Just Add Salt (2) Read Free

decision had to be made soon, all knew, but not this night.
    Lulled into a sound sleep by the dim hope that his children might survive, Comacho was startled awake by a howling wind. At first he thanked the saints, for now they could be on their way to San Lucas and water, but then he sensed something amiss. Rushing onto the top deck, he soon realized the wind blew from the south.
    San Carlos ’s crew, unable to sail south into the wind and building seas, reversed course and sailed northwest. When they felt they were safely offshore, they turned eastward. Their plan was, when the wind once again became northerly, to reverse again and zigzag ever southerly, until they reached San Lucas. But clouds had moved in, obscuring any navigational stars and even the moon. It wasn’t until the ship lurched over a sandbar that they discovered they were practically on the beach.
    Dropping all sails, launching all anchors, plus cannons tied to lines, they hoped to slow their disastrous progression toward land, but they continued to slip, occasionally touching bottom. The storm rocked the ship so badly her yardarms dipped into the ocean. Some sailors jumped overboard, taking their chances on swimming ashore rather than being dragged to the bottom with the overloaded vessel. All night, crew and passengers alike fought nausea and fear, holding on to whatever they could while water swept the decks and filled the holds.
    Then suddenly, just as first light brightened the horizon, the wind dropped. Comacho, when he could get his bearings and see his surroundings, sucked in his breath and whispered, “ Milagro .” And it was a miracle, for San Carlos was not only intact and afloat, but inside a large bay. At the entrance behind them, breakers boomed, but the ship sat in relatively calm water.
    Dazed men and women, slave and master, officers and crew, all made equal by right of their very survival, fell to their knees and thanked diverse gods for their salvation.
    In no time, Comacho and a crew were rowing ashore in search of fresh water. The pilot, who did not survive to see his last successful pilotage, had told them to look for date palms, but all day they searched in vain. That night they camped on a dune and, after chewing on barrel cactus pulp to soothe their parched throats, they roasted a raccoon whose curiosity proved his undoing. Eating meat again was such a luxury that they temporarily put their troubles aside to enjoy the moment.
    One of the men cocked his head. “ Oye ! Singing dogs.” The men stopped sucking marrow and chewing bones and listened to eerie coyote calls echoing through the cool clear air.
    “Are they dangerous?” asked a man who had heard of, but never seen, killer dingoes in the Philippines and wolves in China. “Not to full grown men, I hear. I also heard,” said the navigator, “they can sniff out water faster that any other animal in the desert.”
    “Not as fast as our rats, I’d venture,” another complained.
    An exultant Comacho jumped to his feet. “Rats. That’s it. Let us return to the ship, and quickly.” The others feared he had a fever of dementia, but he was in charge now, so they obeyed.
    After an intense and bloody roundup, a cage of thirst-frenzied rats were set free. They scattered, willy-nilly, dogged by the most able-bodied sailors. In only six hours, a tracked rat scampered through a break in a rock pile, into a cave harboring an underground pool.
    Ironically, as soon as the stranded voyagers discovered the cave pond, a thick fog moved in and they captured even more water by spreading mats designed to catch rain at sea. To warm his children against the misty chill, Comacho sacrificed a bolt of fine fabric, swaddling them in silk once destined for kings. Slave and seaman alike feasted on fish, clams and lobster seasoned with exotic spices foraged from the hold.
    Gold, silver, Chinese porcelain and jewels, the only things safe from rats, were left in the ship. Everyone but a skeleton crew