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The man began his long, slow swim. He had no fear of the sea—though he knew sharks abounded in these waters, and he was unarmed.

But by midmorning he had reached the mainland of Martinique safely. He was pleasantly tired from his long swim, and stretched out on the warm sands to rest and allow his clothing to dry.

In the early afternoon he reached the town of La Trinité, sprawling at the approach of Presqu’île de la Caravelle, the peninsula that formed the Baie du Trésor.

He found a room in a small pension, a rooming house, and spent most of the night writing two letters. One of them was addressed to his son in The Netherlands. The other was to Charles Keene on the island of Curaçao in the Netherlands Antilles.

Along with the letters, he carefully prepared two small boxes.

In the morning, he was standing at the post office door the moment it opened. It was with great relief that he saw his letters and packages go into the mailbag that would be trucked over the pitons to Fort-de-France at noon, then flown on to Curaçao on the night flight.