Day 34 since we embarked from San Sebastién on the pitiful island of La Gomera. As barbaric as it was, I wish I’d have stayed. Of course, I admit that even this is better than shoveling horse shit for Don Carlos back home, but the Italian is completely mad. It’s all very well to say China is just over the horizon, but the horizon keeps moving, and is new each day. Only that imbecile Rodrigo still climbs the mast every night, hoping to claim the pension promised to the first man to sight land. Even if he does see it, does he think the fancy men will let him take it? It will be a fight among the pilots over that juicy plum, no doubt! No matter; we’ll never make it anyway.
So far, it’s just muttering. The grog makes it just possible to hold down the hard tack and salt grub, but it won’t last forever. If poor old Inigo ever sobers up before he gets his silk shirt, he’ll kill everybody on the boat. We all agree, except for Don Martín, of course, that we ought to turn around. I think he would agree as well, but for his position as master of the ship, but it’s up to those fancy Genoese on the Sta. María. Those bastards would sooner change their pants before they’d change their minds. That’s why Colombo stays on that ship. If he ever got next to a proper Spanish crew there’d be hell to pay, I’m telling you.
Things will change soon, in any case, if we don’t get any wind. Not that we’re short of butt wind, with these rations. Those fancy pants with Colombo hold their farts. I swear they’ll blow up like balloons and float away one day.
Then let the last man point his ass to the sunset, and blow us all back home, God willing.
Were there balloons in 1492?