30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 21

Still in catch-up mode, today's challenge - Night - inspired me to dip into the more horrific section of my palette...

They Come At Night

They come at night, mostly.

                When the sun has slipped fully over the horizon, when the sky has turned from blue to twilight purple to midnight black, that’s when they emerge from their lair and begin their hunt for victims.

                I first realised what was going on in this neighbourhood a few weeks ago. I’d taken an afternoon nap on the sofa, something I’ve done on occasion since retiring, and when I woke up it was already dark outside. But for the fact that my back was sore, I’d probably have got straight up and turned a lamp on and never been any the wiser to them; but as I sat on the edge of the couch massaging my lower back into life, I noticed two shadowy figures standing on the opposite side of the road. Two men, pale skinned and smartly dressed in suits. They didn’t look right, was my first impression.

                When they looked my way, a little voice in my head whispered for me to freeze right where I was and I did so without questioning. The men stared at my house, as if somehow sensing my gaze upon them, before finally turning away and instead walking up the driveway to the house where Mr Simmons lives

.

                I had my suspicions about them immediately and, when I bumped into Mr Simmons a few days later, my worst fears were confirmed. He was different; changed somehow and despite his relaxed posture and easy smile, I felt the icy finger of terror slithering down my back. As crazy as it might sound to you, I knew what those men were and what they’d done to poor Mr Simmons.

                I hoped against hope that maybe that would be the end of it, but of course they didn’t just come that one time. Perhaps they sensed that this was a neighbourhood where they could sate themselves, a quiet little place where they could have their way and no one would be any the wiser. They swiftly grew bolder, the two men became four and I stopped turning the lights on in the house at night so that I could try to secretly observe them.

                I learned their patterns, I learned their behaviour. It’s true, by the way; you have to invite them in or they won’t cross the threshold. But I learned that they have ways of securing that invitation; and, before long, first Ms Trunckle and then Mr and Mrs Dweedle fell entirely under their influence. Their numbers were swelling and there was nothing I could do.

                And so, each night, I would sit camped out in my living room with the lights down and observe them, trying my very best to understand their strategies; I was learning about them without them even realising I was there.

                Until tonight.

                I fell asleep in front of the lunchtime news and, when I wake up, my stomach leaps in fear as I realise that I’ve inadvertently left the television on and the room is bathed in a flickering white glow that paints electric shadows on the walls. My troublesome back immediately forgotten, I lunge for the remote control and press my thumb down hard on the power button.  But, of course, it’s too late.

                As my eyes accustom themselves to the darkness filling the room, I realise that there are two faces pressed against the window. They have found me at last. I try to avoid their gaze, try to pretend I’ve not seen them, but it’s no use. They move silently away from the window and to the front door.

                Two knocks, sharp and hard, rattle the door and echo through the quiet stillness of the house.

And I know then that I can no longer hide from them; they know I’m here now and even if I manage to stay safe from them this night they will never give up. They are relentless. They will return until they get what they want and I know in my heart that this can only ever end in one way. They will return until I finally open the door and crumble and give them the permission that they so crave. The only option is to face them.

The walk to the front door seems to take forever and, when I get there, their elongated shadows, back lit from the street lamps, stretch across the floor of the hall towards me. My breath catches in my chest but I am committed now and my hand closes on the door handle, the metal cold against the slickness of my palm. They wait, patient.

Finally, steeling myself, I open the door wide and look at the two men in their suits. They smile at me; I’ve made their job easier.

“Do you think God wants you to be happy?” says the first man.

“Can we come in to tell you how you can let the light into your life?” asks the second.

And so, with weary resignation, I invite the Jehovah’s Witnesses inside.

30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 20

Still lots of work crowding my time but I've managed to catch up to Day 20's challenge and at least know what I'm going to write for Day 21's challenge when I find some free time tomorrow night. I keep plugging on, even if I'm more than a few days behind now...

So, without further ado, Day 20's challenge - A place you want to visit.

The Place I Want To Visit

It, perhaps, speaks volumes about me that, when tasked with thinking of a place I want to visit, the first place that sprang to my mind was rather exotic.

                

There are of course many places that I would love to visit that are far more mundane and would have made for a considerably saner piece of writing but, there was no way of escaping from the fact that the very first place that my imagination conjured up was The Moon.

It would appear that, despite my better efforts, I have entirely failed to outrun the grandiose dreams I had as a child of being an astronaut. But, you see, there’s something so very compelling to me about that big hunk of rock in the sky. Ever since I was young and watched the archive footage of Neil Armstrong stepping out onto its surface, I’ve tried to imagine how that it must have felt to set foot upon an entirely alien landscape.

