The Nautical Chart Part 17

"With that course and that wind," he ventured, "they may have had the advantage of the large lateen sail on the foremast. On a ship designed to sail the Mediterranean, adapting to shifts in the wind or no wind at all... That night, that sail at the bow undoubtedly carried them very fast. Besides, having three masts allowed them to set a main topsail, and maybe the main topgallant staysail. I think she would have set a course that put her between the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria and the coast, in order to cut off any possibility of the brigantine's running for Aguilas when the wind veered at dawn." and the coast, in order to cut off any possibility of the brigantine's running for Aguilas when the wind veered at dawn."

"It had to be heart-stopping."

"You bet it was."

Coy looked at the slightly darker line of the coast, which by now obscured the beam of the Gata lighthouse. The shadowy shape of a point of land began to announce the luminous bay of San Jose. With those two references Coy made a couple of mental calculations, placing them upon an imaginary chart. He thought about the crew of the brigantine climbing blindly up the masts, making or shortening sail according to the wind and the needs of the maneuver, the rough canvas in their stiff fingers, stomachs pressed against the yards, feet dancing in empty s.p.a.ce, their only support the footropes.

"I think that was more or less what happened," he concluded. 'And Captain Elezcano hoped all through the night that they would leave the xebec behind. Maybe he tried some evasive maneuver, like changing course and trying to lose them in the darkness, but that fellow Misian must have known every trick in the book. As day dawned, the crew of the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria must have lost heart when they saw the must have lost heart when they saw the Chergui Chergui still there, between them and land, closing in______ Maybe then, while the navigating officer was calculating their position, the captain of the brigantine made a desperate decision: more sail, set the topgallants. That was when the mast was sprung, and the corsair was upon them." still there, between them and land, closing in______ Maybe then, while the navigating officer was calculating their position, the captain of the brigantine made a desperate decision: more sail, set the topgallants. That was when the mast was sprung, and the corsair was upon them."

And speaking of "upon them," Coy noted, the light off the bow that the Genoa hid from time to time seemed to be closer, in the same position as before. So he picked up the Steiner binoculars and walked along the weather side, holding onto the shrouds, up to the foredeck, next to where the anchor was secured to its sheave. The light was too much for a simple fishing boat, but he couldn't clearly identify its shape. If it was a ship coming toward them, maybe a merchant ship judging by the quant.i.ty and size of the lights, he should be able to see the red port or green starboard lights, or both if the other craft's bow was aimed straight for them. But he couldn't see those. And yet, he decided uneasily, it seemed much too close.

Sailing at night was a G.o.ddam crock of s.h.i.t, he told himself with irritation, returning to the c.o.c.kpit. Tanger was watching him with curiosity.

"Put on your life jacket," he told her.

Something wasn't right, and his sailor's instinct began to click into place. He went below to the midship cabin and flipped on the waiting radar: a black echo appeared on the green screen. Coy took note of distance and bearing, calculating that it was two miles away and headed directly for them. A large, threatening echo.

"Piloto!" he yelled.

He didn't know what the h.e.l.l it was, but very soon it was going to be on top of them. As he ran up the companionway he made rapid calculations. In the immediate area of Cabo de Gata, the pattern for separation of traffic required merchant ships heading south to maintain a course five miles offsh.o.r.e. The Carpanta Carpanta was sailing close to that limit, so it had to be a ship navigating closer to land than usual. Its speed would be about fifteen knots; added to the was sailing close to that limit, so it had to be a ship navigating closer to land than usual. Its speed would be about fifteen knots; added to the Carpanta's Carpanta's five, that meant she would cover twenty nautical miles in sixty minutes. Two miles in six minutes-that was the amount of time one or the other of them had to make some maneuver if a collision was to be averted. Six minutes. Maybe less. five, that meant she would cover twenty nautical miles in sixty minutes. Two miles in six minutes-that was the amount of time one or the other of them had to make some maneuver if a collision was to be averted. Six minutes. Maybe less.

"What's going on?" Tanger asked.

"Problems."

Coy made sure she had put on her self-inflating life jacket, which had a strobe light that was activated on contact with the water. He shrugged into his, picked up the lantern, and went back to the bow, illumined as he went by the red portside light located in the shrouds. The lights of the other vessel, threatening now, were coming closer and closer, with no alteration in course. He turned on the lantern and beamed intermittent signals in their direction, and then aimed the light onto the Carpanta's Carpanta's large unfurled sail. Any sailor on the bridge of a merchant ship should see that. For an instant he turned the light on his watch. Eleven fifty-five. That was the worst possible hour. On board the oncoming ship they would be about to change the watch. The officer, trusting the radar, would be sitting at the chart table, entering the incidents in the logbook before being relieved, and the man scheduled for the next watch would not yet be on the bridge. Maybe there was a drowsy Filipino, Ukrainian, or Indian helmsman lazing about somewhere. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. large unfurled sail. Any sailor on the bridge of a merchant ship should see that. For an instant he turned the light on his watch. Eleven fifty-five. That was the worst possible hour. On board the oncoming ship they would be about to change the watch. The officer, trusting the radar, would be sitting at the chart table, entering the incidents in the logbook before being relieved, and the man scheduled for the next watch would not yet be on the bridge. Maybe there was a drowsy Filipino, Ukrainian, or Indian helmsman lazing about somewhere. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.

Coy hurried back to the c.o.c.kpit. El Piloto was already there, asking what was going on. Coy pointed to the lights at their bow.

"Jesus," El Piloto murmured.

Alarmed, Tanger watched them, the wide red band of the life jacket fastened tightly over the slicker. "Is it a boat?"

"It's a sonofab.i.t.c.hing boat, and it's coming straight at us."

She had the carabiner of the safety harness in her hand, and looked from one of them to the other as if she didn't know what to do. To Coy she seemed unbearably vulnerable.

"Don't hook that onto anything," he counseled. "Just in case."

It wasn't a good idea to be attached to a boat that might be split in two. He went back down to the cabin and glued himself to the radar screen. They were navigating under sail, and theoretically had right-of-way, but right-of-way was moot at this point. It was already too late to maneuver and get out of the way of the larger ship. There was no doubt that this was a big ship. Much too big. Coy cursed himself for being careless, for not having foreseen the danger sooner. There still were no red or green lights visible, and yet the vessel was there, traveling toward them in a straight line, barely a mile away. He felt the shudder of the Carpanta's Carpanta's engine. El Piloto had started it up. Coy went back on deck. "They don't see us," he said. engine. El Piloto had started it up. Coy went back on deck. "They don't see us," he said.

Yet the Carpanta Carpanta had her running lights on, he had signaled with the lantern, and the sailboat also had a good radar reflector atop the mast. Coy fastened his life jacket. He was furious and confused. Furious with himself for having been distracted by the stars and the conversation and not having foreseen the danger. Confused because he still hadn't sighted the red and green lights of whatever was coming at them. had her running lights on, he had signaled with the lantern, and the sailboat also had a good radar reflector atop the mast. Coy fastened his life jacket. He was furious and confused. Furious with himself for having been distracted by the stars and the conversation and not having foreseen the danger. Confused because he still hadn't sighted the red and green lights of whatever was coming at them.

