Chapter 4: Thirst that never satisfies

Three days after the storm, the Albatros glided over a gentle sea, as if the Caribbean itself wanted to compensate for the previous punishment. The newly caulked boards creaked as they adapted to the sun, the dry sails swelled with a firm wind, and the smell of tar mixed with that of fresh scales.

With the previous night cleared, Pierre could already navigate by the stars, but he recognized that this method only gave him direction, not distance. This was an uncertain calculation: estimated speed, wind force, and hours of navigation since the last known point. An error of one day could mean getting lost for weeks.

At the stern, a man still unknown to some moved with a calm that contrasted with the anxiety of the others. Willem Van der Meer, a North Sea Dutchman, had boarded the Albatros in Nassau just a couple of months ago. Tall and broad-shouldered, with ash-blond hair braided down to his mid-back, a wide mustache, and a trimmed beard, his pale blue eyes seemed to pierce the water, looking for what others did not see. He had large, weathered hands, full of fine scars from hooks and blades. He did not speak much, but when he did, everyone lowered their voice.

He was kneeling beside the railing, holding a thick line that disappeared into the deep blue. There was no rod, just the cord wrapped around his forearm, feeling each vibration. On deck, a few meters away, Yusuf watched with his arms crossed. They had argued again shortly before: Willem preferred to gut and clean the fish right there, letting the entrails fall into the sea; the Arab, protective of his kitchen, insisted that the cut should be made under cover, where he could control cleanliness and waste. It was not enmity, but the natural clash of two men who knew their trade.

The line tensed suddenly. Willem did not stand up; he bent his body further and with a dry pull, he pulled out a silver flash from the surface. A large dorado hit the deck with furious tail slaps. With a quick movement, the Dutchman immobilized it with his knee, pulled out a bone-handled knife, and firmly plunged the blade into the exact point under the gills. A quick cut, he did not like to prolong the agony of any animal. Then, he ripped the shiny flesh until the entrails fell over the side.

Several seagulls had been following the Albatros for a good while, watching every movement on deck. The smell of blood only accelerated their dance, multiplying their high-pitched cries as they dived to peck at the foamy wake. The fisherman looked up to watch the whirlwind of wings over the ship's wake. He loved all birds; he could spend hours identifying them without needing to open a book. He was an empirical ornithologist, formed more by experience than by books, and he kept the habit of commenting in a low voice the names and customs of each species, as if talking to old acquaintances.

It had been only two months since he joined the crew. They met him on the dock, loaded w...