After fishing a new pair of boots from a barrel of discarded and mouldering clothes, I went to make my peace with my saviors. I owe my rescue ultimately to two men. The first is old Pete, the weathered ancient who watches the waves. After Mr. Apples found my cell empty in the morning, it was this old Pete’s inscrutable reckoning that led the Rose back to find me. Mabbot had circled for a few hours in the waters where I should have been, and it was there that they spotted the Diastema on the horizon, recognizing it from the description the prison guards gave. I offered the old man figs, but he eats only salted sardines with rice and that in the tiniest amounts. I sat with him but could not tell if he valued my company. His simple smile does not leave his face in any circumstance, even as he took in my scarlet nose and sun-blistered lips. He is as benign as a teapot. The events of the last few days have been brutally humbling, and sitting near this man in his wicker chair as he stares at the water does nothing but humble me further.
