member.

Even among the depression and gloom surrounding us, I still sometimes discover the most amazing things. I woke at sunrise, and stepped out onto the command deck of the ship, where the Captain once stood with pride and looked out over his ship. Now the ship is but a pale image of her former glory, but she remains afloat and for that we love her dearly and curse her in the same breath. The sun was rising as I came on deck, casting the brightest and most beautiful glow across the calm waters. It was as if the sun stopped just this morning to greet us before climbing onward into the sky. And then it was gone.

The heat during the days is oppressive. There is still no wind to speak of, leaving us no means to cool ourselves, as well as nothing to fill the sails. Earlier passages of this same log speak of a return to normal winds and seas in the wake of storms, but the times vary. I find myself with fervent hope that the wait is not much longer, or it simply will not matter.

I think Miguel left a wife and child back in Spain. He mumbles in the fever dream that has trapped him, calling out to Silvia and someone named Jaime. I sat for hours last night listening as he called to them, talked with them. I envision Silvia to be a beautiful woman with a bright smile. The child in my head runs like the wind and laughs to make the angels weep. I hope these things are true, for Miguel. He doesn’t have much longer to live by my best estimate. Perhaps less than a day.

We found a former crewman in the water today, floating on the remains of a crate blown overboard during the storm. At first glance he might have been alive and simply sleeping atop his perch, but closer inspection showed him only half the man he was before the storm. His body had been eaten below the waist, leaving only what was out of the water as evidence he had even been alive. Ferdinand used a pole to shove the corpse back into the water as Sato and I hooked the crate he had been using. It was largely intact, and will most likely be serviceable towards some end provided we every reach land again.

I thought for a moment I was losing my mind this evening. We encountered a group of dolphin playing off the starboard side of the ship. (I also find myself picking up nautical terms as necessity requires. Amazing how quickly a person learns when his life depends on it.) The dolphins looked to me at first like little children playing in the water, laughing and diving. It was only hearing Sato laugh at their games that brought me to my senses. The heat must be affecting me more than I had imagined. I feel fine now, as I sit in the near darkness writing by candlelight. But tomorrow is another day. If there is a merciful God, I pray he brings us wind.


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