"Can't you advise them by radio?" asked Tanger.

"There isn't time."

El Piloto had disconnected the automatic pilot and was steering manually, but Coy recognized the problem. The most logical evasive maneuver was to starboard, because if the merchant vessel sighted them at the last moment, it too would change course to starboard. The dilemma was that since the ship was navigating so close to the coast, her starboard might take her too close to land, and it was possible therefore that the officer on the bridge would perform the opposite maneuver, veering to her port and the open sea. LWPC: Law of the Worst Possible Consequence. If that happened, in trying to vacate the merchant's route, the Carpanta Carpanta would end up directly in the middle of it. would end up directly in the middle of it.

They had to make themselves seen. Coy grabbed one of the white flares from the c.o.c.kpit and ran back to the bow. The lights now looked like a carnival, a luminous ma.s.s that was less than half a mile away by now. From the water came a dull roar, constant and sinister-the sound of the merchant ship's engines. Coy hung onto the bow rail and took one last look, trying at least to understand what was happening before the oncomer swamped them. And then, only two cables' length away, looming like a dark ghost against the blaze of her own lights, he distinguished a black ma.s.s, tall and terrible-the bow of the merchant vessel. Now he could make out several containers stacked on deck, and suddenly, finally, Coy realized what had happened. From a distance, the port and starboard lights had been obscured by other, brighter ones. From the much lower perspective of the sailboat, it was the ship's bow and broad hull themselves that had blocked them out.

Now there was less than a minute. Clamping his knees onto the rail, thrusting his body in front of the Genoa stay, Coy removed the top of the flare, turned the base, held it away from his body by extending his arm as far leeward as possible, and struck the trigger with the palm of his other hand. Come on, he begged, don't be dead. There was a loud hiss, a cloud of smoke, and a blinding glare illuminated Coy, the sail, and a good portion of the sea around the Carpanta. Carpanta. Clinging to the stay with one hand and blinded by the intense radiance, he watched as the bow of the merchant vessel held course a few instants and then began to veer to starboard, less than a hundred yards away. The agonizing light of the flare revealed the enormous wave cut by the bow, a white crest hurling itself toward the sailboat. Coy threw the flare into the sea and hung on with both hands as El Piloto turned the Clinging to the stay with one hand and blinded by the intense radiance, he watched as the bow of the merchant vessel held course a few instants and then began to veer to starboard, less than a hundred yards away. The agonizing light of the flare revealed the enormous wave cut by the bow, a white crest hurling itself toward the sailboat. Coy threw the flare into the sea and hung on with both hands as El Piloto turned the Carpanta's Carpanta's wheel hard to starboard. The black coast, illuminated from overhead as if during a fiesta, moved past very close amid the roar of the engines, and the sailboat, struck by the wave, bobbed crazily. Then the enormous jib, caught by the wind from the far rail, quartered abruptly and struck Coy, who felt himself swept over the rail and into the sea. wheel hard to starboard. The black coast, illuminated from overhead as if during a fiesta, moved past very close amid the roar of the engines, and the sailboat, struck by the wave, bobbed crazily. Then the enormous jib, caught by the wind from the far rail, quartered abruptly and struck Coy, who felt himself swept over the rail and into the sea.

IT was cold. It was too cold, he thought, stunned, as black water closed over his head. He felt the turbulence of the sailboat's propellers when the hull pa.s.sed near him, and then a more violent motion that made the dark liquid sphere he was bouncing in boil around him-the great screws of the merchant vessel. The water was filled with the deafening sound of the engines, and in that instant he realized he was going to drown, because the turbulence was pulling his pants and jacket downward and at some moment or other he was going to have to open his mouth to breathe, to fill his lungs with air, and what was going to rush in was not going to be air but murderous gallons of salt.w.a.ter. It wasn't his life that flashed through his head in quick images, but a blind fury at ending things in this absurd way, along with a desire to stroke upward, to survive at all cost. The problem was that the turbulence had turned him over and over in his accursed black sphere, and up and down were relative concepts-supposing that he was in any condition to swim. Water was beginning to fill his nose with irritating needles of sensation, and he told himself: This is it, I'm drowning. I'm checking out. So he opened his mouth to curse with his last breath, and to his surprise met pure air, and stars in the sky. The strobe light on his self-inflating life jacket flashed beside his ear, blinding his right eye. With the left, less bedazzled, he saw the glare of the retreating merchant ship, and on the other side, a half cable away, its green starboard light appearing and disappearing behind the enormous shadow of the Genoa flapping in the wind, the dark silhouette of the was cold. It was too cold, he thought, stunned, as black water closed over his head. He felt the turbulence of the sailboat's propellers when the hull pa.s.sed near him, and then a more violent motion that made the dark liquid sphere he was bouncing in boil around him-the great screws of the merchant vessel. The water was filled with the deafening sound of the engines, and in that instant he realized he was going to drown, because the turbulence was pulling his pants and jacket downward and at some moment or other he was going to have to open his mouth to breathe, to fill his lungs with air, and what was going to rush in was not going to be air but murderous gallons of salt.w.a.ter. It wasn't his life that flashed through his head in quick images, but a blind fury at ending things in this absurd way, along with a desire to stroke upward, to survive at all cost. The problem was that the turbulence had turned him over and over in his accursed black sphere, and up and down were relative concepts-supposing that he was in any condition to swim. Water was beginning to fill his nose with irritating needles of sensation, and he told himself: This is it, I'm drowning. I'm checking out. So he opened his mouth to curse with his last breath, and to his surprise met pure air, and stars in the sky. The strobe light on his self-inflating life jacket flashed beside his ear, blinding his right eye. With the left, less bedazzled, he saw the glare of the retreating merchant ship, and on the other side, a half cable away, its green starboard light appearing and disappearing behind the enormous shadow of the Genoa flapping in the wind, the dark silhouette of the Carpanta. Carpanta.

He tried to swim toward her, but the life jacket hobbled him. He was painfully aware that at night a boat can pa.s.s a man in the water a hundred times and not see him. He felt for the emergency whistle that should have been next to the strobe light. It wasn't there. Shouting from that distance was pointless. The swell was frustrating, with little waves that made him rise and fall, and his view of the Carpanta Carpanta come and go. And also hiding him from the two on board, he thought despondently. Slowly he began to breast-stroke, trying not to exhaust himself, with the goal of shortening the distance between them. He was wearing his sneakers, but they weren't too great a handicap and he decided to leave them on. He didn't know how long he would be in the water, and they would protect him a little. The Mediterranean's waters weren't frigid, and at that time of year someone who went overboard dressed and in good health could last several hours. come and go. And also hiding him from the two on board, he thought despondently. Slowly he began to breast-stroke, trying not to exhaust himself, with the goal of shortening the distance between them. He was wearing his sneakers, but they weren't too great a handicap and he decided to leave them on. He didn't know how long he would be in the water, and they would protect him a little. The Mediterranean's waters weren't frigid, and at that time of year someone who went overboard dressed and in good health could last several hours.