If you’re an agoraphobic, I’m guessing things couldn’t get much worse; after all, wide open spaces don’t get much wider. To stand on the surface of the moon and look back at the Earth, a blue and white jewel about four times bigger in the sky than the moon is in our own, would surely be about as nightmarish as it could get for an agoraphobe. Although, upon reflection, things wouldn’t be that much better for those who are claustrophobic; three days cramped up inside a lunar module would surely be hell on (or, more accurately, off) Earth.

But, since I’m fortunately afflicted with neither phobia, the prospect of stepping out onto the barren surface of the moon fascinates me. Not because so few people have done it, but because I’m curious to know how it feels to be that far away from humanity.  I imagine it puts things into perspective (in more ways than one).

I could have picked somewhere that I had a higher possibility of actually being able to visit, but that would have been cheating. Many years on since I first saw that footage, I’m still enamoured by the thought of The Moon…

30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 19

Day 19 of the Writing Challenge seemed such a great idea when I came up with it: go to Wikipedia, select random page and wherever you end up is what you write...

That is, it sounded a great idea until I randomly turned up Pedro Aznar, an Argentine jazz bassist. I have to admit, I hit a real writer's block with this for some time - desperately trying to think of something, anything, that would make a good piece of writing. Finally, I hit upon an angle I was happy with an and wrote this is an about twenty minutes...

Pedro Aznar

I hear the music of Pedro Aznar, drifting from an open window as I walk by on the way to work and I find myself suddenly detached from the present; I’m no longer in London, I’m in Rio de Janeiro again.

The concert is on Ipanema beach, out at Posto 9, and a sizeable crowd has gathered to listen to the eclectic blend of dance music interspersed with Latin rock and smooth jazz. The air is warm, thick with the smell of weed, and I clutch a half empty beer bottle in one hand as I sway in time to the music. Pedro Aznar has been playing for the last half an hour or so; mixing instrumental and vocal numbers, working the crowd with a dialogue I struggle to completely follow but I don’t care. It’s my last night in Rio and I’m just soaking up the last vibes.

I catch sight of her off to my right, a white dress, a flash of honey coloured hair and a pair of startlingly green eyes that meet mine and hold my gaze for a second, and then she is once again lost to me in the crowd. However, something stirs in my drunken mind and find myself stumbling towards the point where I saw her dancing, excusing myself loudly in my best Portuguese as I bump gently through the crowd.  And then the crowd suddenly parts and she is right there in front of me, even more beautiful than I first imagined, eyes half closed and moving in time to the music as if she is totally lost in it, as if she is the only one here.

I am so spellbound that I only notice she is looking at me after I’ve been staring (I’m sure, open mouthed) at her for what seems like an eternity. I feel my cheeks instantly blush red but she is smiling, this dazzlingly broad smile that I can’t help but try and return and my blush fades in an instant. I try to lean in to introduce myself but she circles around me, one finger over her lips to silence me, and holds out her other hand. It’s warm to the touch and, empowered by alcohol and a sense of rhythm I’ve never experienced either before since, we dance.

One song, two songs. Edging closer and closer together; she is playful and teasing and wonderful wrapped all up in one and, as the second song ends we end up closer together than ever and for a second, a brilliant second in which time stops deliciously, we stare into each other’s eyes, both of us lost in the moment. When we kiss, her lips taste faintly of cachaca.

We are together like this for four more songs. Both of us lost in the music , lost to each other, until the crowd suddenly surges forward towards the stage and we are pushed apart from each other. I can do nothing but watch helplessly as the crowd sweeps her away from me and, despite struggling to push my way against their flow, despite then walking the beach on my own after the concert has long since finished, I never manage to see her again. I fly home the next morning and find that she is all I can think about.

I never knew her name, the girl in white. But, when I hear the music of Pedro Aznar I am immediately transported back to that moment on the beach, never once failing to dream of what might have been.

30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 18

I was up early to work on today's challenge - The taste of your favourite meal - but I didn't have a chance to complete it before work so I left the ending until lunchtime. I hope you enjoy...

The Taste Of Your Favourite Meal

Revenge was a dish best served cold they said, and he liked the saying. But what no one had ever told him was that it was a dish you wanted to dine on time and time again. Why now, it was almost his favourite meal.

