By the time you read this, I know not what state of mind I shall find myself in or even if I shall still be alive. Certainly, the ugly thought to end it all entered my head on several occasions yesterday. I must be strong and remain sure that I will smell English soil again. The truth is that my companions aboard the sailing vessel Marcita are driving me to distraction. One of them, Brian, is boorish and a bully too. The other, Ian... well he is simply indescribable. His accent, spoken through a thick black beard I should add, is so thick with Scotland and so rough, as to be incomprehensible. He drinks like a farm labourer every night and insists vociferously that we must join him in this beastly pursuit. It is during the days, while shipbound, that my companions cause me the most disquiet withtheir rough banter and endless wittering on about this and that and anything. Their putrid jokes and infantile conversation make me yearn for civilised company. My torment, if I can withstand it so long, will end on Saturday when this horrid week is finally over. Today, the bearded one sleeps as I write this missive in secret. We are now anchored off a delightful little island called Isle aux Moines and I have no idea what today might bring. I will remain strong.