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It is December 1980.

In the middle of the Indian Ocean, where the northern and southern hemisphere trade winds meet,

there lies a belt of low pressure called the Intertropical Convergence Zone, or the Doldrums.

Along this latitude, intense solar radiation warms the water's surface, causing the air to rise straight up instead

of blowing horizontally. The result is a band of ocean notorious for its high humidity and calm,

windless conditions. On most days, the sea here is mill pond flat, undisturbed by even the faintest ripple.

But not today.

Today, the ghostly stillness is broken by the sound of a stuttering engine, weakly powering a small, 40-foot motorboat.

The vessel's white paint is chipped and peeling.

A strange wooden contraption protrudes from the stern, something rudimentary and makeshift,

trailing in the foamy wake.

The rickety ramshackled boat appears lost, almost comically out of place, far too dinky and

fragile for the vast ocean it's moving through.

Standing at the helm, Gordon Brace lethargically scans the horizon.

For almost a week now, he and his four fellow crew members have been struggling through the doldrums.

In search of a chain of islands that should, according to their charts, lie just south of here.

But after days without luck, doubts are setting in.

We were out there for some days and we couldn't find these damn islands.

...