Papillon by Henri Charrière

Long before we could see it, a flight of birds announced our landfall. It was seven-thirty in the morning when they came wheeling over us. "We've made it! Mecs, we've made it! The first part of the cavale is over. The hardest part. Vive la liberté! " In our joy we behaved like children. Our faces were covered with the cocoa butter which the tanker people had given us to soothe our sunburn. Toward nine o'clock we sighted land. A fresh wind pushed us along at a good clip on a gently rolling sea. But not until four in the afternoon were we close enough to make out the details: clusters of white houses studded the shore of the long island and coconut trees crowned its summit. We couldn't yet see whether it was really an island or a peninsula, or whether the houses were inhabited. It was another hour before we could distinguish people running toward the beach where we were heading. In less than twenty minutes a crowd had assembled.

The little village had spilled over onto the edge of the sea to receive us. We learned later that the place was called San Fernando.