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August is a hot month in Endalucía, burning sunshine, bearing down on baking planes and scrub-covered hill sites.

At least it's a dry heat, though.

And here, at the tiny seaport of Palos, where the Atlantic Ocean meets the coastline,

the occasional breezes rolling in from the vast expanses of open water offer some relief.

The smell of salty brine permeates the air along the docks that line L'Ariotinto,

one of two that join here near Palos and then flow to the ocean.

That's a familiar smell to the sweating, heaving men working here,

as familiar as the stench of unwashed bodies, rotting fish, and sheep wine.

Their curses and yells meld with the calling of seabirds, the thump of their feet on the docks,

and gentle wash of river water against the three ships they're currently loading with supplies.

Beryl's full of salted beef and mutton and pork, casks full of rock hard,

white-spaked biscuit, bad wine to wash it down, and water that will soon turn bad.

The sailors and dock workers lug it all up the gangways into the three waiting vessels.

Two of the ships are small, between 50 and 60 feet in length, with three masts and triangular

latine sails. They're called caravels, a familiar sight in these waters. Palos was their home port.

The third is larger through the middle, with square sails and high decks foreign-aff,

a trading ship called a now or a carac. Standing high on the carac's aft deck is a man with a

deeply-tanned face, hardened by years of sun and wind on distant seas. He barks orders,

influence Spanish tinged only a bit with the flavors of his native northern Italy.

Genoa was his birthplace, but the sea is his home. Almost a decade of planning and networking,

...