Isaac's Storm (8 page)

The
world
tumbled
forward.
Over
the
next
fifteen
centuries,
the
definition
of
wind
did
not
advance
very
far
beyond
Anaximander's
"flowing
of
air."
In
A.D.
1120,
before
Europe
rediscovered
the
great
works
of
the
Greeks,
Adelard
of
Bath,
an
English
monk,
thought
he
had
stumbled
upon
something
new.
With
the
sobriety
of
a
man
humbled
by
his
own
genius,
he
wrote:
"I
think
that
wind
is
a
species
of
air."

As
MEN
VENTURED
beyond
the
bounds
of
their
accustomed
territory,
goaded
by
riches
and
glory,
they
encountered
strange
new
meteorological
phenomena.
Early
mariners
discovered
the
miraculous
trade
winds
that
blew
their
ships
toward
the
Indies.
But
they
also
discovered
the
doldrums
at
the
equator
and,
just
north
of
the
trades,
another
realm
of
stillness
that
they
named
the
Horse
Latitudes,
where
half-dead
crews
becalmed
for
weeks
cast
their
horses
overboard
to
conserve
drinking
water.

Early
captains
learned
also
that
these
new
seas
harbored
the
exact
opposite
of
doldrums,
monster
storms
with
cunning
lulls
during
which
the
sun
would
shine
and
the
winds
cease,
seducing
unwary
crews
into
believing
the
worst
was
over.
Isaac
learned
that
the
first
European
to
encounter
such
storms
was
the
ever-charmed
Columbus,
and
how
the
weather
of
the
Indies
revealed
itself
to
him
gradually,
as
if
to
prepare
him
for
his
first
true
hurricane.
That
storm
occurred
during
his
fourth
and
final
voyage
with
such
discriminating
ferocity
it
sparked
accusations
that
he
had
conjured
it
through
magic
—
a
not-unreasonable
charge
given
the
mysticism
of
the
age,
and
the
storm's
result.

COLUMBUS
SET
OFF
on
his
first
voyage
on
August
3,
1492,
from
Palos,
Spain,
with
a
fleet
of
three
tiny
caravels,
the
Nina,
the
Pinta,
and
the
Santa
Maria.
By
nineteenth-century
standards,
the
three
vessels
hardly
qualified
as
ships.
They
were
large
boats
crewed
skimpily
with
a
few
experienced
sailors
and
adventure-hungry
boys.
Not
only
did
Columbus
and
his
captains
have
no
means
of
determining
the
exact
location
of
their
ships
in
the
featureless
blue
of
the
ocean,
they
also
carried
none
of
the
meteorological
tools
that
mariners
in
Isaac's
time
took
for
granted.

After
overcoming
a
few
technical
problems,
the
ships
caught
the
trades
and
made
quick,
untroubled
progress.
The
weather
was
perfect:

clear
blue
skies,
brisk
and
steady
winds
shoving
big
cotton
clouds
over
the
horizon,
cool
nights
and
balmy
days,
the
overall
effect
one
of
languid,
sloe-eyed
sensuality.
"The
weather
was
like
April
in
Andalusia,"
Columbus
wrote,
"the
only
thing
wanting
was
to
hear
nightingales."

But
something
curious
did
occur
during
that
first
voyage.
A
lookout
saw
them
first,
rising
a
long
way
off.
Astonished,
he
sounded
the
alarm.

IT
WAS
SEPTEMBER
23,
the
fleet's
exact
position
unclear
but
the
weather
good,
skies
bright,
no
sign
of
a
storm
on
any
horizon.
Nonetheless,
the
lookouts
spotted
immense
swells
marching
slowly
and
silently
toward
the
ships.
Columbus
and
his
captains
turned
the
fleet
into
the
oncoming
seas
and
watched
open-jawed
as
the
surface
of
the
ocean
rose
in
great
oil-smooth
hills
of
blue
and
green.
The
swells
lifted
the
ships
to
exhilarating
heights
but
posed
no
danger.

What
Columbus
did
not
know
was
that
these
swells
were
most
likely
the
advance
guard
of
a
hurricane
rising
hundreds
of
miles
away,
well
out
of
sight
—
the
same
brand
of
swell
Isaac
observed
as
he
stood
on
the
seat
of
his
sulky
in
Galveston
four
centuries
later.

The
ships
continued
their
journey;
Columbus
opened
the
gates
to
the
New
World.

The
more
time
Columbus
spent
in
the
waters
of
the
Indies,
however,
the
more
he
saw
the
flaws
in
his
original
appraisal
of
Caribbean
weather.
Water
spouts
danced
among
his
ships.
Tropical
rains
fell
as
if
from
a
ruptured
cask.
Squalls
tore
the
sails
from
his
spars.
By
the
time
of
his
final
voyage,
Columbus
had
learned
that
the
seas
of
the
New
World
were
both
seductive
and
deadly,
but
in
the
process
had
become
adept
at
reading
the
tropical
skies
for
signs
of
trouble.

He
was
ready
for
his
first
true
hurricane.

FOUR
YEARS
BEFORE
the
storm,
Ferdinand
and
Isabella,
intending
to
reward
Columbus,
appointed
him
viceroy
of
the
Indies.
He
reached
Hispaniola
in
August
1498
expecting
to
savor
the
perquisites
of
rank,
but
found
rebellion
and
turmoil.
When
word
came
back
to
Spain
that
chaos,
not
the
sovereigns,
reigned
in
Hispaniola,
Ferdinand
and
Isabella
dispatched
an
emissary,
Francisco
de
Bobadilla,
to
straighten
things
out.
Secretly
they
had
granted
him
extraordinary
powers,
which
he
demonstrated
immediately
upon
his
arrival.
It
did
not
help
that
as
Bobadilla
sailed
into
Santo
Domingo
harbor
he
saw
seven
Spanish
corpses
dangling
from
the
gallows.
Swaying
palms
were
one
thing;
swaying
countrymen
quite
another.
He
used
the
hangings
as
a
pretext
to
arrest
Columbus
and
lock
him
in
chains,
a
degree
of
public
humiliation
that
speaks
clearly
of
some
deeper
passion
filling
Bobadilla's
portfolio.
Greed
perhaps,
but
certainly
envy.

