And the Sea Will Tell by Vincent Bugliosi, Bruce Henderson Page A

the middle of the ocean. She hoped it was a sign things were beginning to get better.
    That evening, the sunset was unusually brilliant, more chromatically various and luminescent than any fireworks display.
    “Know what you’re seeing?” Buck asked smugly as the sun touched the dark horizon line of the ocean.
    “A sunset, dummy,” Jennifer sensed some sort of challenge.
    “Actually, it’s a mirage.”
    She was skeptical and not really interested. Beauty needed no explanation. It just was.
    “Well, listen up and you can learn something from old Buck. The setting sun actually dips below the horizon a couple of minutes before you lose sight of its image. It has to do with curving light rays. I’m serious, Jen.”
    Jennifer shrugged. “Prettiest mirage I’ve ever seen.”
    The pale-blue scrim of the sky merged with lush oranges and brooding violet, until finally, in the last hushed moments of sunlight, the impeccably white cirrus clouds in the high distance blushed pink.
    In the stillness, Buck said, “Red sky at night, sailor’s delight.”
    Jennifer knew the rest. “Red sky in the morning, sailor’s warning.” The famous old saw was suddenly a special shared moment.
    They went below and made salty, sweaty love. Beneath their urgent cries, few sounds disturbed the ocean silence. Water lapped softly against the bow, the sails and shrouds occasionally flapped in the light evening breeze, and the little Iola nosed steadily southward.
    For Jennifer, life seemed so peaceful, and safe, at that moment.
    The next morning, they awoke to a sunrise as red as fresh blood.
     
    J ENNIFER TOOK the responsibility of keeping the Iola ’s log. She really liked the idea of recording their experiences in her own words. For whom? Themselves? Posterity? She didn’t think about that aspect very deeply. She just went through the daily exercise with determined regularity, much like a young girl keeping a diary no one would ever see.
    June 14. 120 miles from our destination. Raised main sail for about 6 hrs. Made good time .
June 15. Believe we have hit the doldrums—becalmed with light squalls. Little progress made. Under jib—self steering. Bathed in rain. Barely able to get a fix through all the clouds .
June 16. Still becalmed. Gray skies, no sun to fix so far. Drifting southwest—periodical rainsqualls. Glimpses of sunshine gave us a fix. Still not much progress .
June 17. Got up enough wind to raise the main sail—put up the larger jib too. Progress is still very slow. Buck ran out of tobacco and is miserable. Baking cornbread .
     
    On the morning of June 19, Jennifer made an exciting discovery. Barely containing her glee, she approached Buck to make a serious announcement. “If this wind holds true,” she said, and paused dramatically, “we should be…sighting Palmyra off the port bow around three o’clock this afternoon!” She fairly whooped.
    “You sure?” Buck asked in disbelief.
    “According to my calculations.” She grinned.
    She’d come a long way with her navigating. Now working with the correct logarithm, she felt confident she was accurately tracking their position. The chart showed them to be within twenty miles of Palmyra, and she was certain that’s where they really were.
    Even so, when she caught sight of the island while peering from the bow a few hours later, she found herself almost in a state of shock. She felt tingly all over and couldn’t stop laughing, even as she screamed out, “Land ho! Land ho!” They’d actually made it!
    Buck squinted at the horizon, then joined in excitedly. “You did it, Jen baby! Samarand at last!” He liked using an early name for Palmyra he’d picked up in one of the books.
    “Whaddaya know,” she marveled. It was just about the greatest success of her life. And she’d done it all by herself.
    “Incredible!” Buck yelled. “Columbus could have used you!”
    “I did say it would be today. Didn’t I?” She sounded as if she couldn’t believe it