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The old sailor closed his eyes and felt the warm summer gusts rustle his long, unkempt beard.

Gray predominate, and the original black was consigned to a few stray patches here and

there.

The matted rough of hair framed a deeply lined face that decades of relentless exposure

to sun, wind and spray had burned and tanned to the color and consistency of worn leather.

The sailor knew these winds.

Pedro had felt them all his life as long as he could remember.

That distinctive salty tang smelled of home too, just suddenly different than anywhere else.

Full of that told him he had arrived at the mouth of the River Tegas, the gateway to Lisbon,

just as he had so many times before.

He didn't need to open his eyes to picture the scene laid out around.

A rocky shoreline with prominent, low hanging cliffs, fishing boats pulled up outside clusters

of humble fisherman's cottages like the one in which he'd been born.

The river's narrow channel opening to the protected harbor beyond.

The ceiling crowded with traffic, a steady procession of ships headed into and out of Lisbon.

Small caravels turned south for the long journey to the coast of West Africa.

Fat-bellied carrots square sails filling with the gusting summer wind turned north toward

France and England.

Pedro opened his eyes and looked down at the worn battered ship beneath it, a caravel

called the Beru.

...