Palm tree with geometric circles on a forearm

The surveyor has finally let me take the bearings myself, though he stands behind me with his arms folded as if I might steal the theodolite. We are on the north shore of Isla Corvo, where the palms lean so far over the sand that the fishermen say they are trying to read the sea. Each morning I walk out to the tall one beside the broken jetty, set the brass on its root, and draw rings around its crown. He says the rings are for the tides. I think they are for us, because the lines never quite close.

Yesterday the arrows began to point the wrong way. I checked the instrument twice, then checked the sun, and both agreed with each other against the chart, which is the worst sort of agreement. The surveyor laughed and said the island had shifted in the night, which is what he says whenever his figures fail him. I did not laugh. I sat under the palm with the ink still wet and counted the fronds, forty-one of them, and every one was lit from the same side.

This morning I went back with Father's old compass and drew one more small circle inside the others, where the dotted arc tangles itself. From the trunk I ran a straight line past the last arrowhead and let it run out over the water towards the harbour at Porto Santo. The surveyor asked what it was for. I told him it was a bearing for someone who has not yet decided to come.

Keep the lamp lit on the jetty, the way we did when we were small. If the wind holds, I will follow that line home, and the palm will keep the true north for me until I arrive.