The Captain’s Log
Selected entries from Martin’s fictional logbook — in his own voice, salt and all.
Fiction in the first person. These log entries are invented by this site’s authors, written as Martin might have written them. They are stories, not documents.
Day 4 of the Squall
Wind still has strong opinions. Brinley took the wheel at midnight and I pretended to sleep, which fooled no one, least of all Brinley. The bell rings flatter every hour. Pip says that means worse weather; I say it means the bell is tired. We are all tired. Stew at dawn. — M.T.
Day 7 of the Glass Calm
Still no wind. The sea is a mirror and the sky is its twin and I no longer know which one I am sailing. Mended the fore topsail. The whale came back — the one with the chipped glow-spot. I told it about Port Mercy. It blew a fine spout, which I choose to interpret as interest. Taught the crew the second verse of the lantern song. — M.T.
Lantern Reef, night of the rescue
Thirty-one souls. I have counted them three times and will count them a fourth before I sleep, the way you count coins you cannot believe are yours. Pip found the reef by smell. I want that written down plainly, because no one will believe it later: our navigator found a reef by smell, in fog, at night, and thirty-one people are alive because of it. The sea gives the rescues. I just row. — M.T.
Gullhaven, election day
Counted the votes twice. The gull won fairly — I checked the hanging chads, or whatever the gull equivalent is. (Fish bones. It was fish bones.) Gave a speech. Cried a little. The gull did not cry. A model of dignity. Democracy is safe in Gullhaven. — M.T.
Homeward, the Long Way
Delivered the wedding cake. It survived six months, two gales, and Mama Josie’s curiosity, and arrived upright. The bride cried. The groom cried. I pretended the wind was in my eyes. The short way is overrated. Give me the long way, with all its detours, every time. — M.T.
Port Mercy, return
Fed the cat first. Anselm pretends this is a joke between us; it is not a joke, it is the order of things. Then the harbormaster, then Sef (who mentioned the credit, unprompted, within ninety seconds), then the Sailor’s Rest, where they had already heard about the cake. News travels faster than ships. It always has. — M.T.