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Authors: John Steinbeck
The Log From the Sea of Cortez (Penguin Classics) (34 page)
BOOK: The Log From the Sea of Cortez (Penguin Classics)
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On the reef, we took a number of barnacles, many
Phataria
and
Linckia,
sponges, and tunicates. Moving from the reef to the stone fingers, we saw and captured a most attenuated spider crab,
78
all legs and little body. On the sand bottom between the fingers were many sting-rays lying quietly, and near the edge of one little harbor there were two in copulation, male (or female) lying on its back with its mate on top of it and the heads together. We wanted these two, and so after a moment in which we toughened the fibers of our romantic feelings, we put a light harpoon through both of them at once and brought them up, angry and disillusioned. We had hoped that they might remain fastened so that they might be preserved in coition, but their softer feelings were offended and they disengaged.
Phataria
and
Linckia,
sponges, and tunicates. Moving from the reef to the stone fingers, we saw and captured a most attenuated spider crab,
78
all legs and little body. On the sand bottom between the fingers were many sting-rays lying quietly, and near the edge of one little harbor there were two in copulation, male (or female) lying on its back with its mate on top of it and the heads together. We wanted these two, and so after a moment in which we toughened the fibers of our romantic feelings, we put a light harpoon through both of them at once and brought them up, angry and disillusioned. We had hoped that they might remain fastened so that they might be preserved in coition, but their softer feelings were offended and they disengaged.
Meanwhile Tiny, moving in the little slip-like bays with the skiff, harpooned several more sting-rays. On the beach we took several sand-living cucumbers, and in the bottom of a mud pool searched long and unsuccessfully for a furry crab which had been seen scuttling into its burrow. This was a rich field for collecting, but the horizon markers were true to their position in the Gulf, and except for the profusion on Red Bluff Point reef, where the footing was excellent, there was nothing novel.
When it grew dark, we turned on the deck lights and saw numbers of a barracuda-like fish coming to eat the small fishes that gathered to the light. We put a fish-line on a small trident spear and began throwing it at them. About every tenth cast we struck one and brought him to the deck. And now a curious thing happened.From the shore came a swarm of very large bats. Their bodies were small but they had a twelve- to fifteen-inch wing-spread. They circled restlessly around the boat, although there were no insects about. Sparky was on the rail, spearing barracuda, and he is very much afraid of bats. Suddenly one swooped near him, and he struck at it with the harpoon. By one of those strange accidents, the barbs went into the bat and captured it, and now four or five more dived straight at Sparky’s head and he dropped the harpoon and ran for the galley. The dead bat fell over the side into the water, where we later picked it up.
Then an even stranger thing happened. As though at a signal, every bat of the hundreds suddenly turned and flew away to shore and not another one was seen. We have not yet a report on the one taken, so we do not know what kind of bats they were. There are reports of fish-eating bats, and these may have been that kind. We warned Sparky seriously to keep very quiet about the incident. “Sparky,” we said, “we know that your reputation for truthfulness in Monterey is as good as most. In other words, it is not above reproach. If we were you, when you get back to Monterey, we would never mention to anyone that we had harpooned a bat. We would make up stories and adventures, but there is no reason for straining an already shaky reputation.” Sparky promised he would never tell, but back in Monterey he couldn’t resist and, just as we supposed, a roar of laughter went up. In Monterey they said, “You know what that Sparky said? He swears he harpooned a bat.”
And as punishment to Sparky, when we were questioned we said, “Bat? What bat?” Sparky is a little touchy about the whole subject, and he dislikes bats very intensely now.
Meanwhile we had twelve of the barracuda-like fish. We preserved some of them but did not try to eat any. The sierras and tuna were too delicious to justify making experiments with strong fish.
The mountains of Tiburón were very black against the stars and the sea was calm. On the deck, Tiny made a little noise washing a shirt, for we were not far from Guaymas and Tiny was growing anxious. We discussed bats, and the horror they create in people and the myths about them—in his
Caribbean Treasure,
page 56, Ivan Sanderson makes some very interesting remarks about vampire bats as carriers of rabies, and their whole tie-in with the vampire tradition, so intimately related to werewolfism in the popular mind. A man with rabies, one might infer, could well be the werewolf which occurs all over the world, and vampire and werewolf very often go together. It is a fascinating speculation, and surely the unreasoning and almost instinctive fear of bats might indicate another of those memory-like patterns, some horrible recollection of the evil bats can do.
