January 5, 1832 4:30 AM

    Weather is atrocious. The ship rocks like a cradle, and I dare not look out one of the portholes or worse, go out on deck, for fear that I will soak myself more, as the water coming in through the leaking, sopping timbers is a downpour in itself. How can Bartholemeu sleep? Never mind. Anyhow, we are off the coast of a lonely, storm-swept island near the Madeira Islands upon which rests the shattered debris, battered by years of mighty storms, of a mansion that once must have been mighty, but rests now in disrepair. The dripping is slowing down, and I feel I can venture a look outside of my cramped quarters. The first thing I hear as I venture on deck is the fervent retching of Mr. X, one of the multitude of crew members. He always seems to spend his spare time on the ship being seasick, and during the storm, he has spouted all of twenty day's lunches.
    As soon as I get myself through this darn hatch, the ship shakes violently, and I hear an earsplitting thundering. I spin around, not slipping despite the wet deck, and find myself staring at the mangled remains of the finest cedar-wood mast on the ship. I dash across the splintered wood, oblivious to the minor cuts to my feet, and burst into Captain Fitzroy¹s cabin. He spins around instantly at the sound of my feet sliding on the uneven wood, and I try to hold back a reflexive bow. He remarks, in good humor, "Come in! Why are you out on deck at this time of night?" I replied in a shaken tone, "I saw the mast fall. I wanted to know if the crew--all of it--survived."
     "No casualties yet," he remarked in a casual fashion.
    "I'll get the repairs underway," I mentioned hopefully, as, though the work was usually reserved for crew, I was a good hand and was eager to help when extra work needed to be done.
    "Thanks. The crew could use the help,² Fitzroy said thankfully. I sped out at a speed of thirty-five miles per hour, racing toward the hold where the replacement masts were kept.
    As I entered, I noticed all five crew members struggling with the heavy mast that was expected to hold for the rest of the trip. I rushed under it and, though I am hardly any stronger than any of the other hands, the added push enabled the crew to lever the mast at an angle and heft it out the door with no 'Heave-ho's' at all. Once we got the mast to the remnants of the old mast, I helped lever it up, the rain now being only a slight drizzle, and tilted it into place. As I went back to my cabin, I could hear the sounds of "Watch it with that hammer of yours, Taylor!" and finally "There! Good as new!" as the mast spliced into its old place neatly. I should get some rest...

     ( Following is an addition by Bartholemeu, who found this diary¹s owner snoring and added to the previous dialogue.)
     "Here the paper rips and the pen slides down the paper in an untidy way, as if Matikhara were falling asleep."