Pirate Latitudes

Her elevation helped her; from this vantage point atop the mainmast, she was able to see the color of the water many miles ahead, an intricate pattern of blues and greens of different intensities. In her mind, these registered as depths; she could read them as if they were a chart marked with soundings.

This was no mean skill. The ordinary seaman, knowing the clarity of Caribbean water, naturally assumed that deep blue meant deep water, and green, still deeper. Lazue knew better: if the bottom was sandy, the water might be light blue, though the depth was fifty feet. Or a deep green color could mean a sea grass bottom just ten feet deep. And the shifting sun over the course of the day played odd tricks: in early morning or late afternoon all the colors were richer and darker; one had to compensate.

But for the moment, she had no concern for depth. She scanned the colors at the shoreline, looking for some clue to the entrance to Monkey Bay. She remembered that Monkey Bay was the outflow of a small river of fresh water, as was the case with most usable coves. There were many other Caribbean coves that were not safe for large ships, because there was no gap in the offshore coral reef. To have a gap, one needed a fresh-water outflow, for where there was fresh water, coral did not grow.

Lazue, scanning the water near the shoreline, knew that the gap might not be near the stream itself. Depending on the currents that carried the freshwater out to sea, the actual break in the reef might be a quarter-mile north or south. Wherever it was, currents often produced a brownish turbidity in the water, and a change in the surface appearance.

She scanned carefully, and finally she saw it, south of the ship’s present course. She signaled corrections to Enders on the deck below. As El Trinidad came closer, she was glad that the sea artist had no idea what he was facing; he would faint if he knew how narrow the gap in the reef really was. There were coral heads awash on both sides, and between them the open space was no more than a dozen yards.

Satisfied with the new course, Lazue closed her eyes for several minutes. She was aware of the pink color of sunlight on her eyelids; she was not aware of the motion of the ship, or the wind in the sails, or the smells of the ocean. She was focused entirely on her eyes as she rested them. Nothing mattered but her eyes. She breathed deeply and slowly, preparing herself for the coming exertion, gathering her energy, sharpening her concentration.

She knew how it would happen; she knew the inevitable progression - an easy beginning and then the first ache in her eyes, the increasing pain, then tears, stinging, burning. At the end of the hour, she knew she would be wholly exhausted, her entire body limp. She would need sleep as if she had been awake for a week, and would probably collapse as soon as she climbed down to the deck.

It was for this coming, massive exertion that she prepared herself now; breathing in long, slow breaths, with her eyes closed.

…

FOR ENDERS, AT the helm, his concentration was very different. His eyes were open, but he had little interest in what he saw. Enders felt the tiller in his hands; the pressure it exerted on his palms; the cant of the deck beneath his feet; the rumble of the water slipping by the hull; the wind on his cheeks; the vibration of the rigging; the whole complex of forces and stresses that made up the trim of the ship. Indeed, in his absolute concentration, Enders became part of the ship, joined to it as if physically connected; he was the brain to its body, and he knew its condition to the minutest detail.

He knew its speed to a fraction of a knot; he sensed when any sail was wrongly trimmed; he knew when any cargo shifted in the hold, and he knew where; he felt how much water was in the bilge; he knew when the ship was sailing easy, when she was on her best line; he knew when she was past it, and how long she could hold past it, and how far he could push her.

All this he could have told you with his eyes closed. He could not have said how he knew it, only that he did. Now, working with Lazue, he was worried, precisely because he had to give over part of his control to someone else. Lazue’s hand signals meant nothing to him that he could sense directly; yet he followed her directions blindly, knowing that he must trust her. But he was nervous about it; he sweated at the tiller, feeling the wind more strongly on his damp cheeks, and he made more corrections as Lazue stretched out her arms.

She was taking the ship southward. She must have spotted the break in the reef, he thought, and was now making for it. Soon they would pass through the gap. The very idea made him sweat more.

…