December 1, 1872. Six days out from Santa Maria, Azores. Aboard Mary Celeste.
My dear sister believes we shape our own fate. By every action, and choice, make our way anew along the career of our small lives.
In my time I have been a gambler and, Sister says, even on occasion a daredevil. I have felt light with hope, and wrecked in despair. Father branded me directionless, a ship boldly venturing without compass, without chart, and fated to be lost upon the sea of human endeavour.
I have broken with him, cut my lines, and am determined to seek the far shore. Sister assures that I shall discover it if I but begin the search. Ever the philosopher of the family, she suggests this exercise on my part, this note rolled inside a ship’s bottle, and given as like a prayer to the mercy of the great sea.