Where do you draw the line? Between ‘charted’ and ‘uncharted’? Not that it really matters, of course. In the end, what matters is an as-scientifically-accurate-as-you-can map. He would make it one day. One day soon, at that. Where do you draw the line? Or, where do you label, on the map, that these are waters you had no idea existed? Just because you’re just discovering them? Land’s easier to document, of course. All you have to do is position that line where water gives way to land. The shoreline. The limit. Limits are easy. For sure, this did not look good. You worry about the blurriness of frontiers, and as if a neverending expanse of water was not enough to reinforce those worries, then comes along water, but in a more mysterious, witching form – mist – to further confound the worried mind. To further blur that line. Sagged sails, infernal heat, and – at the moment at least – silence. It’s the first time on this voyage, which is going on sixty-six days now, that she, his nao, encounters mist.

Juan is standing at the bow of the ship under the dark, moonless sky, hands on the railing, looking ahead into the few varas of sea surface visibility that the darkness and the mist allow him. Only the boy is awake, that he can attest to, and at the helm. An imberbe – Juan might have chuckled had he been less exhausted, less on edge – an unbearded, probably pubeless young bloke the old man had insisted on bringing along. Juan glances back to the aftcastle, and at the absent-minded young man at the helm. He gazes at him in relative disgust for a couple of seconds. Then he turns his head back to look ahead, shakes his head, scoffs. He’ll bring shame onto himself, the youth will, soon enough. Both he and his mentor will. Well. His mentor, the old man, if he does get to his Asia, he will find glory, of course. But this gargajito… that’s another story. He’ll err greatly someday. If the admiral’s favoritism continues, that is, and time off continues to be granted to the helmsman, in favor of this dreaming boy. Not that he’s doing much, at this speed. Juan, at times like these, he just wants to… philosophize. He looks down at the rather – now that he thinks of it – unsettingly still black water below. This calm? This calm is never good. He reaches for a slender slice of salted meat that’s tucked at his belt, brings it to his sparse-black-beard-framed mouth, and exposed are incisors and canines that to have called the color of wet, rotting lemons would have been kind. He bites into the dry, harsh meat and pulls, and strands and fibers reveal and some of them stay snug -- and will probably hibernate to death -- between his disorderly teeth. He reaches down for the bottle of wine. Si tuviera la ostia la tomaría en vez, he mutters under his breath as he swigs some cheap fermented grape juice down the way of his grateful gut. For some reason, the small hours after midnight were always the worst for his stomach. If he didn’t get up and fill up his poor old belly at least partly, it would be his heart burning and puke-infused belching and a gut double its usual size and in short general misery all the next day. He’d go back to sleep soon. These still waters and now this witching mist – these did not make him particularly giddy. He tucks the piece of meat back in his belt, and offers a little prayer:

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“Ave María, Madre Santa, abridnos paso entre esta niebla; guiadnos, que no vaia a atormentarse ‘ste tiempo ni la bestia apresurarse y abominarnos… Amén.”

After uttering these words he makes his way along an obstacle course of sleeping crew and storage trunks and bags of provisions and back to his hammock, which is down the ladder by the hearth, at portside. He likes his place by the hearth. Sure, ashes here and there blown in his face by the breeze but… ostia! He forgot his bottle. He goes back for it and tortuously but momentarily appeased, returns to his hammock. Forget the cork, that got lost earlier today. The nao rocks tensely, slowly, from side to side. Rolls. But that he can hear the sound of the nearby caravels – inferior ships, of course – creaking as they also roll in place, unmoving, this is in no way appeasing. Why? Because they’re not exactly a stone’s throw away from his nao. His nao and its flanking caravels had grown further and further apart, and by now, their flanking presence was almost an afterthought. So under normal conditions, at this distance, maybe the neighboring crew could hear you were you to yell to them at the top of your lungs. But the quiet is so overwhelming now, you can hear the darned ships creak. Fortunately, at least, the salty smell of this vast sea, which for some reason is stronger than ever, is there to somehow mask, somehow cleanse, the stagnant, unholy stenches of the men aboard, himself included. Plus, perhaps, that of the rotting dead rat or rats that no one seems to find. He looks back at the gargajito. Behind him, other than the old man’s glowing window – does he ever sleep? -- the nao’s gleaming beacon at stern is the only light in the world. It makes the boy’s youthful, unruly hair look like some kind of halo. Ángel. Ángel, I will call this bastard. Ángel, I will call him. The youth now’s looking like he’s nodding off. He’s – Juan is – losing touch too… that moment when you’re dimly aware that your thoughts are giving… way to… dreamings… imagine if they were right… and the world’s not round as… the old man and Pythagoras and… Anaximander and… Anaximenes or whatever… say… and there’s no way to the East… via the west and… there actually is a limit, a line, the line’s the edge, like the… the actual edge, like… edge on a map? The frame of this water world, el… marco de este océano?? The limit between charted and uncharted, this… Marcoceanum? And what it is, it’s… a big, gigantic, gargantuan… water… fall… as they… said and… the beast… the beassst… Juan’s out.