Five months later…

Sheesh, what a night for a hurricane! Sam Malone mused, as he grasped the helm of his ship. Well, it wasn't a hurricane—but it wasn't pleasant, as far as this lonely sailor was concerned.

The salt of the ocean winds and the hard pour of the ocean rain stung his face to the point where he had to fight to keep his eyes open, as the ripples of the waves rolled and crashed against the hull of his ship.

The Bermuda Triangle. That's what they called this—the legends of the part of the sea between Bermuda, Puerto Rico, and the Florida coast. He'd been sailing through the southern portion—the part that lay in the islands of the Caribbean. He wasn't much of a superstitious guy—his old bottle cap notwithstanding. And he didn't have much of a desire to "disappear", anyway. Well…not unintentionally.

And that was why he was officially branding this a really bad day.

The thunder and the lightning crackled and roared…and the darkness of the night offered no solace whatsoever, no mercy, no redemption, as he strove with all that he was to hold on…hold on….

Something was wrong. Something…and for the life of her, Diane Chambers could not tell what it was. All she knew was, something was suddenly tugging at her from within—something akin to the feeling one gets when they've forgotten something—something important. Something akin to that…but it wasn't. It was darker somehow—not guilt, so much as a solemn kind of worry, an immense concern that something, somewhere, was desperately wrong.

She stared at the page in the typewriter, as she sat at the desk in the cabin in silence. It was the ending of the climax for the screenplay of Jocasta's Conundrum.

Well…perhaps that was it, then? She'd gone through a great deal of soul-searching, certainly—every cut and every "streamline" of her novel's plot, so as to fulfill her agent's advice. Of course she would feel a great deal of loss, at that. And yet—yes, looking back, even she had to admit that he'd had a point. Less was, in this case, more. The plot was now all the more compelling—and she cheerfully admitted to having felt a deep surge of emotional catharsis as she carried the heroine all the way through this final grand measure…along with an inner drive and motivation to not rest until the sequence was through—and with it, the excitement of the simmering drama bursting through and overflowing. The denouement was now all that remained—the conclusion, the aftermath.

Was that it, then? The "all good things" that must come to an end?

No…no, that couldn't be it. She didn't feel anything even remotely as "dark" as this, when she had reached the close of the novel. So what on Earth was this? What was this sudden feeling of tense melancholy that had no explanation, no cause whatsoever?

She turned to the clock on the desk. It was night…it was late. It was always late when she braked for the night.

She leaned back in her seat, letting out a sigh. Maybe it was the stress of a massive unloading of creativity. Catharsis can do that, if it's deep enough—all but drain you of emotion, so that you feel exhausted inside, in so many ways. Diane wouldn't really describe her current status in those words, but…at any rate, she knew it was doubtful she could go on, tonight.

She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath in through her nose, her mouth closed…and let it out, slowly. At the very least, meditating would surely help—

She froze, and her eyes opened. She had no answer for this—no explanation at all, for why this new image had without warning filled her mind…the image of a stormy sea….

The winds became a gale—and it was all Sam Malone could do to clutch onto the helm. It transformed the rain—it wasn't just a sting anymore, it was a shower of pellets—they felt like bullets—coming at him from the side, almost. It was a miracle he could still see. It was a miracle he could still stand. It was a miracle he was still on the boat, and not in the water screaming and thrashing for dear life.

The waves rolled and crashed—and rose, and crashed. The ship groaned in protest and defiance against the storm, all for nothing. If he ever got out of this, Sam Malone swore up and down, he would never test legends of "don't-go-in-there", ever again.

The rising waves began to soar upward, and Sam began to pray—to appeal to heaven, to spare him. Please…please, God—I…I don't know what I'll do, just get me out of this—!

The waves plummeted down—thank heaven, not on the boat. His ship was still intact…that still counted for something. And as he surveyed the storm around him, and suffered the wrath of nature, Sam Malone thanked his good fortune that at least it hadn't gotten any worse—

Of course that was the moment when the ship struck a reef—collided with a reef. And the crash shook him with a force that broke him away from the helm…and when the ship tilted to starboard, Sam struggled and writhed and reached, but could find nothing to grab.

And as the waves forced the boat further forward, it tilted and tilted until the railing hovered over the water—and Sam found himself lying against, and then rolling over and off—and then clutching the rail, the ocean forcing against his body, his straining grip the only thing keeping him from falling victim to the sea.

Great…I'm gonna die, and what happens? All these words and poetry in my brain—I'm sounding like Di—

And his heart skipped a beat, at the sound of her name in his mind…and no matter how he tried to suppress it, her face followed. But there was no despair, when he saw her in his mind's eye—there was something calm…something peaceful. "Any port in a storm" was the saying—and now…here, with her was his safe harbor—

No—you're going nuts, here! You're hanging on for dear life—you're THIS close to dying, already, and the last thing you should be thinking about is—

"Diane!" the name escaped his mouth, crying out against the storm.

Great—you said her name. What do you know? She'd sure like this, huh? You, braving a storm like a hero outta Hemingway, or something—and dying with her name on your mouth—

His thoughts broke off, when an intense strain filled his arms…and the awareness filled his soul that he wouldn't be able to hold on any longer.

