“God’s Grace”. That is the name of the ship I managed to get on board and hopefully go savely to the Americas. She looks sturdy enough. But then, I’m not much of a sailor. I know nothing about ships like this.

Passengers are, of course, mostly Irish, like me. A man might think that seven years of hunger might have knocked the spirit right out of humble folk such as these, but they still entertain good humor. You need a lot of that if you want to make the crossing without loosing your mind, or so I’ve learned from the past days at sea. Most of us have volunteered for menial tasks on deck, trying not to be bored to death. The waves are all fun and interesting at the start, but after a couple of hours you find that there is hardly anything to look at. Instead the ocean sings a song of home and how you left your loved ones behind. Most of us did.

Just like most men I already miss Grian. How can a man not miss his wife when all he has to keep him company at night are the snores of dozens of strangers? I am left to wonder how she is. She and little Luke…

Two children lost to the hunger. The third too small a lad to make the journey yet. And though the famine has passed – or so they say – there is no work to be had. And without work there is no food to be bought.

I still think that to leave Eira behind is an act of treason. Yet a man cannot be expected to watch his youngest starve as well. So here I am, waiting for someone to tell me that we have reached the new land.