Caribbean Treasure,
page 56, Ivan Sanderson makes some very interesting remarks about vampire bats as carriers of rabies, and their whole tie-in with the vampire tradition, so intimately related to werewolfism in the popular mind. A man with rabies, one might infer, could well be the werewolf which occurs all over the world, and vampire and werewolf very often go together. It is a fascinating speculation, and surely the unreasoning and almost instinctive fear of bats might indicate another of those memory-like patterns, some horrible recollection of the evil bats can do.
We find after reading many scientific and semi-scientific accounts of exploration that we have two strong prejudices: the first of these arises where there is a woman aboard—the wife of one of the members of the party. She is never called by her name or referred to as an equal. In the account she emerges as “the shipmate,” the “skipper,” the “pal.” She is nearly always a stringy blonde with leathery skin who is included in all photographs to give them “interest.” Our second prejudice concerns a hysteria of love which manifests itself in an outcry against parting and is usually written in Spanish. This outburst comes at the end of the book. It goes, “And so—.” Always, “and so,” for some reason. “And so we said good-by to Tiburón, vowing to come back again.
Adiós, Tiburón, amigo,
friend.” For some reason this stringy shipmate and this rush of emotion are slightly obscene to us. And so we said good-by to Tiburón and trucked on down toward Guaymas.
Adiós, Tiburón, amigo,
friend.” For some reason this stringy shipmate and this rush of emotion are slightly obscene to us. And so we said good-by to Tiburón and trucked on down toward Guaymas.
25
APRIL 22
The trolling jigs picked up two fine sierras on the way. Our squid jigs had gone to pieces from much use, and had to be repaired with white chicken feathers. We were under way all day, and toward evening began to see the sport-fishing boats of Guaymas with their cargoes of sportsmen outfitted with equipment to startle the fish into submission. And the sportsmen were mentally on tiptoe to out-think the fish—which they sometimes do. We thought it might be fun some time to engage in this intellectual approach toward fishing, instead of our barbarous method of throwing a line with a chicken-feather jig overboard. These fishermen in their swivel fishing chairs looked comfortable and clean and pink. We had been washing our clothes in salt water, and we felt sticky and salt-crusted; and, being less comfortable and clean than the sportsmen, we built a whole defense of contempt. With no effort at all on their part we had a good deal of dislike for them. It is probable that Sparky and Tiny had a true contempt, uncolored by envy, for they are descended from many generations of fishermen who went out for fish, not splendor. But even they might have liked sitting in a swivel chair holding a rod in one hand and a frosty glass in the other, blaming a poor day on the Democrats, and offering up prayers for good fishing to Calvin Coolidge.
We could not run for Guaymas that night, for the pilot fees rise after hours and we were getting a little low on money. Instead, about six P.M. we rounded Punta Doble and put into Puerto San Carlos. This is another of those perfect little harbors with narrow rocky entrances. The entrance is less than eight hundred yards wide, and steep rocks guard it. Once inside, there is anchorage from five to seven fathoms. The head of the bay is bordered by a sand beach, changing to boulders near the entrance. There was still time for collecting.
We went to the bouldery beach and took some snails new to us and two echiuroids. But nothing on or under the rocks was different from the Tiburón animals. The water was warm here and it was soupy with shrimps, of which we took a number in a dip-net. We made a quick survey of the area, for darkness was coming. As soon as it was dark we began to hear strange sounds in the water around the
Western Flyer—
a periodic hissing and many loud splashes. We went to the deckhouse and turned on the searchlight. The bay was swarming with small fish, apparently come to eat the shrimps. Now and then a school of six- to ten-inch fish would drive at the little fish with such speed and in such numbers that they made the sharp hissing we had heard, while farther off some kind of great fish leaped and splashed heavily. Without a word, Sparky and Tiny got out a long net, climbed into the skiff, and tried to draw their net around a school of fish. We shouted at them, asking what they would do with the fish if they caught them, but they were deaf to us. The numbers of fish had set off a passion in them—they were fishermen and the sons of fishermen—let businessmen dispose of the fish; their job was to catch them. They worked frantically, but they could not encircle a school, and soon came back exhausted.
