We settled on a hot and desolate beach that offered little in the way of information or comfort. I don’t know how long it took us to dry out, but when we did, we crawled from the shoreline, which had distanced itself from us quite a bit, and toward the treeline. The leafy coverage was a nice change, and here we have rested.

We’re all here, but it’s quiet. Somber. Solitary. At one point, I would have said, “We each might as well be alone,” but when I finally awakened to this place, I knew it wasn’t true. We are stronger together. For each day one fails to navigate, another has stepped up and kept the peace.

If this were a dance, and there was a time to step in, my time is coming. I feel the rhythm drawing me to the front. I can almost hear it.

The rest of me has grown restless. Their patience for indecisiveness is nearly spent.

I still have a lot to learn, and without the Many Me’s, I would be hard-up for growth.

The Irish Woman holds up her drink and laughs. She was silent for a long time, refusing to comment or sit with the rest of us. Now she laughs and laughs. The Navigator is not laughing. In fact, she sees the pieces of the ship washing ashore, and she is angry. Miserable. She wants to rip something to shreds—sometimes, herself. “We could have gone anywhere,” she gripes in agony. “Why did I lead us here?” Though forged in spite of that self, she and the Origin suddenly commiserate well—screaming and coddling and woe-is-me-ing at the sight of the wreckage. The pain is real—but so is the waste of time.

“Where would you rather be?” someone asks.

“Anywhere but here,” says the Navigator. But that’s not even true. She’s angry.

“Okay, we got our shit rocked,” says the Irish Woman. “Don’t lose your edge. Have a drink.”

She makes a lot of sense today.

I can’t recall the exact moment the Bitter Irish Woman made herself known, but like those who came before and after, she spurred out of necessity. Despite her name, there is quite a joyful note to her, one worth protecting.

She started changing when we set out for a ship, almost like she knew she would pull up her roots at the start of the next venture. She was altered after the shipwreck. There’s a quality to her, something new and serious, but her loud laugh for bitter humor and love for revelries remain sacredly embraced. She used to intimidate me. Suddenly, I find her deeply knowing and comforting, and oddly good at coping.

“You worry too much,” she says light-heartedly, but she means it heavily. “Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Better done than said.” She raises her glass. What is she even drinking? Salt water sangria? When did it get so easy for her? I roll my eyes, but smile and raise an invisible glass.

^{August 11th, 2024}

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