Three weeks since we left Uberth for Maquitena. A northwest wind lent us one-hundred miles that first day and the same the next. A storm on the third day took us off course fifty miles, forcing us to use the mountains on our starboard for bearing. We followed those hills for twenty-five miles, then chased the sun until the week was through – now four-hundred seventy five miles total in our journey. Now the captain had us dock at the nearest city for supplies. Soon we will follow the river north to open sea.
We have been traveling west four days now, sailing fifty miles a day. The meats we bought must have been bad, for several men fell ill. We are heading north to the Tip of Bairn for needed medicine.
Jonas and Istfan did not get medicine in time. Some blame the captain for their deaths.
One hundred fifty miles northeast into open sea. We have lost the wind. The crew is agitated, stirred up by the first mate.
Three days, no wind.
A breeze brought us fifty more miles northeast.
Been dead in water. Crew threatening mutiny. One man shot.
Fire on board. Charts destroyed. Panic. Captain in brig.
Blessed wind. We went fifty miles north, then fifty northwest.
Caught wind west. Fifty miles.
Crew found fragment of burnt chart. Heading north. Hoping
One hundred miles, still no sight of land. Men resorting to spoiled meat.
Going in circles. Most crew dead, including captain. Starving. Have decided to head east as far as we can go.
Sunday. The Lord’s Day. Found land…hills, warm beaches, trees. Burying dead then heading for town in distance. Hope they are friendly.
We buried our prize where the northern rose blooms…two hundred fifty miles down its western root