The following is an excerpt from one of the letters you might receive. Winter of 1912 My Friend,

In the winter of 1912, a man sat down at a small writing desk in his cabin aboard a ship and composed a letter to his wife.

He wrote carefully. He always wrote carefully.

He was that kind of man — deliberate, measured, with an engineer's eye for detail and a poet's instinct for what mattered.

He told her about the crossing. About the cold. About how the stars over the Atlantic looked different out here, away from the glow of the city, like someone had shaken them loose and let them fall closer to the water.

He sealed the envelope.

He never mailed it.

His name was Charles Joughin. And the ship — you already know the ship. What you don't know is what happened to Charles in the hours after the Titanic struck ice on the night of April 14th. And that was only the beginning of the story.