He kept seeing the lights of the Carpanta, Carpanta, and it seemed to him they were taking in the Genoa. From his position relative to her and to the merchant ship, Coy realized that as soon as El Piloto saw him go overboard, he had dropped the sails, slowing the ship, and now was preparing to backtrack and try to reach the point Coy had gone over. Undoubtedly he was on one rail and Tanger on the other, searching for him in the tossing sea. Maybe they'd launched the emergency life raft with the luminous buoy attached by a short line, and were heading there now to see if Coy had found it. As for his own light, the one on his life jacket, he was sure the swell hid it from them. and it seemed to him they were taking in the Genoa. From his position relative to her and to the merchant ship, Coy realized that as soon as El Piloto saw him go overboard, he had dropped the sails, slowing the ship, and now was preparing to backtrack and try to reach the point Coy had gone over. Undoubtedly he was on one rail and Tanger on the other, searching for him in the tossing sea. Maybe they'd launched the emergency life raft with the luminous buoy attached by a short line, and were heading there now to see if Coy had found it. As for his own light, the one on his life jacket, he was sure the swell hid it from them.

The green starboard light went by close in front of him, and Coy yelled, futilely waving an arm. The movement plunged him beneath a breaking crest, and when he reemerged, snorting the salt.w.a.ter that smarted in nostrils, eyes, and mouth, the green light had become the white light at the stern. The Carpanta Carpanta was moving away from him. was moving away from him.

This is really stupid, he thought. He was beginning to feel the cold, and the light sparkling at his shoulder seemed invisible to everyone but him. The jacket inflated around his neck kept his head above water most of the time, but now he couldn't see any of the Carpanta's Carpanta's lights, only the glow of the merchant ship in the distance. There is a good possibility, he told himself, that they won't find me. And that this d.a.m.ned light will wear out the batteries and go dead, and I'll be out here in the dark. LLOOOW: Law of Lights Out and On Our Way. Once, playing cards, an old engine man had said, "There's always one fool who loses. And if you look around and don't see him, it's because you're the fool." He looked around him. Dark water splashed against the inflated collar. No one. Sometimes someone dies, he added to himself. And if you don't see another person, the one who may the is you. He looked up at the stars. With their help he could establish the direction of the coast, but it wouldn't do any good, he was too tar to reach it swimming. If El Piloto, who would have pinpointed where he went overboard, radioed a Mayday, man overboard, the search wouldn't get underway before dawn, and by that time he would have been in the drink five or six hours, with serious hypothermia. There was nothing he could do except husband his strength and try to slow the loss of body heat. Position HELP, Heat Escape Lessening Posture, as the manuals called it. Or something like that. So he tried to adopt a fetal position, pressing his bent legs to his belly and folding his arms across his chest. This is ridiculous, he thought. Tucked up like a baby, at my age. But as long as the strobe light kept flashing, there was hope. lights, only the glow of the merchant ship in the distance. There is a good possibility, he told himself, that they won't find me. And that this d.a.m.ned light will wear out the batteries and go dead, and I'll be out here in the dark. LLOOOW: Law of Lights Out and On Our Way. Once, playing cards, an old engine man had said, "There's always one fool who loses. And if you look around and don't see him, it's because you're the fool." He looked around him. Dark water splashed against the inflated collar. No one. Sometimes someone dies, he added to himself. And if you don't see another person, the one who may the is you. He looked up at the stars. With their help he could establish the direction of the coast, but it wouldn't do any good, he was too tar to reach it swimming. If El Piloto, who would have pinpointed where he went overboard, radioed a Mayday, man overboard, the search wouldn't get underway before dawn, and by that time he would have been in the drink five or six hours, with serious hypothermia. There was nothing he could do except husband his strength and try to slow the loss of body heat. Position HELP, Heat Escape Lessening Posture, as the manuals called it. Or something like that. So he tried to adopt a fetal position, pressing his bent legs to his belly and folding his arms across his chest. This is ridiculous, he thought. Tucked up like a baby, at my age. But as long as the strobe light kept flashing, there was hope.

LIGHTS. Drifting, josded by the waves, eyes dosed, and moving as little as possible, to conserve warmth and energy, with the white flashes rhythmically blinding him, Coy kept thinking about lights, to the point of obsession. Friendly lights, enemy lights, stern, anchor, port and starboard, green beacons, blue beacons, white beacons, buoys, stars. The difference between life and death. A new crest whirled him around like a buoy in the water, once again dunking him. He emerged shaking his head, blinking to dear the salt from his burning eyes. Another crest and again he whirled, and then, right before him, at less than forty feet, he saw two lights, one red and one white. The red was the portside of the Carpanta, Carpanta, and the white was the beam from the flashlight Tanger was holding at the bow as El Piloto slowly maneuvered to place Coy to windward. and the white was the beam from the flashlight Tanger was holding at the bow as El Piloto slowly maneuvered to place Coy to windward.

LYING in his berth, Coy listened to the sound of water against the hulL The in his berth, Coy listened to the sound of water against the hulL The Carpanta Carpanta was sailing northeast again, with a favorable wind. And the castaway was rocked to sleep and cozy in a sleeping bag and warm layer of blankets. They had pulled him on board at the stem-after tossing him the bight of a line beneath his arms- exhausted and clumsy in his life jacket and dripping clothes, and with the light that kept flashing at his shoulder until once on deck he himself yanked off the jacket and threw it into the water. His legs gave way by the time he reached the c.o.c.kpit. He had begun to shake violently, and between them, after throwing a blanket around him, El Piloto and Tanger got him to his cabin. Dazed and docile as a baby, devoid of will and strength, he let them undress him and towel him down. El Piloto tried not to rub too hard, to prevent the cold that had numbed Coy's arms and legs from rising toward his heart and brain. They had stripped off his last clothing as he lay on the bunk, lost in the mist of a strange daydream. He had felt the rough touch of El Piloto's hands, and also Tanger's smoother ones on his naked skin. He felt her fingers taking his pulse-which beat slow and steady. She had held his torso as El Piloto pulled off his T-shirt, his feet as they took off his socks, and finally his waist and upper legs when they eased off his soaked undershorts. At one moment, the palm of Tanger's hand had held his b.u.t.tock, just where it joined the leg, resting there, light and warm, a few seconds. Then they zipped up the sleeping bag and pulled blankets over the top, turned out the light, and left him alone. was sailing northeast again, with a favorable wind. And the castaway was rocked to sleep and cozy in a sleeping bag and warm layer of blankets. They had pulled him on board at the stem-after tossing him the bight of a line beneath his arms- exhausted and clumsy in his life jacket and dripping clothes, and with the light that kept flashing at his shoulder until once on deck he himself yanked off the jacket and threw it into the water. His legs gave way by the time he reached the c.o.c.kpit. He had begun to shake violently, and between them, after throwing a blanket around him, El Piloto and Tanger got him to his cabin. Dazed and docile as a baby, devoid of will and strength, he let them undress him and towel him down. El Piloto tried not to rub too hard, to prevent the cold that had numbed Coy's arms and legs from rising toward his heart and brain. They had stripped off his last clothing as he lay on the bunk, lost in the mist of a strange daydream. He had felt the rough touch of El Piloto's hands, and also Tanger's smoother ones on his naked skin. He felt her fingers taking his pulse-which beat slow and steady. She had held his torso as El Piloto pulled off his T-shirt, his feet as they took off his socks, and finally his waist and upper legs when they eased off his soaked undershorts. At one moment, the palm of Tanger's hand had held his b.u.t.tock, just where it joined the leg, resting there, light and warm, a few seconds. Then they zipped up the sleeping bag and pulled blankets over the top, turned out the light, and left him alone.

