New Year's Eve.
The day the last of my line dies. I've hired a boat for the occasion—a yacht, no less! Sailed out to the Line Islands. Currently sitting one second east of the International Date Line. Waiting.
I've requested the captain crosses the Date Line at midnight. Time it right, it can be beaten. The curse.
The crew's happy enough. They're getting paid either way.
The damn Barber family curse!
One dies at midnight. Every year.
It's 11.59. The boat is firing up. I feel it. I am heading up on deck.
Crossing the line one last ti—
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