8) We made our way through the Beagle Channel, past a most unremarkable lighthouse. Blinding white light raked us every ten seconds or so. It was working. Stay clear of that damn thing.
In the warmer morning glow, Ushuaia fast approaching, all seemed right. My hands were healing, my face was presentable. Walking, which I was soon to do endless amounts of, was a tender affair, with each toe resembling a forkful of blackened swordfish. Yet through strained signs did my natives convince me I was going to be fine.
We and Us are pronouns of no real significance here on this boat. I stood shoulded to shoulder with them now on the deck, my native strangers, my handlers, my feeders, still I knew nothing of their habits or hungers. But on the other hand their language sounded like water hitting a frying pan, or bowling a strike, somehow cacophonous but fun. I couldn't really join in. They've been patient with me. Dr. Creep hand picked them, as he does all his interests.

One thing I will remember most clearly about my natives: always were they excited at penguin sightings. Seems they have a special relation with them. Perhaps they see them as little black and white gods?