The Death of a Sailor

The fog was gone, and in its place the sun sparkled crisply on the surface of the water. I turned to the east where I knew California must live, but could see nothing save low-lying fog banks. The same fog doubtless that had brought about the disaster to the Martinez and placed me in my present situation. A puff of wind caught me, and I staggered across the moving deck to a corner of the cabin, to which I clung for support. There on a hatch a large man was lying on his back. He was fully clothed, though his shirt was ripped open in front. His head and neck were hidden beneath a black beard and a shot with gray.

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