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The Stranger in the Lifeboat

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nothing for all of them, not when it mattered.

I glanced at the Lord, who was eating his piece and looking at me the

entire time. He swallowed and smiled.

“I am here, Benjamin,” he said. “Whenever you wish to talk.”

This evening, just after sunset, I noticed Nina and Yannis sitting next to each

other. Who you sit next to on this raft means little, given how compact

everything is. You are always on top of somebody. It’s strange how quickly

we’ve grown accustomed to the cramped space, twisting our backs to allow

each other passage, shifting legs so that someone can stretch out. I imagine

Lambert, Geri, and Yannis are used to huge rooms in huge houses. How odd

this must be for them, no real estate to themselves.

Still, Nina and Yannis were sitting close not for practical purposes but for

companionship. Yannis had his arm behind her, resting on the raft’s edge. At

one point she leaned her head against his shoulder, her long rivulets of hair

brushing against his chest. His hand squeezed against her arm, and he kissed

her forehead.

I instinctively turned away, out of privacy or envy, I am not sure which.

We burn for water, we growl for food. But what we yearn for most is

comfort. A soft embrace. Someone to whisper “It’s all right. It’s all right.”

Perhaps Nina and Yannis are finding that in each other. I find it in these

scribbled notebook pages, Annabelle, in thoughts descending from my brain

to my fingers to the pen to the paper. To you.

I find it in you.

It seems clear now that I will die on these waters. If so, I want the world to

know a few paragraphs about me, about my life. I have no reason to expect

this notebook will go anywhere that I won’t. But when all your big ideas are

gone, you cling to the small ones. Perhaps something will happen to bring

this story to light.

Here, then, is my life summation: I am an only child, born in Donegal,

Ireland, in the small northern town of Carndonagh, hard by the waters where

the Atlantic Ocean and the Sea of the Hebrides converge. My mother, like

many Irish kids, used to play golf on a nearby course. She became so good

that at age eighteen, for winning a local tournament, she was given a ticket

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