“Where?”
“Off the port bow!”
“Right where it’s supposed to be!” said Ted, with satisfaction.
We felt a tremendous sense of triumph after four days of storm and aimless drifting—to have been able to find our low island after all, almost by dead reckoning alone.
As we approached it, however, we began to have doubts. It was too small. And where were the other islands of the group, some twenty or so, which encircled a reef-enclosed lagoon?
Moto went up the mast and came down to report no other islands visible.
Ted, unwilling to take another’s word, went up next, with binoculars, and reported that he thought he could see other islands beyond this one.
Nick went up last and announced, in his positive and dogmatic way, that there was no other island. By this time we were close enough to make further debate unnecessary. What we had picked up was North Keeling, an isolated, seldom-seen island 15 miles from our destination.
At least we knew where we were, which was a great relief, but we also knew we had one more night at sea with a very hard beat ahead of us, for the main group of islands was dead upwind.
That night Barbara challenged Jessica to a game of cribbage, but both of them were rather subdued and in the midst of the game Jessica began to drip quiet tears and soon decided to crawl into her bunk “to keep Manuia warm.”