In
October
1500
Bobadilla
marched
the
iron-laced
Columbus
through
town
and
on
board
a
ship,
La
Gorda,
bound
for
Spain.
Bobadilla
himself
took
over
the
administration
of
Hispaniola.
After
returning
to
Spain,
Columbus
remained
in
chains
for
six
more
weeks
before
the
sovereigns
released
him.
He
pleaded
for
the
license
and
funds
to
conduct
one
more
great
voyage.
In
a
sign
of
new
warmth
toward
the
admiral,
Ferdinand
and
Isabella
commanded
Bobadilla
to
assemble
all
proceeds
from
trade
and
the
mining
of
gold
that
were
owed
Columbus,
and
to
place
these
in
the
custody
of
his
designated
agent.
On
March
14,
1502,
the
sovereigns
granted
Columbus
another
voyage.
Like
wise
parents
seeking
to
head
off
the
wars
of
jealous
children,
they
forbade
him
to
stop
at
Hispaniola.

Columbus,
delighted
to
be
sailing
again,
set
out
with
four
caravels,
and
on
June
29,
1502,
found
himself
and
his
fleet
off
Hispaniola.
He
saw
that
a
great
convoy
of
thirty
ships
was
being
readied
in
the
Ozama
River
at
Santo
Domingo
for
imminent
departure,
but
did
not
know
at
the
time
that
this
fleet
was
carrying
Bobadilla
and
a
vast
fortune
in
gold,
including
his
own
share.
That
Bobadilla
had
consigned
Columbus's
gold
to
the
smallest
and
flimsiest
of
the
convoy
ships,
the
Aguja,
was
yet
another
mark
of
whatever
hidden
passion
fueled
his
hatred.
If
any
ship
was
likely
to
sink,
it
would
be
the
puny
Aguja.

Columbus
had
at
least
three
good,
practical,
defensible
reasons
for
what
he
did
next:
First,
the
departing
convoy
presented
an
excellent
opportunity
for
getting
mail
from
his
own
little
fleet
promptly
back
to
Spain.
Second,
he
wanted
to
trade
one
of
his
ships,
a
poor
performer,
for
something
a
bit
more
spry.
Third,
the
weather
had
taken
an
ominous
turn,
exhibiting
the
usual
troika
of
storm
signs:
oily
swells,
oppressive
heat,
a
red
sky.

For
all
these
good,
practical,
and
defensible
reasons,
Columbus
sent
one
of
his
captains
ashore
with
a
request
to
permit
his
fleet
to
enter
the
harbor,
a
clear
violation
of
the
sovereigns'
orders.

The
new
governor,
Don
Nicolas
de
Ovando,
only
laughed.
Stung,
Columbus
led
his
ships
to
the
leeward
side
of
Hispaniola
to
place
the
mass
of
the
island
between
the
ships
and
the
rising
storm.
He
instructed
his
captains
that
if
they
became
separated
by
the
storm
to
meet
in
a
harbor
on
Ocoa
Bay,
near
what
later
became
Puerto
Viejo
de
Azua.

Meanwhile,
with
great
fanfare
—
trumpets
blaring,
cannon
roaring,
banners
streaming
—
the
thirty-ship
convoy
ferrying
Bobadilla
and
Columbus's
gold
sailed
from
Ozama
and
made
for
the
Mona
Passage,
the
strait
between
Hispaniola
and
Puerto
Rico
that
connects
the
Caribbean
to
the
Atlantic.

The
storm
was
a
full-fledged
hurricane.
Columbus's
fleet,
sheltered
in
the
lee
of
Hispaniola,
caught
a
glancing
blow
that
nonetheless
topped
anything
in
severity
that
Columbus
had
so
far
confronted.
"The
storm
was
terrible,"
he
wrote,
"and
on
that
night
the
ships
were
parted
from
me.
Each
one
of
them
was
reduced
to
an
extremity
expecting
nothing
save
death;
each
one
of
them
was
certain
the
others
were
lost."

In
a
maneuver
that
went
against
customary
marine
practice,
Columbus
did
not
strike
for
open
sea
but
instead
brought
his
ship
closer
to
shore
to
leverage
further
the
windbreak
afforded
by
the
mountains
of
Hispaniola.
His
ship
survived.
On
Sunday,
July
3,
he
sailed
his
caravel
into
Ocoa
Bay,
the
designated
meeting
place.
He
saw
no
sign
of
the
others.

As
his
ship
rocked
gently
in
the
gorgeous
blue,
its
decks
quiet
but
for
the
sounds
of
repair,
Columbus
watched
the
entrance
to
the
bay
through
thermals
of
humid
air.

A
lookout
would
have
spotted
it
first
as
a
glint
of
white
against
the
settling
sea.
He
cried
out,
then
perhaps
wished
he
had
not,
as
the
glint
disappeared
and
the
ship
eased
back
into
the
turquoise
quiet.

But
another
spark
followed,
a
true
sign
now.
Sails
and
finally
a
ship.
Followed
by
another.
And,
impossibly,
yet
another.

All
safe.

And
what
of
Bobadilla?