Chapter III - A Sea of Doubts
The sun rose brilliantly into a flawless blue sky on the morning of February 23, 1521. Somewhat less brilliantly, I lounged bleary-eyed on the poop deck of the Santa Maria, catching my breath. I rested against the taffrail and looked miserably down upon a variously aromatic, cacophonous, profane and sanctimonious welter of horses, donkeys, goats, cows, swine, sailors, farmers, craftsmen and priests. An unending stream of crates packed with supplies was making steady progress up the gangway and down into the dark holds, under the blasphemous urgings of Sargento Garcia. Old Noah's infamous ark must have presented a panorama much like this on departure day, though perhaps with a little less cursing. At the next berth, a large three-masted carraca was similarly occupied. A fresh south-easterly promised an easy start to our voyage, and thankfully dispersed the worst of the pungency of the domestic animals.
I felt slightly ill from the previous night's lack of sleep and excess of wine. My discomfort was eased by the remembrance of an equal excess of bliss. I sighed and my features settled into a satisfied smile.
I had known that daylight would come much too soon and bring the start of long months aboard ship with naught but men and mules for company. Along with revisited youth had most interestingly returned an almost troublesome but absolutely overpowering urge to be with a woman. Frequently. Fortunately, unlike the first time I had travelled this painful road, this urge was now easily enough satisfied.
Most often I found relief with my intoxicating Zianna. Zianna Etxeberria. A woman as fierce and feral as only a half-wild Basque could be. The wondrous onset of womanhood had emboldened her to flee the male repression of the País Vasco y Navarra in '13 and find her way on to a galleon headed for San Juan Bautista. And God help any man who stood in her way.
She was working the better establishments of the port when I met her in '18. I was already well-known about town. On my entrance to one of those parlours, one of the working girls had accosted me and was attempting to interest me in her wares. Then from across the room I was struck by a vision of voluptuous Spanish pulchritude. The delicately curled tendrils against her high cheeks, cascading ringlets of sleek ebon hair, swept back and up from impossibly perfect ears into an elaborate tangle that flowed like rippled silk over her bared shoulders. The flashing chestnut brown eyes smouldering behind impossibly long lashes. The aquiline nose. The flawless olive complexion. I stood frozen, stupefied, mouth wide agape I am sure. Suddenly she turned and caught my rude stare. The eyes of every man in the room followed as she glided across the floor toward me with all the grace and menace of a hunting puma. One half of me hoped I was her prey; the other half quaked and wanted only to evaporate into mist. With a catlike glare she brushed aside the other woman. She poked a shiny red fingernail into my chest and said, "You. Chico. Tonight you are mine." A study in arrogance, but how right she was.
She refused payment that first night, purring a challenge, "Amante, you can pay me the first night you let me down." She grinned and bared her teeth in a mock snarl. Or was it?
There had been countless nights since and never had she asked for so much as a copper coin. Early on the eve of my departure for La Florida, we had liberally sampled from my cellar of fine Jerez wines and were catching our breaths after a vigorous tussle. The tropical night was warm and humid and wore our scent.
Zianna's tousled head rested in the soft hollow between my shoulder and my chest and her smooth leg was heavy across my thigh as we lay tangled in the sheets.
"Tonio, your poor heart will leap from your chest! I cannot count the beats."
"If it did not burst in the last five minutes, I think I am out of danger. For now."
