4 May 1912

Lat. 29°55’ N, Long. 54° 12’ W

At last, after nineteen days afloat, the Ada has crossed the thirtieth parallel. We are underfed and dehydrated but in generally good spirits. Most of the raft’s company has settled into a routine, passing their hours fishing, stargazing, card-playing, cataloguing provisions, bartering for beer and cigars, playing with the dogs, minding the children, teaching each other their native languages, repairing the hastily assembled platform and siphoning seawater from the pontoons (to stabilize the raft, not to drink, God knows). Each morning Dr O’Loughlin brings me a report. Our infirmary — the area directly above pontoon K-is presently full: five cases of chronic mal de mer, three of frostbite, two of flux, and four “fevers of unknown origin”.

Because the Ada remains so difficult to navigate, even with our newly installed wheelhouse and rudder, it would be foolish to try tacking towards the North American mainland in hopes of hitting some hospitable Florida beach. We cannot risk getting caught in the Gulf Stream and dragged back north into frigid waters. Instead we shall latch onto every southerly breeze that comes our way, eventually reaching the Lesser Antilles or, failing that, the coast of Brazil.

As darkness settled over the North Atlantic, we came upon a great mass of flotsam and jetsam from an anonymous wreck: a poaching schooner, most likely, looking for whales and seals but instead running afoul of a storm. We recovered no bodies — lifebelts have never been popular amongst such scallywags — but we salvaged plenty of timber, some medical supplies, and a copy of the New York Post for 17 April, stuffed securely into the pocket of a drifting macintosh. At first light I shall peruse the paper in hopes of learning how the outside world reacted to the loss of the Titanic.