My mind never settles down. It keeps wandering out of reality. Now it travels to the east coast of North Patagonia, the Pampas. The land is so flat that I can barely see it breathe.
I stand beside Mr. Darwin on the Beagle. It sails in a gentle breeze. He looks better now, though his face is still pale. With him, I observe some insects blown from the land. They are still alive, says Mr. Darwin. He’s in the self-immersion stage again, so I just smile and keep silent, something I’ve learned along the way. The net caught several beetles, which are still glistening under the sun. I sneak behind Mr. Darwin and watch him write down the Latin names of each insect. I always admire the ones who manage to memorize, if not all, the names of flora and fauna. Though I always claim nature is my lover, most of the time we just smile at each other like strangers, without further actions of knowing at least each other’s names. I have no idea of my bizarre behavior.
Everyone but Mr. Darwin and I leave the spot where the net was left. He’s around the same age of mine, and we are probably the youngest lads on the ship. And that’s probably why I can feel his enthusiasm that others don’t. He carefully picks the beetles and other insects out of the net. Afterwards, we sit together. I watch idly at the wet bugs moving on the deck, leaving here and there long marks behind their legs. At this point it’s seems pointless to wait for them to take flight, so I show no anticipation. Mr. Darwin returns while scribbling quickly in his notebook. I ask him what he’s writing about. He says he’s making assumptions about how these insects got here. Besides being carried by wind, he says slowly, they might come from the river. There’s one near Cape Corrientes. But how do they survive in water? I ask.
He points at the insects. You see? That beetle is aquatic. Also that one. I think most of them are. They must live by the river. It’s a wonder that they are still alive far from the shore, when changing from fresh to salt water.
But not for long, I think sadly. They are in the wrong direction. They might survive for a while, a glory moment for us watchers. But what about then? After we leave they will be put to death by predators and starvation. As I’m thinking, Mr. Darwin walks away and squats In front of a beetle that struggles to turn itself back on its feet. He helps it back on track, and I see his face glow for a moment before it turns back to pale color. The beetle thinks for a moment, beating its wings in small vibration, then flies away. The action somehow changes my perspective, as I reflect upon it later.
The sky is so blue and bright it makes me sleepy. I leave Mr.Darwin there for a moment. I will come back later. Today is December 6th, 1833.
River on Baltic Sea 
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