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The salty tang of the sea filled the air, overpowering the musty scent of thousands of

pounds of wool, packed into canvas bales beneath the decks of the ship.

Roaps and sails creaked and flapped in the steady wind, the ship swaying and rocking

with the swell of the English Channel.

The journey from London to Calais was short as sea voyages went, just a few days in

good weather, but the channel was never to be taken lightly.

Even in June, storms and fog and treacherous gales could blow up with little warning.

Ship's scent, sailors drowned, merchants lost fortunes.

But safety was just ahead.

The fortified port of Calais looming ahead through the summer mist.

The ship, which bore the name of Mary, like so many others applying the channel, pulled

up to a bustling key.

Dozens of ships just like it were in various states of unloading here in June of 1481.

Bale after bale of wool came down onto the piers to be loaded onto carts for the short

trip to the warehouses that lined the waterfront.

The pears shouted in English and French, long shorn and sweated and heaved and yelled,

shipmasters argued with port officials.

The merchant owners of the merchant I swore when they saw that a bale had been soaked

or improperly packed.

One merchant stood on the dock to meet the mare, a young man, aged barely creasing his face.

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