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On the eighteenth day of August; 1886; as the sun was setting; I was floating in the Caribbean Sea. You may mark the place on the map as being approximately N. latitude 15°; and W. longitude 62° from Greenwich; or in other words; between one hundred and two hundred miles west of the French island of Martinique. A chest; well corded but partly filled with water; was all that kept my head above the surface. Without food or drink I had been floating thus since shortly after sunrise of the previous morning. At that time the sloop in which I was voyaging; capsized and sunk in a squall; drowning the negro captain and owner; and his son; who constituted the crew. In this little vessel I was bound for a small uninhabited island known as “Key Seven;” which was in plain sight when the disaster occurred. For two days and a night; without sleep or refreshment; I had been struggling to push the floating chest toward this land.