Sadly, Felipe was wrong.

They did not spot Pitcairn before sunset. The bird that had raised their hopes so high flew away, heading west. This provoked a short but heated discussion among the crewmen: one of them voiced the opinion that it might be wise to abandon their course, and follow the bird.

It was a very stupid idea, and Felipe told the man to shut up. However, it revived Cruz's fears that they might miss Pitcairn. If they did, they faced a grueling journey to Gambier Islands. It would take a week if they were lucky, two if they weren't. Being out of luck would mean having to survive on a single frugal meal and a couple of cupfuls of water a day. Cruz was far from sure he could handle that.

As the sun sunk lower, so did his spirits. Coming down from his spiritual high was more unpleasant than the pain he still felt after rowing the boat. He glanced at Felipe, looking for reassurance, and was disappointed: Felipe was very solemn. This did not bode well: Felipe was a cheerful man who had managed to appear serene even during the terrible storm right after New Year's Day.

It was a beautiful sunset. The sky was orange and pink and purple; the boat seemed to be sailing through a sea of gold. Cruz felt very sad when looking at all this beauty. He had the disagreeable premonition it might be the last sunset he'd ever see. He cleared his throat and turned to Felipe and said:

"How far do you think we still have to go?"

"Twenty to thirty miles," Felipe said, without the slightest hesitation.

"What? At least twenty miles? That's what, thirty seven kilometers? It's going to take hours!"

"Five, maybe six hours," Felipe said calmly.

"But you said earlier we'd see Pitcairn before dark!"

"I said there was a chance we would see it before dark, sir. But I miscalculated the current. It weakened as we moved away from Henderson Island. The wind has shifted, too. It's three-quarters back now. Still good, but it means increased drift. I calculate we are going a knot slower because of all this. It adds up over time."

"A knot? What are you talking about?"

"A sea mile. Same thing, sir. So all in all, I think we've traveled eight, maybe nine miles less than I thought we would."

"So we'll be getting close in the middle of the night," Cruz said slowly. "We could pass it without seeing it, am I right?"

"No," Felipe said stolidly. "You are wrong, sir. We'll see it."

"How can you be so sure? There's hardly any moon!"

"It's a very clear sky. There'll be plenty of starlight."

"Starlight!" Cruz snorted.

"We also have the flare gun. I've taken along a dozen illumination flares. They light up a huge area. When I think we're getting close, I'll fire a flare."

Cruz could think of nothing to say to that, so he raised his chin in silent contempt and turned away from Felipe. As he did so, he couldn't help noticing that the rapidly darkening sky to the east already twinkled with hundreds of tiny lights.

Cruz stared at them, his mind in total turmoil. He owed his success to meticulous planning. He was a planner by heart: every move he made was carefully calculated beforehand. And now, his life depended on light from faraway stars, light that took hundreds of thousands or even millions of years to actually arrive, and illuminate his world. A light that could be extinguished in an instant by a change in weather. And out in the ocean, the weather could change completely within a few hours.

There was nothing he could do about it. For the first time in an eternity, he was totally helpless. He was a tiny, insignificant counter lying on the gambling table while the cosmos rolled its dice.

It would have been all so much easier if he believed in God! But Cruz believed in God the same way he believed in Cinderella, or Snow White. He believed in the power of stories: people were powered by myths that were their own creations. Myths gave people strength to endure extreme hardships. They also frequently made them stupid and cruel, but there was a price to be paid for everything.

When Cruz took his First Communion and later took his children to theirs, he didn't feel like a hypocrite. He was paying obeisance to the greatest myth ever, acknowledging its power in his own life. That was all.

Now, sitting in the swaying boat, he felt the urge to pray. But he had no one to pray to. No one to ask for help, no one to tell that he was sorry.

Night fell rapidly, and soon enough both the sky and the water were sparkling with starlight. Cruz examined the horizon through his binoculars, and was very relieved to find out that he could make out things even at a fair distance. He also found keeping watch was a better way to pass the time than dwelling on his own insignificance. It provided him with the occasional jolt of pleasant excitement: he could see something! Land? No, just a pattern created by breaking waves. But never mind: next time around it really could be land.

Felipe kept watch, too. From time to time he stood up and, holding onto the beacon mast with one hand, scanned the ocean with the intensity of a prophet looking for a portent. It seemed to Cruz that the oarsmen weren't rowing quite so vigorously any more. It was hardly surprising, they'd been at it for nearly twelve hours. Felipe seemed to share his opinion, because a while later he ordered a switch to twenty-minute shifts.

Cruz's arms, still hurting after his own rowing spell, began aching unbearably from the strain of holding the binoculars to his face. He dropped them to hang on his chest, and entertained himself with another covert palm-licking routine. He thought that his hands were hurting a little less after he did that. He was about to resume staring at the ocean through his glasses when he felt Felipe touch his shoulder.

He looked up - Felipe was standing by the beacon mast. He was pointing to the front of the boat. And he was saying:

"Pitcairn, sir. We've made it."

"Where?" exclaimed Cruz, and got to his feet very quickly and very nearly capsized the boat. After the brief panic had passed and the shouts died down, he repeated:

"Where?"

"Almost exactly in front of us. Maybe five degrees to starboard, not more."

"Starboard?"

"To the right."

Cruz followed Felipe's pointing finger with his eyes and raised his binoculars and yes! He could see something! A small shape was blocking out the stars just above the horizon.

"We've made it," he breathed. He lowered the glasses and laughed and clapped Felipe's shoulder.

""We've made it!" he shouted, and everyone in the boat cheered.

In the couple of hours that followed, Cruz repeatedly felt that the cheers had been a little premature. It took forever for the small dark shape to get bigger: at times it felt as if they were making no progress at all. This was despite the oarsmen putting all their remaining strength into making the boat move as fast as possible.

Eventually Felipe fired a flare, and that was when they saw Pitcairn was closer than they thought. A couple of pinpricks of light appeared on the dark coast; then the sky over the boat turned a brilliant white as a flare fired from the shore came alight.

Everyone in the boat was laughing and cheering. Everyone except Cruz: he sat down and and pretended to look away, at the glittering ocean painted silver by the flare. He didn't want anyone to see that he was crying.

He did it! He reached Pitcairn! He was back in the civilized world! He looked away from the flare and up, into the dark sky and its mysterious twinklings. He wanted to thank his lucky stars, quite literally. But no words could adequately describe the gratitude he felt to this wonderful, kind, loving universe.

He felt Felipe touch his shoulder again. He was beginning to like it when Felipe touched his shoulder. It meant good news were on the way.

"I think they're sending out a boat to meet us," Felipe said.

Cruz wanted to thank him for his wonderful navigational feat - Felipe was the real hero! He'd successfully navigated the boat straight to Pitcairn! But no words would come: his throat was squeezed tight.

He started crying again, smiling though his tears.

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