The wind drops. I throw overboard the 45 pound jerrycan of cement and plaster of Paris intended for underwater repairs in case an iceberg ripped the hull open (see Appendix). No more icebergs, no need to clutter Joshua with useless weight. I absentmindedly knead the lump of clay, useless as well now that the plaster and cement are gone. Strange, this soft, warm thing whose feel I had forgotten. I raise it to my face. The smell penetrates me slowly at first . . . and then I don’t quite know what happens, the whole earth enters me like a flash. All at once I see my Chinese nurse again, teaching
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