"Diane!" he cried out again, and he didn't know why. Did it help him, somehow—give him some kind of comfort in the face of death?

And with this last question burned into his mind, his grip finally gave way—and he tumbled into the waves—

"DIANE—"

"SAM!"

The shattering of the mug on the floor brought her back to reality, and Diane Chambers found herself catching her breath, standing there in the kitchen. She'd been getting herself a mug of milk—warm milk (she had warmly smiled at the memory), like her father had gotten for her, whenever she'd been unable to sleep—and now, she had been taking it to bed…

But the sudden surge of terror had filled her—the sudden feeling, filling every corner of her heart and her soul…that burst out in an instant, with the scream of Sam's name. She couldn't explain it—it was like…

It was as though, for one terrible moment, she knew, with every fiber of her being, that Sam's life was in mortal danger! But…but why on Earth she would think that—

No…no, he told me, once…that when he'd flown over to Europe, to stop my wedding to…poor Frasier—he'd felt a deep shudder, and a feeling along with it that he wouldn't be able to make it in time. And he wasn't…technically.

Was that it? Was Sam in danger?

She darted over to the phone by the bed, and dialed Sam's apartment. She waited…nothing. Their house…disconnected. Cheers…nothing.

Diane slowly hung up, and closed her eyes, wringing her hands….

She hadn't heard from him again, since that last call…when he'd told her to stay away, until she was successful. She had called the bar, once more, about a month later—and Woody had answered:

"Cheers!"

"Hello, Woody. It…it's me."

"Oh—oh, hi, Miss Chambers! How are ya?"

"I-I'm fine, Woody. Is Sam there?"

"No…no, he's been gone for a few weeks, you know. He—"

For some reason, he'd cut himself off…and for what felt to Diane like the first time since she'd met him, she heard Woody Boyd choose his next words carefully. "He's…kinda off on a vacation, or something."

Diane had swallowed hard, and said, "Well…tell everyone—I'm…well, I won't be coming back for a while. I—I'm going to move to Hollywood."

"What—wow, Miss Chambers, that's great! You gonna be a movie star, or what?"

Despite herself, Diane had felt a chuckle. That Woody—sweet, adorable Woody—there was always something about him to put a smile on her face. "No, Woody…I'm going to be writing. Television, films—I suppose it'll depend on who'll have me. But…but the point is, I…"

Diane had blinked back her tears, and said, "I—I won't be coming back to Boston—not for a while. I…I'm sorry. Tell everyone, I'm—sorry…."

"Aw, that's okay, Miss Chambers. We're sure gonna miss you, though."

The tears had come down at that, as she nodded, clutching the phone to her, "I…I'm going to miss you, too, Woody—all of you." She'd swallowed, and added, "And—tell Sam, I love him…and I always will."

Woody paused…and finally said, softly, "Sure, Miss Chambers."

"Well…goodbye, Woody."

"Goodbye, Miss Chambers."

That was that. And now…she couldn't help but wonder over what he hadn't told her—what Sam was doing, away. Was…was it possible—?

No…no, Woody wouldn't have covered up something like that from me—and beyond that, why didn't I feel this way until now?

But that was then. Now…no one was there, to call. And she couldn't in good conscience wake any of them up—not this late. It was only her…and her feelings—her fears.

At last, she opened her eyes—and felt a sudden tug at her cheek. Her hand shot up instinctively to cover it. Fortunately, the tic didn't last for that long.

She sighed, and looked around for something—anything—to calm her down. That was when she remembered the shattered mug and the spilled milk, and she rushed back into the kitchen, grabbing a brush and dustpan, with paper towels.

She was kneeling down, dabbing up the milk, when the tears began to fall.

Oh, the others would love this—"crying over spilled milk". Sam would—

The name made her sobbing grow ever louder as she dropped the towels, the tears flowing free.

Oh, Sam, please!—don't be…don't be—oh, dear God, what have I done? Why did I stay here? Why did I listen to him—why didn't I keep my promise? If I was there—with him now, maybe…

But that was all over. What now?

And there, as she had before in a convent near Boston…alone in a kitchen, sitting up in the middle of the floor under the pretense of cleaning up…she managed to gather herself, and she sighed, looking upward.

"It's…it's me again," she whispered through her tears, "I—I don't know if…if what I'm feeling right now is—well, if I have much of a legitimate reason for this. But…I cannot help but find myself unable to shake this—this feeling, this…despair in my heart. I-I don't know what's happening—if he's as…endangered as I fear. So, I'll just ask…" she shook her head, and sighed, her gaze lowered. She swallowed, and looked back up. "Just—whatever happens to him, please…watch over him. Protect him…. Keep him safe."

She nodded, and felt a smile, somehow reassured. "Amen," she whispered…and went back to her cleaning.

Note: Diane's recollecting of her telling Woody over the phone (after Sam had begun his voyage) that she's going to Hollywood is actually my way of explaining how Woody knew where she was, as of "Home Is The Sailor".