“You wouldn’t understand!” I wailed, then sped back to my bunk to bury my confusion and misery in the old book.

March 14th, 1848

We had a lazy sluggish day on account of a calm until about 11 O.C., when a dark angry looking cloud hove in sight. We lowered down the mainsail so as to catch some fresh water and it was refreshing to get washed and get some drink. We caught about a hogshead and I felt natural again.

While we were all lounging about the deck, the word went out about a man overboard and we all rushed & found Albert Lyman hanging over the side by a rope. After a moment, we had him on board and soon all hands were lounging about as before, laughing and joking as usual. We have had only 24 hours of fair weather in 19 days when we could work at anything. I took out my needles and mended my suspenders & coat. The others with Capt. & all hands commenced fixing their fishing rods & harpoons, preparatory to taking dolphin or porpoise, which they say will eat well.

Thursday, 15th—We have been becalmed all day and busier day was never seen. The sun was very hot and every man that could find a place on deck was spreading out his clothing & beds to get them dry and stop the mildewing of them. Some have nearly ruined their clothing. By being so long wet, they have mildewed, my own with the rest, but I have less loss than others. The crew were busy repairing rigging and the sail makers mending the sails and we find that Old Boreus has handled us rather harshly.

Amazing, how someone else’s problems can take your mind off your own.

—

Eventually I missed Rubio enough to go looking to mend fences. I found him in the media loft, taking his irritation out on a defenseless computer. “So, was it bad?”

“Um.” He bent his long back closer to the screen. “Still can’t get a signal.”

“With Rousseau, I mean.”

“I know.” Rubio jabbed at the touchpad a few times. His jaw was dark with scab and stubble. Without his daily shave, he looked like a derelict. “Damn useless piece of junk.”

“You went to see him like that?”

“Like what?”

“You know how he feels about clean cheeks.”

“Hurts too much and I need a new blade.” He patted his cheek delicately, then looked up at me. His bruised eyes widened. “Jeez, speaking of hair . . . !”

“Huh?”

“What happened to yours?”

You did, I almost said. At least he’d noticed. I smoothed the short ends, already mourning the curls. One impulse I shouldn’t have listened to. “Needed a change. Rousseau?”

“Umm. Yeah, well, he piled on the usual tough love and all that, making lame excuses for his boyos, but the gist of it is—and I’m still replaying this to make sure I heard him right . . .” He paused to fuss at the keypad.