He wandered through the green darkness that called from below, and stood interminable watch through a daze of snows and fog and echoes on the radar. With his wax pencil he traced straight routes on the radar screen while up on deck horses ate wooden containers marked "Horses" and silent captains strode back and forth without a word for him. The calm gray water looked like undulating lead. It was raining on seas and ports and cranes and cargo ships. Seated on bollards, motionless men and women, soaked by the rain, were absorbed in oceanic dreams. And deep below, beside a bronze bell silenced in the center of a blue sphere, sperm whales slept peacefully, their mouths curving in something like a smile, heads down, tails up, suspended in the weightless dreams of whales.

The Carpanta Carpanta pitched slightly and heeled a bit more. Coy half-opened his eyes in the darkness of the cabin, cuddled in the comforting warmth that was gradually restoring life to his stiff body, rolled tight against the hull by the list of the ship. He was safe. He had escaped the maw of the sea, as merciless in its whims as it was unpredictable in its clemency. He was on a good ship steered by friendly hands, and he could sleep whenever he wanted without worrying, because other eyes and other hands were watching over his sleep, helping him follow the ghost of the lost ship that waited in the shadows into which he had nearly sunk forever. The woman's hands that had touched him as they removed his clothes returned to turn back some of the blankets and then feel his forehead and take his pulse. Now, at the recollection of that touch, that palm against his naked b.u.t.tock, a slow, warm erection swelled in the haven of warming thighs. That made him smile, quiet and drowsy, almost with surprise. It was good to be alive. Later he went back to sleep, frowning because the world wasn't as wide as it had been, and because the ocean was shrinking. He dreamed of forbidden seas and barbarous coasts, and islands where arrest warrants, and plastic bags, and empty tin cans never washed ash.o.r.e. And he wandered at night through ports without ships among women accompanied by other men. Women who looked at him because they weren't happy, as if they wanted to pa.s.s their unhap-piness on to him. pitched slightly and heeled a bit more. Coy half-opened his eyes in the darkness of the cabin, cuddled in the comforting warmth that was gradually restoring life to his stiff body, rolled tight against the hull by the list of the ship. He was safe. He had escaped the maw of the sea, as merciless in its whims as it was unpredictable in its clemency. He was on a good ship steered by friendly hands, and he could sleep whenever he wanted without worrying, because other eyes and other hands were watching over his sleep, helping him follow the ghost of the lost ship that waited in the shadows into which he had nearly sunk forever. The woman's hands that had touched him as they removed his clothes returned to turn back some of the blankets and then feel his forehead and take his pulse. Now, at the recollection of that touch, that palm against his naked b.u.t.tock, a slow, warm erection swelled in the haven of warming thighs. That made him smile, quiet and drowsy, almost with surprise. It was good to be alive. Later he went back to sleep, frowning because the world wasn't as wide as it had been, and because the ocean was shrinking. He dreamed of forbidden seas and barbarous coasts, and islands where arrest warrants, and plastic bags, and empty tin cans never washed ash.o.r.e. And he wandered at night through ports without ships among women accompanied by other men. Women who looked at him because they weren't happy, as if they wanted to pa.s.s their unhap-piness on to him.

He wept silently behind closed eyes. To console himself-he rested his head against the wooden side of the ship, listening to the sea on the other side of the thin planking separating him from Eternity.

XI.

The Sarga.s.so Sea "... the sun-resorts of Sarga.s.so where the bones come up to lie and bleach and mock the pa.s.sing ships."

THOMAS PYNCHON PYNCHON, Gravity's Gravity's Rainbow Rainbow

When he went up on deck, the Carpanta Carpanta was becalmed in the windless dawn, with the sheer coastline very near and a cloudless sky shading from blackish gray to blue in the west. The sun's rays shone horizontally on the rock face, the sea to the east, and the was becalmed in the windless dawn, with the sheer coastline very near and a cloudless sky shading from blackish gray to blue in the west. The sun's rays shone horizontally on the rock face, the sea to the east, and the Carpanta's Carpanta's mast, painting them red. "It was here," said Tanger. mast, painting them red. "It was here," said Tanger.

She had a nautical chart unfolded on her knees, and beside her El Piloto was smoking a cigarette and holding a cup of coffee. Coy went back to the stern. He had put on dry pants and a T-shirt but his lips and tangled hair still had traces of salt from the nocturnal dip. He looked around him at the circling gulls that cawed and planed before alighting on the waves. The coast stretched not much more than a mile to the west, and then opened in the form of a cove. He recognized Punta Percheles, Punta Negra, and the island of Mazarrdn in the distance. Some eight miles to the east rose the dark ma.s.s of Cabo Tinoso.

He went back to the c.o.c.kpit. El Piloto had gone below to get a cup of warm coffee for him, and Coy gulped it down, his face s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up as he tasted the last drops of the bitter brew. On the chart Tanger pointed to the landscape that lay before her eyes. She was wearing the black sweater and was barefoot. Blond strands of hair escaped from beneath Piloto's wool cap.

"This is the place," she said, "where the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria sprang her mast and she had to fight." sprang her mast and she had to fight."

