Three days into the voyage, Sam spotted an island.
This would not have been unusual, except that the island was not on any of his charts. And it hadn't been there yesterday.
He anchored nearby and rowed to shore.
The island was small — a hill, a few trees, a beach of white sand. But there were no birds. No insects. An unusual stillness.
Sam climbed to the top of the hill and looked around. The ocean spread in every direction, vast and flat and blue.
He went back to his ship, slept, and woke to find the island was slightly closer.
The next morning, closer still.
Sam sat on the deck and thought about this for a long time.
Then he leaned over the rail and said clearly, "I don't know what you are. But I'm not afraid of you."
That night, he dreamed of deep water and slow moving things and the patience of creatures that have lived for a thousand years.
In the morning, the island was gone.
He never could decide if it had followed him, or if he had followed it.