Word of the Beast in Sydney

Wednesday. Nearly a year of the Beast fiddling with my hull, and I have had enough.

Reports come in from every ocean: ships pulled under, sailors with stories, a tentacle the length of a tram. The old Scandinavian sailors had a name for it. I have several names for it, none of which belong in a log. It is the Kraken, and it has been following me.

So I am going after it. The Beast has been seen off Sydney, and I have arranged a second submarine there, on George Street, fitted out for hunting rather than for limping home. It needs allies. I have never asked anyone for help in my life, so I have written the notice in a tone of graciously permitting it.

Barnacle has packed. He packed only himself, which is all he owns, but he did it with great dignity.

To the Beast, should it be reading over my shoulder through the porthole again: I know where you are now. Christmas is coming. So am I.