Coy nodded, eyes fixed on the nearby coast as Tanger described the details of the drama. Everything she had researched, all the information gathered from yellowed files, ma.n.u.scripts, and Urrutia's old nautical charts, was woven together in her calm voice, as if she had been there herself. Coy had never listened to anyone with so much conviction. Listening to her as his eyes searched the semicircle of dark coast stretching to the northeast, he tried to reconstruct his own version of the facts. This is how it was, or more precisely, how it could have been. To do that, he called on the books he'd read, his experience as a sailor, and the days and nights of his youth, when he was borne by silent sails across this sea she had brought him back to. That was why it was easy to imagine it, and when Tanger paused and looked at him, and El Piloto's blue eyes also turned to him, Coy bunched his shoulders a little, touched his nose, and filled in the holes in the narrative. He gave details, ventured situations, and described maneuvers, placing them all in that dawn of February 4, 1767, when the lebeche lebeche veered to north as the sun rose, making hunter and prey alike sail close to the wind. In those circ.u.mstances, he said, the apparent wind was added to the true wind, and the brigantine and the xebec would have been sailing close-hauled, making seven or eight knots-driver, mainsail, jibs, topsails, and the yards braced well to leeward on the veered to north as the sun rose, making hunter and prey alike sail close to the wind. In those circ.u.mstances, he said, the apparent wind was added to the true wind, and the brigantine and the xebec would have been sailing close-hauled, making seven or eight knots-driver, mainsail, jibs, topsails, and the yards braced well to leeward on the Dei Gloria,. Dei Gloria,. lateens on the fore- and mizzenmast sharp as knife blades on the corsair, and sailing closer to the wind than her prey. Both heeling to starboard, with water pouring through the lee scuppers, helmsmen alert at the tiller, captains focused on wind and canvas, knowing that the first to commit an error would lose the race. lateens on the fore- and mizzenmast sharp as knife blades on the corsair, and sailing closer to the wind than her prey. Both heeling to starboard, with water pouring through the lee scuppers, helmsmen alert at the tiller, captains focused on wind and canvas, knowing that the first to commit an error would lose the race.

Errors. At sea-as in fencing, Coy had heard somewhere-everything turned on keeping your adversary at a distance and antic.i.p.ating his moves. The black cloud forming flat and low in the distance, the slightly dark area of choppy water, the almost imperceptible foam breaking around a rock just beneath the surface-all augured deadly thrusts that only constant vigil could parry. That made the sea the perfect metaphor for life. The moment to take in a reef, went the sensible seafaring saying, was precisely when you asked yourself if it wasn't time to take in a reef. The sea hid a dangerous and stubborn old scoundrel, who lay waiting in apparent camaraderie for the chance to bare his claws at the first sign of inattention. With ease but no pity, he killed the careless and the stupid, and the best good sailors could wish for was to be tolerated and not hara.s.sed. To pa.s.s unnoticed. Because the sea had no sense of remorse and, like the G.o.d of the Old Testament, never forgave, unless by chance or by whim. The words "charity" and "compa.s.sion," among many others, were left behind when you cast off. And in a certain way, Coy believed, it was fair.

The error, he decided, had in the end been committed by Captain Elezcano. Or maybe it wasn't an error, and it just so happened that the law of the sea tilted in favor of the corsair. With the enemy drawing nearer, preventing her from reaching safe haven beneath the guns of the Mazanon tower, the brigantine had set her topgallants despite the damage to the topmasts. It wasn't difficult to picture the rest: Captain Elezcano staring upward, apprehensive, while sailors, swaying on the footropes and overhanging the sea to starboard, untie the gaskets securing the upper sails, which snap free with a brief flap, straining to lift them to the yards and haul the sheets. The ship's boy approaching the p.o.o.p with the lat.i.tude and longitude obtained by the navigating officer, and the distracted order to enter them in the logbook from the captain, who never shifts his gaze from on high. Then the boy by his side, gazing upward as he tucks the paper with the penciled coordinates into his pocket. Suddenly the sinister creaking of the wood as it splits, and halyards and canvas dropping to leeward, tangled by the wind, and the suicidal lurch of the ship and all men aboard with their heart in their mouth, knowing at that instant their fate is sealed.

There must have been sailors aloft, cutting the useless rigging and throwing the wreckage of the topmast and sail into the sea, while on deck Captain Elezcano gave the order to open fire. The gun ports would have been open since first light, loaded and ready, gunners waiting. Maybe the captain decided suddenly to swing and surprise the approaching pursuer, undoubtedly giving him the starboard broadside, with men bent behind the guns, waiting for the hull and sails of the xebec to bear across before them. Battle waged almost yardarm to yardarm, said the report written by the maritime authorities from the ship's boy's testimony. That meant that the two ships would have been extremely close, the men on the corsair ready to fire and board, when the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria showed her starboard beam with open gun ports spouting smoke from lit fuses, letting fly a cannonade at point-blank range-five guns spitting four-pound b.a.l.l.s. It had to have caused some damage, but at that moment the corsair must have come around to starboard, unless the lateen sails allowed her to maintain her course, sailing close to the wind, and cut the wake of the brigantine, in turn loosing a mortal broadside in retaliation, sweeping the showed her starboard beam with open gun ports spouting smoke from lit fuses, letting fly a cannonade at point-blank range-five guns spitting four-pound b.a.l.l.s. It had to have caused some damage, but at that moment the corsair must have come around to starboard, unless the lateen sails allowed her to maintain her course, sailing close to the wind, and cut the wake of the brigantine, in turn loosing a mortal broadside in retaliation, sweeping the Dei Gloria's Dei Gloria's deck from stern to stem. Two long six-pounders and four four-pounders; some twenty-eight pounds of ball and shot shattering line, wood, and body parts. Then, as the gunners aboard the corsair yelled jubilantly, seeing the wounded and dying enemy drag themselves across decks slick with blood, the two ships would have approached each other, more slowly each time, until they were nearly motionless, firing ferociously at each other. deck from stern to stem. Two long six-pounders and four four-pounders; some twenty-eight pounds of ball and shot shattering line, wood, and body parts. Then, as the gunners aboard the corsair yelled jubilantly, seeing the wounded and dying enemy drag themselves across decks slick with blood, the two ships would have approached each other, more slowly each time, until they were nearly motionless, firing ferociously at each other.

