Papillon by Henri Charrière

Gulls. First only their cries, for it was dark; then the birds themselves, wheeling over the boat. One gull perched on the mast, flew off and came back again. This went on for over three hours until day broke with a radiant sun. Nothing on the horizon to indicate land. Where on earth had the gulls come from? We spent the whole day looking. No sign of land. A full moon rose as the sun went down, so brilliant that it hurt my eyes. I had lost my dark glasses; they'd been swept overboard by that broadside wave, along with our protective caps. Then about eight in the evening the moonlight picked out a black line far away on the horizon.

"It's got to be land! " I said.