12 July 1847

[ … ]

I was already standing on Good Harbor Beach when Ophelie rose from the surf after me, panting and shivering. “You’ve done well,” I said. I tried to turn her face toward mine, but she backed away. “Five hundred fathoms is a very long first swim. You’ve done very, very well.”

The scarred, skinny, shivering wretch stood in ankle-deep water, hugging herself against the sea breeze, looking blankly at a receding sun. The sun does not know that she is cold and trembling, and it is incapable of knowing. Still, she watched its withdrawal. Without a word, she related the story of her young life. Again I reached out to comfort her, but she would not have it.