                

He had walked the streets all day looking for his next one when finally he saw her strutting out of Chucks Bar and Grill on 15^th Avenue. Long black hair, just the same, skin pale as alabaster; hell, they could have been sisters. They were all the same; that’s why he had to do the things he did. If he didn’t, they’d just go on to break another man’s heart like Mary Jo broke his.

               

She walked confidently, hips swaying with every step like she was hoping for an audience, and he felt his fists clenching hard; oh, she was the next one alright. He hung back a few hundred feet behind her and stayed on the opposite side of the street, clinging to the shadows. When it had happened with Mary Jo, it had all been unplanned. He’d acted on impulse with Mary Jo, but he was a lot better prepared now that he knew his purpose. He wore black sneakers with rubber soles because they allowed him to walk softly, unheard.

                

The girl had no idea that she was next, had no idea who was behind her, and he couldn’t help but smile; it pleased him to know that he had that power. She would be the seventh and that pleased him as well. Seven was an important number; in the Bible there were seven deadly sins as well as seven gifts from the Holy Spirit. And hadn’t God himself hated harlots and whores as well? He had once read that God had laid waste to Sodom and Gomorrah with fire and brimstone for tolerating their kind. He knew that he was on a righteous path in what he did, even if he had different reasons for being on that path.

Clack, clack, clack went the girl’s heels on the sidewalk and he wondered whether she would lead him all the way to her home like the last few had. His right hand slipped absently into his pocket, feeling for the comfort of the knife. He didn’t mind if it was in her home – in a way, it made sense, made it somehow more personal – but he preferred when it was in the open air like with Mary Jo.  In a house he usually had to be quick, in case the neighbours called the police, but out in the open he had all the time in the world.

               

He stayed in the shadows, footsteps slow and purposeful, and the girl walked on, oblivious to him. The excitement and anticipation built in his chest like a physical thing and he found himself wondering whether he would let her scream just to hear the fear in her voice. Mary Jo had screamed, had begged, had pleased for his forgiveness, but he had known she would have done anything to save herself in those last moments. There was no authenticity in her contrition as she looked up at him with those big brown eyes, her black hair streaked through with dirt. She wasn’t really sorry for walking out on him. Even at the last she was lying to him and that had settled it; if she could be nothing but a lying whore even in the face of death then what hope was there for her ever-living soul? His revenge wasn’t simply justified, it was needed.

                

He shivered at the thought, giddy with excitement now.  The first step was always the hardest but with Mary Jo gone it had made all the other steps so very easy for him. He had realised at that moment, maybe in some divine inspiration, as Mary Jo’s blood lay pooling around her in the mud; there were countless Mary Jo’s out there in the world, countless harlots destroying the lives of men on little more than a whim. So he never went back to work on Monday, he just picked up a few of his things and left town in his pickup. He had a new mission now.

                

The girl turned left off 15^th Avenue and into a less well lit street, marching on without realising that she was marching to her death.  His hand curled tight around the handle of the knife and he imagined how her face would look when she saw it, the eyes wide with fear. Mary Jo had tried to run but not all of them did, some of them had just stood frozen there like they knew they couldn’t ever hope to escape this moment. He wondered which kind this girl would be and his heart pounded hard in his chest.

                

The police and the press had finally caught up to him with the fifth in Austin, Texas; up until then, his four kills had just been random acts scattered across four different states, but after the fifth someone had put two and two together and realised that it was one man responsible for all five girls. In a way, he was glad. He hadn’t wanted to leave anything to tell them - that would have felt like something only a crazy person would do - but he had wanted them to know about his mission. The press started calling him the Vampire Killer, due to the fact that he bled them out from their jugular, and he found it made an odd sense. Except, he wasn’t the vampire; he was out there killing these vampire women who would prey on a man’s good nature and bleed him dry, only to toss him to the curb once they’d had their fill. He liked the name.

                

A small residential area lay up ahead, no more than a couple of low apartment buildings arranged in a courtyard, and he felt sure that tonight’s hunt was nearly over. He loved small towns like this, small towns off the beaten track. He knew the police would be looking for the pattern in his work but they would find none; he gained his revenge one death at a time and then moved on at random, going where the road took him and waiting, always, to catch sight of his next target. They would never catch him.

                

The girl halted at the end of the street, fishing in her purse for a cell phone and he edged closer. Her voice travelled easily on the cool night air and he could hear she was talking to her boyfriend or husband, telling them she was still looking after her friend and that he shouldn’t wait up for her. He felt himself bristle at the lies and had to breathe hard to avoid just gutting her there and then. It only served to show him how right his instincts had been; she was a lying harlot and, whoever that man was, he’d be better off without her. He’d make sure of that.

