11:55.
Almost midnight.
Enough time for one more story.

A small clipper ship drew toward land.
Suddenly, out of the night,
the fog rolled in.
They could see nothing
not a foot ahead of them.
And then, they saw a light.
My God, it was a fire burning on the shore.
Strong enough to penetrate the swirling mist.
They steered a course toward the light.
But it was a campfire, like this onde.
The ship crashed against the rocks.
The hull sheared in two.
The mast snapped like a twig.
And the wreckage sank with all the men aboard.
At the bottom of the sea
lay the Elizabeth Dane with her crew,
their eyes open and staring into the darkness.
... lay the Elizabeth Dane with her crew.

But it is told by the fishermen
and their fathers and grandfathers
that when the fog returns to Antonio Bay,
the men at the bottom of the sea,
out in the water by Spivey Point,
will rise up
and search for the campfire
that led them to their dark, icy death.

And above, as suddenly as it had come,
the fog lifted, receded back across the ocean
and never came again.

Twelve o'clock.
The 21st of April.