How long had he been lost at sea? Days? Weeks? Months? The only thing the mariner was certain of was that it was no longer important. All he had was the rising of the sun and the phases of the moon, and these no longer meant anything to him. The only things that mattered to him were the sky and the sea.

The sky and the sea. The mariner remembered the day his ship had foundered, when a great storm had smashed it against a hidden reef and cast him adrift in a dinghy. If the sea could take such a vessel so easily, then his lifeboat would have to be guarded well against any peril. So, he watched the sea and the sky. A change in the wind; a variation in the tempo of the waves as they slapped against the hull of his craft. They all meant something to him. And a moment's inattention could prove fatal.

In the end, it was not that the mariner did not see the steamer on the horizon. Rather, it was that he did not recognise it any more.

The ship's surgeon quietly closed the door of the sick bay behind him, so as not to wake the sole occupant. "Did you find out when the Esmerelda went down?" he asked the first officer.

"It was reported missing three months ago. No survivors - until now." The first officer nodded towards the sick bay door. "How did he manage to survive so long?"

The doctor shrugged. "Sheer stubbornness. But he's paying the price for it - malnutrition, dehydration and vitamin deficiency. There's probably some organ damage as well, but it will be a while before I can be sure. And then there are the mental effects."

"It's lucky we found him, then."

"Yes." The ship's surgeon was silent for a moment. "But I have to wonder if he'll ever find himself."