Four a.m. The fates propelled Crowhurst to the lead. His logbooks show his descent into lunacy as he realized he would be found out. Reality drove him mad. After developing his own psychotic, religious-type philosophy in logbook entries concerning mostly “the game” (which he felt he now understood), Crowhurst began a countdown and made his final entry. Then, accompanied by his broken chronometer, he jumped overboard. So much for Donald Crowhurst.

The Teignmouth Electron was found floating abandoned on the Atlantic, with the logbooks awaiting inspection. Crowhurst died in this bubble of crazy, but the truth cruised on, awaiting discovery.

Dawn. As grey light breaks on the horizon, I sigh into the now-gentle wind. I’m on deck, leaning on the mast, drinking instant coffee while wrapped in the sleeping bag. I hold an umbrella up to the soft drizzle. I can jump to the dock if we start sinking. No perverts can creep down below and surprise me. I can see the horizon. I’m steady. I’ve been sitting on the deck since 4:14 a.m.

Standing up, I begin to open the hatch to go below. I’m hooked to the safety line in case of an unanticipated huge gust. It’s like I’m on a leash. I unhook. I realize now how this must look . . . how things have always looked. The adult forgets what the little kid knew and vows are betrayed until, the moment when it’s clear, at some stage you can’t pinpoint, you begin plotting the course of your own sorrow. Never be with anyone who doesn’t lift you up, Samuel said.

Morning brings a whole new perspective. It’s time to redefine adventure. To inhabit myself in my own way. And be in the world the way I am.

I go below and get dressed before climbing back on the deck with my backpack. I rip up Tara’s unopened letter and chuck it in the dark water. The pieces of paper float on the waves and the current quickly pulls it all away.

My face reflects in the bus window, and when I press my nose to the glass, I see the morning sunbeams and shadows marbling the road and streets and trees as we speed by en route to Vancouver. It’s the same thing, people behind me and beside me going on about Y2K and the approaching End Times. But it doesn’t bother me. We won’t know until New Year’s Day and there are a few weeks of living before then, and not a day to be wasted. I’ve got my CD Walkman on and the radio is playing Cher. I switch it to the CD and Emmylou Harris sings in her tremulous soprano about not knowing why she forgot to say goodbye — but I know. Sometimes you don’t need to. I giggle and feel my lips against the window, my humid breath blowing back warm on my cheeks. I have survived the night. I have returned from my strange last voyage and my sturdy body is my own boat.