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Etta Jones stood on the deck of the ship, staring across the gray water of the Pacific. It was July 14, 1942. Years ago, she had seen that ocean with different eyes. Twenty years earlier, she and her sister Marie had embarked on the adventure of a lifetime, traveling to the Last Frontier. Impetuous Marie soon returned to the East Coast, but Etta fell in love with the untamed spirit of Alaska and a man named Foster Jones. Etta felt her chest tighten and her breathing quicken as she again became aware of hostile voices prattling in the background. For a moment, she considered paying rapt attention to their conversation. Although she didn’t know their language, she might be able to pick up on something that would tell her where the ship was going. A curly strand of gray hair worked itself loose from the unkempt bun at the back of her head and began lapping at the side of her face. With her hands folded in front of her, Etta maintained her rigid posture. She didn’t react to the hair that had begun to obscure her view. She never turned her head or acted as if she were aware of the activity behind her. It didn’t matter where they were going because there would be nothing there for her—nothing but memories of the life she had before that unthinkable day. She feared that day would be the only thing she could think of for the rest of her life. She was too numb to be concerned with whether the rest of her life would last for a few days or a few years, and she couldn’t decide if she cared. The images in her head blurred as the cold mist blew across her face. Etta was paralyzed by shock and grief, but self-pity was something she didn’t spend time on. She could honestly look back on her life knowing she had lived vigorously, taking nothing for granted. She envisioned that life through the eyes of the relatives to whom she had faithfully composed so many letters over the years. Etta and Foster had made their home in some of the most remote and sparsely populated villages in the world. Yet, her correspondence was the diary of a content woman who always seemed right at home. Etta didn’t know if she would be allowed to write another letter. She knew her loved ones would worry about what had happened to her, but she couldn’t see herself writing again, no matter what. Letters were about living and loving and being in that place where you knew you were meant to be. For the first time, she felt lost, like she had woken up a million miles from nowhere. How could you write a letter from “nowhere?” Her mind drifted back to the happiest of those days, but every comforting thought was interrupted by the violence of her last few days. The sounds of the Natives’ screams and the sight of human blood on the snow would haunt her for years to come. Etta was scared. Her world had changed. The whole world had changed. The ship on which Etta stood was on course for Japan. As the sky grew darker, one of the grimy soldiers used the blunt end of his bayonet to prod her into a stifling cabin below deck. She curled up on the ragged cot that was suspended from the ceiling by two chains like a hammock. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but if she closed her eyes and concentrated on the motion of the water, she might be able to find rest in the memory of the last time she took a long voyage to an unfamiliar shore.