The reporter thought as he rowed. He was angry that they had come so close to land and yet might still die at sea. Then he remembered a poem that he had learned as a child. It was a poem about a soldier of the French Foreign Legion. The soldier lay dying in Algiers. Just before he died, he cried out: “I shall never see my own, my native land.” And now, many years after he had learned this poem, the reporter for the first time understood the sadness of the dying soldier.

Hours passed. The reporter asked the sailor to take the oars so that he could rest. It seemed like only a brief period, but it was more than an hour later, when the sailor returned the oars to the reporter. They both knew that only they could keep the boat from sinking. And so they rowed, hour after hour, through the night.

(MUSIC)

When day came, the four men saw land again. But there were no people on the shore. A conference was held on the boat.

“Well,” said the captain, “if no help is coming, we might better try to reach the shore right away. If we stay out here much longer, we will be too weak to do anything for ourselves at all.”

The others agreed. They began to turn the boat toward the beach. The captain told them to be careful – that when the boat came near the beach, the waves would sink it. Then everyone should jump out of the boat and swim to the shore.

As the boat came closer to land, the waves got bigger and more violent. At last, a large wave climbed into the air and fell on the small boat with great force.