A Voyage to the Island of the Articoles. Andre Maurois

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      When I opened my eyes, I was surprised by a strange impression of silence and calm. The Allen was rocking gently on an even keel; clear grey dawn was visible through the porthole. I climbed on deck in a single bound and was greeted by a most magnificent sight. In front of us, the sun was rising in a saffron-yellow sky. The wind had dropped; little mauve and golden clouds drifted through the warm air in parallel banks. The brilliant yellow of the sky was reflected in the sea, which lapped gently around us.

      “Anne!”

      She ran up. I saw that she was naked under her blanket.

      “Saved?” she asked.

      “We can’t be sure yet.”

      “How beautiful it is! Where are we?”

      I reminded her that we no longer had any way of knowing. God only knew how far off-course the cyclone might have thrown us.

      “The sails?”

      I showed what was left of them to her; she suggested we try to make a mainsail with one of the blankets. We were certainly near land, as birds were flying around the boat. I sat down beside her in the sun and we set to work. The strange thing was, although our situation was far from rosy, we were neither sad nor afraid; on the contrary, we both felt a kind of peaceful joy.

      Toward noon I went below to see if even one of our charts had survived. When I returned empty-handed, Anne said, “Land!” and pointed to a short, dark line in the distance. It was an island dominated by a single peak, but we were some distance from it. Climbing to the top of the mast, I waved some linen rags for a long time. Luckily the current was carrying us in the right direction; before long I could make out a cape, then a forest, and, it seemed to me, the bright roofs of a town.