"March 16, 1954.

Land! Today, we sight land. After breakfast everyone is on deck. The wind snaps at scarves, jackets and women's skirts. One man has binoculars. Pedro has gone down to tell Estevan. Perhaps the news will cheer him.

Like myself, my companions know nothing about Canada. It is not a country to which Portuguese go, except for the Atlantic fishing fleet, but even the one fisherman we met on the continent was able to tell us nothing. I think of the paintings of forests, mountains and snow on the walls of the Canadian embassy where we obtained our visas, and I have new doubts about the wisdom of our choice. Perhaps the elders of the village were right. I can still hear them muttering, 'Young fools. Young fools.'"