                

She surprised him by turning not towards the residential area but, instead, crossing the street and entering the park. Thrill coursed through him like electricity. He had scouted the park a day earlier when he had been getting to know the town; it was shrouded in trees and was lit only by a couple of old streetlights. He figured she must be planning on using the path through the park as a shortcut to get to the other part of town, maybe to make sure that no one who knew her man would catch sight of her out. A small town like this, women were more afraid of gossip than being out on their own at night. He grinned; he couldn’t have planned this night better himself.

                

He waited twenty seconds or so and then followed her into the park, her slight figure disappearing from view as she stepped out of the dull yellow glow of the streetlight and into the darkness of the park. He sped up his pace, following the sound of her footsteps in the darkness, sensing that the time for caution was long past. She was no more than twenty paces ahead of him now and he called out to her.

                

“Hey darlin’”

             *                 *                  *

She heard the voice and turned round, quickly, on her heels to face him.

                

It was light enough that she could see he was a big man, maybe 6’4, wearing a baseball cap and a long black coat. The moonlight glittered from the blade of a knife in his right hand and from his small eyes. She could tell that he was smiling.

             *                 *                   *

She froze in front of him, just like he’d hoped she would, and he slowly advanced up the path towards her.

                

“You know who I am, darlin’?” he said softly, “I’m the one they’re calling the Vampire Killer.”

               

He could see the recognition in her eyes but she didn’t move, she was still standing frozen in her tracks. But there was something else in her eyes…

            *                 *                    *

He moved closer and she let him talk. She knew the name, had read the papers. Only when he had got close enough did she finally strike.

           *                  *                    *

The girl moved suddenly towards him, so quickly that she was little more than a blur, and before he could even begin to adjust he felt a brief but tremendous pressure placed on his right arm before, with a loud crack it exploded into white-hot pain. The knife skidded away from him, lost in the darkness, and then hands were pulling at the lapels of his coat. Lifting him up, he realised, she was lifting him up and then, even as he marvelled at how impossibly strong she was, the girl flung him bodily into the trees. His back collided, hard, with a tree trunk and all of the breath was smashed from his body.

                

He lay on his back, looking up through the tree canopy to the stars above. Body wracked with pain and unable to move he could do nothing but stare straight up into the sky, even as he heard the crunch of her approaching footsteps.

                

She straddled his hips and, as she bent over him, he looked upon her fully for the first time. His eyes opened wide at that moment and he tried his best to whisper the Lord’s Prayer through what remained of his teeth.

               

She smiled. Lips, scarlet red.

                

“Your God can’t save you now.”

             *                 *                *

She drank deep from him, felt the hot copper taste of his blood in her throat and felt it empower her, flow through her.

                

She had smelled the blood on him as soon as she had left the bar, a black stain on him that no amount of washing could hope to remove and she had known then that he was the one. And so she had phoned and made her excuses to her husband and she had led him here, led him away from the street lights, led him to a place where he could never hurt anyone ever again.

                

As the life ebbed from him, as her fangs tore at his throat and drained him, she knew it tasted all the sweeter to know she had rid the world of such a monster.  Revenge was, she thought, a dish best served hot and bloody and tonight, she enjoyed the taste of her favourite meal…

30 Day Writing Challenge - Day 17

A combination of lots of work and being slightly ill has resulted in a slight hitch in my 30 Day Writing Challenge - but I'm now working hard to make up for lost time and I start with Day 17's challenge of The Ocean...

The Ocean

March 5^th, 2012

This is it. I am off.  As I’m writing this as I can see the south coast begin to disappear over the horizon. In a few moments, it will just be me and the ocean. Well, just me and ocean and the smattering of freighters I can see a few miles off to starboard. Going to try and keep this updated fairly regularly. I know people think I’m crazy for doing this without loads of preparation but I know I can do this. Right, off to check the rigging then it’s time for a celebratory beer. Adios.

March 10^th, 2012

Ok, I admit it, I’m crap at remembering to write in this. Just had a couple of dolphin shadowing me for a few miles which was pretty cool. Almost close enough to touch. When they’d gone I actually felt lonely. This is the longest solo voyage I’ve attempted so I expected loneliness might creep in over the course of the four and a half weeks but not quite this quickly. Luckily I’ve got all five seasons of The Wire to keep me occupied. So I’m going to catch up on how McNulty and Bunk are getting on.