Captain Elezcano was a tenacious Basque. Resolved not to offer his neck to the butcher's knife without a price, he must have run through the brigantine, urging on his desperate gunners. There would have been guns blown from their trucks, wood splinters, roundshot and musket b.a.l.l.s and fragments of metal flying in every direction, pieces of line, masts, and sails dropping from overhead. By that time the two Jesuits would have been dead, or maybe they had gone below to the captain's cabin to defend to the last breath the coffer of emeralds-or to throw it into the ocean. The last broadsides from the corsair were undoubtedly devastating. The Dei Gloria's Dei Gloria's foremast, its sails ripped like winding sheets, would have split before falling onto the b.l.o.o.d.y butcher's shop of the brigantine's deck. Perhaps by then Captain Elezcano, too, was dead. The ship was adrift, crippled and without her helm. Maybe the terrified fifteen-year-old ship's boy awaited the end huddled among coils of rope, boarding sword in his trembling hand, watching the masts of the foremast, its sails ripped like winding sheets, would have split before falling onto the b.l.o.o.d.y butcher's shop of the brigantine's deck. Perhaps by then Captain Elezcano, too, was dead. The ship was adrift, crippled and without her helm. Maybe the terrified fifteen-year-old ship's boy awaited the end huddled among coils of rope, boarding sword in his trembling hand, watching the masts of the Chergui Chergui approach through the smoke, preparing for boarding. But then he saw a fire aboard the corsair. The point-blank gunfire from the brigantine, or that from the xebec herself, had set alight one of the lower sails, which had not been taken in because of the unexpectedness of the maneuver. Now that sail was blazing and falling onto the deck of the corsair, it may have been near a cartridge of gunpowder, or the open hatchway of the magazine. Hazards of the sea. Suddenly there was a flash, and a brilliant explosion struck the dying brigantine with a fist of air, toppling the second mast and filling the sky with black smoke and pieces of wood and embers and human flesh that rained down everywhere. Standing on the rail of the blood-covered deck, deafened by the explosion, eyes bulging with horror, the ship's boy could see that the nothing remained of the corsair but smoking wood sputtering as it sank into the sea. At that moment the approach through the smoke, preparing for boarding. But then he saw a fire aboard the corsair. The point-blank gunfire from the brigantine, or that from the xebec herself, had set alight one of the lower sails, which had not been taken in because of the unexpectedness of the maneuver. Now that sail was blazing and falling onto the deck of the corsair, it may have been near a cartridge of gunpowder, or the open hatchway of the magazine. Hazards of the sea. Suddenly there was a flash, and a brilliant explosion struck the dying brigantine with a fist of air, toppling the second mast and filling the sky with black smoke and pieces of wood and embers and human flesh that rained down everywhere. Standing on the rail of the blood-covered deck, deafened by the explosion, eyes bulging with horror, the ship's boy could see that the nothing remained of the corsair but smoking wood sputtering as it sank into the sea. At that moment the Dei Gloria Dei Gloria heeled over in her turn, water pouring into the belly of her shattered hull, and the ship's boy found himself floating through the wreckage of wood and cordage. He was alone, but near him floated the boat Captain Elezcano had ordered jettisoned to clear the deck minutes before the battle began. heeled over in her turn, water pouring into the belly of her shattered hull, and the ship's boy found himself floating through the wreckage of wood and cordage. He was alone, but near him floated the boat Captain Elezcano had ordered jettisoned to clear the deck minutes before the battle began.

"IT must have happened more or less like that," said Tanger. must have happened more or less like that," said Tanger.

The three of them were silent, regarding a sea as still as a tombstone. Somewhere below, half-hidden in the sand of the ocean floor, were the bones of nearly a hundred dead men, what was left of two ships, and a fortune in emeralds.

"The most logical conclusion," she continued, "is that the Chergui Chergui disintegrated in the explosion, and that her remnants are scattered. The brigantine, however, went down intact, except for the masts. Since it isn't too deep here, you'd expect to find her on her keel, or on one side." disintegrated in the explosion, and that her remnants are scattered. The brigantine, however, went down intact, except for the masts. Since it isn't too deep here, you'd expect to find her on her keel, or on one side."

Coy was studying the chart, calculating distances and depths. The sun was beginning to warm his bade "The bottom is mud and sand," he said. "With some rocks. It's possible she's so deeply buried that we can't dig."

"It's possible." Tanger bent over the charts so dose her hair brushed the paper. "But we won't know until we go down. The part that's covered will be in better shape than what has been exposed to the waves and currents. Shipworms will have done their work, boring into the wood. What hasn't been protected by sand will be gone. The iron rusted. It also depends on how cool the water is. A ship can remain intact at low temperatures, or disappear in short order in warm waters."

"It isn't very cold here," El Piloto put in. "Except for an occasional current."

He was showing interest but staying a little apart, his face showing no expression. His calloused fingers were mechanically tying and untying knots in a section of halyard, his fingernails as short and ragged as Tanger's. His eyes, tranquil and faded by years of Mediterranean light, moved back and forth between them. It was a stoic gaze that Coy knew well-that of a fisherman or sailor who expects nothing more than to fill his nets with a reasonable catch and return to port with just enough to go on living. He wasn't a man of illusions. Everyday life on the sea watered down chimeras, and deep down the word "emeralds" was as nebulous as the place where the rainbow meets the sea.

Tanger had pulled off the wool cap. Now one hand rested carelessly on Coy's shoulder.

"Until we've located the hull with the help of the plans, and we know where each part of the ship lies, we won't be sure of anything. The important thing is whether the area of the stern is accessible. That's where the captain's cabin will be, and the emeralds."

More and more her att.i.tude was different from her mood on dry land. Natural, and less arrogant. Coy felt the light pressure of her hand on his shoulder, and the nearness of her body. She smelled of the sea, and of skin warmed by the slowly rising sun. You need me now, he thought. Now you need me more, and it shows.

"Maybe they threw the emeralds overboard," he said.

She shook her head. Her shadow on chart 463A was gradually shortening. For a while she was silent, but finally she said, "Well, maybe." That was impossible to know just yet At any rate, they had a perfect description of the chest, a wood, iron, and bronze box twenty inches long. The iron wouldn't have aged well under water, and by now it would be a blackish, unrecognizable ma.s.s. The bronze would have fared better, but the wood would be gone. Inside, the emeralds would be crusted together. They would look more or less like a block of dark stone, a little reddish, with greenish veins of the bronze. They would have to search for it among all the wreckage, and it wasn't going to be easy.

Of course not. Coy yearned for it to be difficult. A needle in a haystack, as Lucio Gamboa, between laughs and cigarettes, had suggested in Cadiz. If the wreck was buried, they would need hoses to suction off the mud and sand. No way to be discreet.

"Well, now it doesn't matter," Tanger concluded. "First we have to find it."

"What about the depth finder?" Coy asked.

El Piloto finished a double bowline knot.

"No problem," he said. "We'll get that hooked up this afternoon in Cartagena, and also a GPS repeater for the c.o.c.kpit." He observed Tanger with suspicious gravity. "But all that will have to be paid for."

"Of course," she said.

"It's the best fish-sounding equipment I could find." El Piloto was talking to Coy. "A Pathfinder Optic with three beams, like you asked. The transducer can be installed on the stern without much trouble."

