September 29, 1964
I think I've found a boat. Not a real boat, of course; barely more than a washtub with a washcloth for a sail. But the smaller the vessel, the more likely we are to sneak out past the patrol boats, don't you think? I know nothing about the currents, but it must be pretty hard to sail West and not land on Ireland.
I haven't seen you in seven days. I hope you're alright. I'll look for you in the shadow of the crashed V-1, at noon on Saturday. I hope to god you get this. If not, I'll try to come back for you, if I make it.
I love you. I hate these times.