March 14^th, 2012

So far, so smoothly.  There is something so serene in being out on the ocean at night. Not a light to be seen in any direction, the stars brighter above me than they ever have been back home.  Just me and the boat. 

March 19^th, 2012

I thought I saw a whale flume today but I might have been imagining it. Reminder to self – check to see if you get whales in these parts at this time of year.

March 21^st, 2012

I’d like to write more, really I would. But I’m either busy or knackered after having been busy. I find myself drifting in and out of little mini-sleeps. I’d call them power naps but it would be a lie. I’m wishing I’d bought a lot more sugary stuff than I did. The reverse trip I am SO going to stock up. Weather a bit rougher today. Biggest swell I’ve seen since I left. Biggest swell I’ve ever seen actually, outside of movies. Kinda scary, if I’m honest. Which I can be with you, dear diary. Don’t tell anyone – when we retell this story, we were bold and brave.

March 26^th, 2012

Three weeks in. Feeling very tired. Not sleeping well. Had something of a near miss earlier today; went by a metal shipping crate no more than hundred feet off portside. Never occurred to me one of those things could actually float. Don’t even want to think what would have happened if I’d have hit it. Got me even more paranoid about sleeping.

March 30^th, 2012

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Storm last night. Fucking storm and a half.  Lost the mast. Just ripped right off and took the mainsail with it. Lost the outboard as well. Don’t know how we got through it. Bounced around the cabin like a pinball. Super calm now but everything is fried. VHF. EPIRB. GPS. All gone. I can only guess there was a lightning strike but I was too busy not dying to even notice. Writing this because I’ve spent the last few hours trying to work out what the fuck I am going to do. Currently drifting north, north-east.

March 31^st, 2012

Been doing the math: I was meant to arrive in Bermuda on April 6^th, give or take a day or two. Which means it’s going to be at least a week until anyone even realises that I’ve not arrived. My mum always worries if she doesn’t hear from me, but my dad always calms her down and persuades her everything is ok because he knows I’m crap at remembering to call. Feeling a bit like the boy who cried wolf right now. I’ve got food and water to last two more weeks and if I halve rations I’ve got enough to last me a month. Probably going to write more in here now the laptop’s just a paperweight.

April 2^nd, 2012

Hardly slept since the storm and when I finally laid down, I ended up sleeping for eight hours straight. Most I’ve slept since I left Southampton.  Trying not to think about how badly that could have gone for me. Finding myself spending more time on deck. Even though I know I’m miles outside the shipping lanes, I keep hoping I might see something on the horizon and get a chance to pop a flare. Don’t want to miss an opportunity.

April 4^th, 2012

Still drifting north east; estimate I am making no more than two knots at best. By my best estimates, that means I’m maybe two hundred and fifty miles north east of where I was when the storm hit. I’m trying not to think how difficult it is going to be for anyone to find me. Trying not to think that the Atlantic covers about twenty per cent of the world’s surface and anyone looking for me will have no idea where in all of that I might be. Needles in haystacks probably have better odds.

April 6^th, 2012

I am beginning to get a real grasp of the concept of loneliness. Back when I lived in London, a lonely night would be one in which I wasn’t going out, a night in with a Chinese takeaway and watching some bad TV. When I think that I am in a patch of ocean where there is not a living soul within, possibly, hundreds of square miles of me, it makes me realise it’s only at times like this that you can know true loneliness. I was meant to be arriving in Bermuda today. My mum is probably waiting for my call and my dad is telling her not to worry. Fuck.

April 7^th, 2012

Heavier seas last night and, without the mast, the boat rolls a lot more. I made sure the cabin was securely shut and used nylon-elastic ties to secure me to my bunk just in case we rolled. I’m pretty certain that if we did a 180, then we’d come straight out of it but I’m hoping I don’t have to find out. Idea of being turtled out here is a pretty scary one. Now one day late.

April 8^th, 2012

Writing here becoming a habit. At least it keeps me from talking to myself which I do way too much at the moment. That I’ve also started to talk to McNulty and Bunk is probably a bad sign but there’s not much entertainment in these parts. Really wish I’d bought some books along instead of the laptop. Seas fairly calm. Saw another couple of dolphins today and wondered whether they are the same ones I saw back at the start. If this had been Flipper, they’d be swimming off to tell someone of my fate right about now.