Tanger looked at Coy, inquisitive. He explained that with that sounder they could cover a 90-degree area beneath the Carpanta's Carpanta's hull. The machine was generally used to locate schools of fish, but it also gave a clear and very detailed profile of the bottom. Most important, thanks to the use of different colors on the screen, the Pathfinder differentiated bottoms according to density, hardness, and composition, detecting any irregularity. An isolated rock, a submersed object, even changes of temperature, showed up quite clearly. And metal, say the iron or bronze of the guns if they projected above the sand, would be seen in intense, darker color. The fish sounder wasn't as precise as the professional systems Nino Palermo had at his disposal, but it would do in a depth of sixty-five to one hundred seventy feet. Navigating slowly until they had combed the search area and a.s.signed coordinates for each submersed object that caught their attention, they could trace a map of the zone, determining possible sites for the wreck. In a second phase they would explore each location with the aquaplane, a towed wooden sled that would keep a diver within view of the bottom. "Strange," said El Piloto. hull. The machine was generally used to locate schools of fish, but it also gave a clear and very detailed profile of the bottom. Most important, thanks to the use of different colors on the screen, the Pathfinder differentiated bottoms according to density, hardness, and composition, detecting any irregularity. An isolated rock, a submersed object, even changes of temperature, showed up quite clearly. And metal, say the iron or bronze of the guns if they projected above the sand, would be seen in intense, darker color. The fish sounder wasn't as precise as the professional systems Nino Palermo had at his disposal, but it would do in a depth of sixty-five to one hundred seventy feet. Navigating slowly until they had combed the search area and a.s.signed coordinates for each submersed object that caught their attention, they could trace a map of the zone, determining possible sites for the wreck. In a second phase they would explore each location with the aquaplane, a towed wooden sled that would keep a diver within view of the bottom. "Strange," said El Piloto.

He had taken the wineskin from the binnacle and drank head tilted back, eyes to the sky. Coy knew what he was thinking. With a wreck no deeper than that, fishermen would have snagged their nets on it. Someone would know about it. And by now someone would have taken a look, out of curiosity. Any amateur diver could do it.

"Yes. I'm wondering why some fisherman hasn't said anything about a wreck out here. They tend to know the bottom better than the hallway in their homes."

Tanger showed them the chart: S, M, R. The small letters dotted the area beside the numbers that gave the depths.

"It says rocks too, see? That might be protecting the wreck."

"Protect it from fishermen, maybe," Coy offered. "But a wooden ship sunk among rocks doesn't last long. In shallow seas the waves and currents destroy the hull. There won't be anything left like your ill.u.s.tration in Red Rackham's Treasure." Red Rackham's Treasure."

"Maybe," she said.

She was staring at the sea with a stubborn expression. El Piloto's eyes met Coy's. Suddenly, once again, the whole thing seemed crazy. We're not going to find anything, the sailor's expression said as he handed the wineskin to Coy. I'm here because I'm your friend, and besides, you're paying me, or she is, which is the same thing in the end. But this woman has your needle spinning. And the real kicker is that you haven't even got her in bed.

THEY were in Cartagena. They had sailed close to the coast, beneath the escarpment of Cabo Tinoso, and now the were in Cartagena. They had sailed close to the coast, beneath the escarpment of Cabo Tinoso, and now the Carpanta Carpanta was entering the inlet of a port used by Greeks and Phoenicians. Quart-Hadasht: the Carthago Nova of the feats of Hannibal. was entering the inlet of a port used by Greeks and Phoenicians. Quart-Hadasht: the Carthago Nova of the feats of Hannibal.

Comfortable in a teak chair at the sailboat s stern, Coy was observing Es...o...b..eras island. There, below the defile in the south face, he had dived as a boy for Roman amphoras, wine and oil vessels with elegant necks, long curving handles, and the marks of their makers in Latin, some sealed just as they had sunk into the sea. Twenty years before, that zone had been an enormous field of debris from shipwrecks, and also, it was said, from navigators who threw offerings into the sea within view of the temple dedicated to Mercury. Coy had dived there many times, and come up, never faster than his own bubbles, toward the dark silhouette of the Carpanta Carpanta waiting on the glossy surface, her anchor line curving downward into the depths. Once, the first time he went to two hundred feet-two hundred three, the depth gauge on his wrist recorded-Coy had gone down slowly, with pauses to adapt to the change in pressure on his eardrums, letting himself fall deeper into that sphere where colors were disappearing, shading into a ghostly, diffuse light where only tones of green remained. He had eventually lost sight of the surface and then fallen slowly onto his knees on the clean sand bottom, with the cold of the deep rising up his thighs and groin beneath his neoprene suit. Seven point two atmospheres, he thought, amazed at his own audacity. But he was eighteen. All around him, to the edge of the green circle of visibility, scattered every which way on the smooth sand, half buried in it or grouped in small mounds, he saw dozens of broken and intact amphoras, necks, and pointed bases-millenary clay that no one had touched or seen for twenty centuries. Dark fish flashed among narrow amphora mouths in which evil-looking morays had taken up residence. Intoxicated by the feel of the sea on his skin, fascinated by the darkness and the vast field of vessels motionless as sleeping dolphins, Coy had pulled the mask from his face, keeping the air hose between his teeth, to feel on his face all the shadowy grandeur surrounding him. Then, suddenly alarmed, he put the mask back on, clearing it of water with air expelled through his nose. At that moment, El Piloto, made taller by his rubber fins, turned into another dark green silhouette descending at the end of a long plume of bubbles, had swum toward him, moving at the slow pace of men in the depths, signaling with a harsh gesture to the depth gauge on his wrist, and then touching his temple with a finger to ask, silently, whether Coy had lost his mind. They ascended together very slowly, following the jellyfish of air that preceded them, each carrying an amphora. And when they were almost at the surface, and the sun's rays began to filter through the smooth turquoise above their heads, Coy had turned his amphora upside down and a shower of fine sand, shining in the watery light, spilled from inside and enveloped him in a cloud of gold dust. waiting on the glossy surface, her anchor line curving downward into the depths. Once, the first time he went to two hundred feet-two hundred three, the depth gauge on his wrist recorded-Coy had gone down slowly, with pauses to adapt to the change in pressure on his eardrums, letting himself fall deeper into that sphere where colors were disappearing, shading into a ghostly, diffuse light where only tones of green remained. He had eventually lost sight of the surface and then fallen slowly onto his knees on the clean sand bottom, with the cold of the deep rising up his thighs and groin beneath his neoprene suit. Seven point two atmospheres, he thought, amazed at his own audacity. But he was eighteen. All around him, to the edge of the green circle of visibility, scattered every which way on the smooth sand, half buried in it or grouped in small mounds, he saw dozens of broken and intact amphoras, necks, and pointed bases-millenary clay that no one had touched or seen for twenty centuries. Dark fish flashed among narrow amphora mouths in which evil-looking morays had taken up residence. Intoxicated by the feel of the sea on his skin, fascinated by the darkness and the vast field of vessels motionless as sleeping dolphins, Coy had pulled the mask from his face, keeping the air hose between his teeth, to feel on his face all the shadowy grandeur surrounding him. Then, suddenly alarmed, he put the mask back on, clearing it of water with air expelled through his nose. At that moment, El Piloto, made taller by his rubber fins, turned into another dark green silhouette descending at the end of a long plume of bubbles, had swum toward him, moving at the slow pace of men in the depths, signaling with a harsh gesture to the depth gauge on his wrist, and then touching his temple with a finger to ask, silently, whether Coy had lost his mind. They ascended together very slowly, following the jellyfish of air that preceded them, each carrying an amphora. And when they were almost at the surface, and the sun's rays began to filter through the smooth turquoise above their heads, Coy had turned his amphora upside down and a shower of fine sand, shining in the watery light, spilled from inside and enveloped him in a cloud of gold dust.

