The boat left Charlottetown harbour in the evening, and I stood at the rail and watched the Island go.
It goes slowly, and then all at once. First the wharves, and the spires, and the red of the cliffs further along. Then only a long low line, darker than the water. Then a notion of a line. Then the sea, which does not care who is on it.
I was eighteen. I had hardly set foot off the Island since I came to it. Two of the boys from home were on board, going to Redmond too; one of them was seasick within the hour and spent the crossing below, which I am ashamed to say cheered me enormously. The other came and stood at the rail a little way off and did not say anything, which was exactly right.
I had thought I would cry, and I did, a little, into the wind where it would not show. Then the lights of the mainland came up out of the dark ahead, and I was surprised to find that I was curious about them.