April 9^th, 2012

Three days late and I’m sure, by this point, my mum will be insisting my dad do some investigating and she won’t let up until he alerts everyone.  I find myself scanning the horizon, scanning the skies all day. Hope to see a ship or a plane. But, so far, all I’ve seen are the high altitude contrails of airliners ploughing their way across the sky and to pop a flare for them would be a complete waste. Feeling a bit week weak from halving rations.

April 10^th, 2012

Experimented with a jury rigged fishing rod today. Figured if I could catch something, it would allow me to save some rations. No luck. So back to half rations.

April 11^th,2012

Nothing worth writing today. Five days late now and everyone surely knows I’ve got problems. Trouble is, no one has any idea where I was when I ran into problems.

April 12, 2012

Ate two days rations in one go today. Don’t even know why. Just seemed a good idea at the time. Now cursing my stupidity. Still no sign of anyone else out here. Started drifting in a southerly direction. Wish I hadn’t just relied on GPS and computer maps to help me navigate. If I could navigate by the stars, I’d at least know roughly where I was.

April 13, 2012

A ship on the horizon for the briefest of seconds. I saw it as we rose to the top of a wave and ran into the cabin to get the flare gun but, when I got back, I couldn’t see it anymore. Fired off a red flare on instinct but it was daylight and I never saw the ship again. Now wondering if it even was a ship or whether I imagined it.

April 14^th, 2012

I am beginning to think about the EPIRB. The fact it hasn’t activated might make the authorities think things are ok and that I’m just limping after the storm. They probably wouldn’t consider the possibility that it’s fried and useless. My thoughts have been tending to the more depressing ever since I thought I saw the ship yesterday.

April 15^th, 2012

Still drifting south.  No sign of any traffic. Sleeping more. Feels like that’s all I can do. Sleep and wait.

April 16^th, 2012

Nothing happened. Just me and the ocean. Seas are calm at least.

April 20^th, 2012

Two weeks since I was scheduled to arrive in Bermuda and I’m in the mid-Atlantic somewhere with no means of propulsion and only a few days of rations left. I’ve halved what I’ve got again. Being hungry keeps me alert at least.

April 22^nd, 2012

I am finding it tough to think straight. The real worry I have is that if no one has found me by now then the search has probably been called off. So, right now, everyone thinks I’m dead. Cried for the first time since I was a kid and once I started it was hard to stop. If you’re reading this you probably think I’m a big fucking baby but I don’t care.

April 24^th, 2012

Hunger is an ever present. Gnaws at me all the time. Feel twitchy. Still drifting south, going where the Atlantic takes me.

April 25^th, 2012

I realised today that I am writing this diary now not for the sake of being able to relive the memories but because I’m increasingly worried that I’m not going to be found and this is all that’s going to be left. If so, I love you mum and dad. You should know it was me who broke the window, not Johnny back when we kids.  I don’t even know why I told you that haha

April 26^th, 2012

Last day of rations. Very much regretting my binge of April 12^th. Sea calm and quiet.

April 27^th, 2012

Three weeks since I should have in been In Bermuda. First day without food and all I can think about is what I’ll eat if they find me.  A couple of weeks ago it would have been when they find me.

April 28^th, 2012

All I’ve got left is water. Tried fishing again yesterday but no luck. Got buckets set up on the deck to catch rain.

April 30^th, 2012

Shark fin off starboard bow.  Circled the boat, a dark shadow beneath the waves as it checked me out, then disappeared. Never actually been scared of sharks until today.  I feel weak. Sleeping a lot. I think I’ve lost hope of seeing a ship out here.

May 1^st, 2012

Fourth day with no food. Still no luck with fishing. Rained heavily and filled the buckets so I have plenty of water.

May 4^th, 2012

Star Wars day. Four weeks late now. If there was a search, it stopped a long time ago.

May 5^th, 2012

Lack of food really getting to me. Drifting in south-westerly direction now.

May 6^th, 2012

Thought I saw a ship off to the east and fired a flare but, even as I did it, I was pretty sure I must have day dreamed it up.

May 8^th, 2012

A big storm is brewing in the west. Big black clouds on the horizon.  All I need. I feel like it’s me against nature. Not going to hide from this one. Going to harness up and ride it out from on deck. Wish me luck.

Excerpt from diary recovered from the Wish You Well, a monohull sailboat of the type Contessa 32, on May 25^th, 2012 by sailors of the TI Europe. A number of other personal effects were recovered from on board but there were no signs of life. The ship’s owner, Stuart Milne, is presumed drowned.