He loved the sea that was as old and skeptical and wise as the endless women in the genetic memory of Tanger Soto. Its sh.o.r.es bore the imprint of the centuries, he thought, contemplating the city Virgil and Cervantes had written about, cl.u.s.tered at the back of the natural port among high stocky walls that for three thousand years had made it nearly impregnable against the a.s.sault of enemies and winds. Despite the decay of its crumbling, filthy facades and the empty lots where houses had tumbled down and not been rebuilt that at times gave it the curious aspect of a city at war, the city looked beautiful from the sea, and its narrow alleyways were resonant with the echoes of men who had fought like Trojans, thought like Greeks, and died like Romans. Now he could make out the ancient castle on a hillock above the wall, on the other side of the breakwater that protected the inlet and entrance to the a.r.s.enal. The old abandoned forts of Santa Ana and Navidad pa.s.sed by slowly to starboard and port of the Carpanta, Carpanta, still with empty gun embrasures that continued to stare toward the sea like blinded eyes. still with empty gun embrasures that continued to stare toward the sea like blinded eyes.

Here I was born, thought Coy. And from this port I first dipped into books and oceans. Here I was tormented by the challenge of faraway things and the before-the-fact nostalgia for all that I didn't know. Here I dreamed of rowing toward a whale with a knife between my teeth and the harpooner poised in the bow. Here I sensed, before I could speak English, the existence of what the Mariners' Weather Log Mariners' Weather Log calls the ESW: Extreme Storm Wave. I learned that every man, whether he encounters it or not, has an ESW waiting somewhere. Here I saw the gravestones of dead sailors on empty tombs and realized that the world is a ship on a one-way voyage. Here I discovered, before I needed it, the subst.i.tute for Cato's sword, for Socrates's hemlock: the pistol and the bullet. calls the ESW: Extreme Storm Wave. I learned that every man, whether he encounters it or not, has an ESW waiting somewhere. Here I saw the gravestones of dead sailors on empty tombs and realized that the world is a ship on a one-way voyage. Here I discovered, before I needed it, the subst.i.tute for Cato's sword, for Socrates's hemlock: the pistol and the bullet.

As the Carpanta Carpanta motored into port, Coy watched Tanger, sitting ramrod straight beside the anchor, with one hand holding onto the Genoa rolled on its stay, and smiled at himself. In the c.o.c.kpit, El Piloto was steering manually through waters he could have sailed blind. A gray Navy corvette, making for the sea from the San Pedro dock, pa.s.sed on the starboard side, its young sailors hanging over the rail to get a look at the motionless woman in the bow of the sailboat-a gilded figurehead. The offsh.o.r.e breeze carried the scent of the nearby hills. They were bare and dry, baked by the sun, with thyme, rosemary, palmetto, and p.r.i.c.kly pear sprouting from dark crags, dry gullies spotted with fig trees, and orderly rows of almond trees in rock-walled terraces. Despite the cement and gla.s.s and steel and steam shovels, and the interminable succession of b.a.s.t.a.r.d lights blemishing its sh.o.r.es, the Mediterranean was still there, enduring amid the quiet murmur of memory. Oil and red wine, Islam and Talmud, crosses, pines, cypresses, tombs, churches, sunsets crimson as blood, white sails in the distance, rocks carved by man and time, that unique hour in the evening when everything was still and silent except for the song of the cicada, and nights in the light of a driftwood bonfire and a slow moon rising above the sea. Sardines on the spit and bay and olives, watermelon rinds washing back and forth in quiet waves at dusk, the sound of rolling pebbles in the dawn undertow, boats painted blue, white, or red beached on sh.o.r.es with ruined windmills and gray olive trees, and grapes yellowing in the arbors. And in the shadows, eyes lost in the intense blue stretching eastward, men staring at the sea, swarthy, bearded heroes who knew about shipwrecks in coves designated by cruel G.o.ds in the guise of mutilated statues sleeping, open-eyed, through the silence of centuries. "What's that?" asked Tanger. motored into port, Coy watched Tanger, sitting ramrod straight beside the anchor, with one hand holding onto the Genoa rolled on its stay, and smiled at himself. In the c.o.c.kpit, El Piloto was steering manually through waters he could have sailed blind. A gray Navy corvette, making for the sea from the San Pedro dock, pa.s.sed on the starboard side, its young sailors hanging over the rail to get a look at the motionless woman in the bow of the sailboat-a gilded figurehead. The offsh.o.r.e breeze carried the scent of the nearby hills. They were bare and dry, baked by the sun, with thyme, rosemary, palmetto, and p.r.i.c.kly pear sprouting from dark crags, dry gullies spotted with fig trees, and orderly rows of almond trees in rock-walled terraces. Despite the cement and gla.s.s and steel and steam shovels, and the interminable succession of b.a.s.t.a.r.d lights blemishing its sh.o.r.es, the Mediterranean was still there, enduring amid the quiet murmur of memory. Oil and red wine, Islam and Talmud, crosses, pines, cypresses, tombs, churches, sunsets crimson as blood, white sails in the distance, rocks carved by man and time, that unique hour in the evening when everything was still and silent except for the song of the cicada, and nights in the light of a driftwood bonfire and a slow moon rising above the sea. Sardines on the spit and bay and olives, watermelon rinds washing back and forth in quiet waves at dusk, the sound of rolling pebbles in the dawn undertow, boats painted blue, white, or red beached on sh.o.r.es with ruined windmills and gray olive trees, and grapes yellowing in the arbors. And in the shadows, eyes lost in the intense blue stretching eastward, men staring at the sea, swarthy, bearded heroes who knew about shipwrecks in coves designated by cruel G.o.ds in the guise of mutilated statues sleeping, open-eyed, through the silence of centuries. "What's that?" asked Tanger.

She had come to the stern and was pointing past the Navidad dock and the large twin concrete tunnels that formerly berthed submarines, to where the black El Espalmador beach was littered with the junk of boats cut up for sc.r.a.p.

"That's the Graveyard of Ships With No Name."

El Piloto had turned toward Coy. He had a half smoked cigarette between his lips and was looking at him with eyes flooded with memories, on the verge of some emotion that he refrained from showing. On the sh.o.r.e, beyond rusted hulls partly sunk among frames, bridges, decks, and funnels, lay ships gutted like great hapless whales, their metal ribs and naked bulkheads exposed, their steel plates cut and stacked on the beach at the foot of the cranes. That was where ships sentenced to death, stripped of name, registration, and flag, made their last voyage before ending up under the blowtorch. City planners had fingered that graveyard for extinction, but it was taking months to finish sc.r.a.pping and clearing away the junk that lay scattered on the beach. Coy saw an ancient bulk carrier of which there remained only the stern, half sunk in the sea, and whose fore two-thirds h