Western Flyer—
a periodic hissing and many loud splashes. We went to the deckhouse and turned on the searchlight. The bay was swarming with small fish, apparently come to eat the shrimps. Now and then a school of six- to ten-inch fish would drive at the little fish with such speed and in such numbers that they made the sharp hissing we had heard, while farther off some kind of great fish leaped and splashed heavily. Without a word, Sparky and Tiny got out a long net, climbed into the skiff, and tried to draw their net around a school of fish. We shouted at them, asking what they would do with the fish if they caught them, but they were deaf to us. The numbers of fish had set off a passion in them—they were fishermen and the sons of fishermen—let businessmen dispose of the fish; their job was to catch them. They worked frantically, but they could not encircle a school, and soon came back exhausted.
Meanwhile, the water seemed almost solid with tiny fish, one and one-half to two inches long. Sparky went to the galley and put the biggest frying pan on the fire and poured olive oil into it. When the pan was very hot he began catching the tiny fish with the dip-nets, a hundred or so in each net. We passed the nets through the galley window and Sparky dumped them into the frying pan. In a short time these tiny fish were crisp and brown. We drained, salted, and ate them without any cleaning at all and they were delicious. Probably no fresher fish were ever eaten, except perhaps by the Japanese, who are said to eat them alive, and by college boys, who are photographed doing it. Each fish was a curled, brown, crisp little bite, delicate and good. We ate hundreds of them. Afterwards we went back to the usual night practice of netting the pelagic animals which came to the light. We took shrimps and larval shrimps, numbers of small swimming crabs, and more of the transparent fish. All night the hissing rush and splash of hunters and hunted went on. We had never been in water so heavily populated. The light, piercing the surface, showed the water almost solid with fish—swarming, hungry, frantic fish, incredible in their voraciousness. The schools swam, marshaled and patrolled. They turned as a unit and dived as a unit. In their millions they followed a pattern minute as to direction and depth and speed. There must be some fallacy in our thinking of these fish as individuals. Their functions in the school are in some as yet unknown way as controlled as though the school were one unit. We cannot conceive of this intricacy until we are able to think of the school as an animal itself, reacting with all its cells to stimuli which perhaps might not influence one fish at all. And this larger animal, the school, seems to have a nature and drive and ends of its own. It is more than and different from the sum of its units. If we can think in this way, it will not seem so unbelievable that every fish heads in the same direction, that the water interval between fish and fish is identical with all the units, and that it seems to be directed by a school intelligence. If it is a unit animal itself, why should it not so react? Perhaps this is the wildest of speculations, but we suspect that when the school is studied as an animal rather than as a sum of unit fish, it will be found that certain units are assigned special functions to perform; that weaker or slower units may even take their places as placating food for the predators for the sake of the security of the school as an animal. In the little Bay of San Carlos, where there were many schools of a number of species, there was even a feeling (and “feeling” is used advisedly) of a larger unit which was the inter-relation of species with their interdependence for food, even though that food be each other. A smoothly working larger animal surviving within itself—larval shrimp to little fish to larger fish to giant fish—one operating mechanism. And perhaps this unit of survival may key into the larger animal which is the life of all the sea, and this into the larger of the world. There would seem to be only one commandment for living things: Survive! And the forms and species and units and groups are armed for survival, fanged for survival, timid for it, fierce for it, clever for it, poisonous for it, intelligent for it. This commandment decrees the death and destruction of myriads of individuals for the survival of the whole. Life has one final end, to be alive; and all the tricks and mechanisms, all the successes and all the failures, are aimed at that end.
26
APRIL 5
We sailed in the morning on the short trip to Guaymas. It was the first stop in a town that had anything like communication since we had left San Diego. The world and the war had become remote to us; all the immediacies of our usual lives had slowed up. Far from welcoming a return, we rather resented going back to newspapers and telegrams and business. We had been drifting in some kind of dual world—a parallel realistic world; and the preoccupations of the world we came from, which are considered realistic, were to us filled with mental mirage. Modern economies; war drives; party affiliations and lines; hatreds, political, and social and racial, cannot survive in dignity the perspective of distance. We could understand, because we could feel, how the Indians of the Gulf, hearing about the great ant-doings of the north, might shake their heads sadly and say, “But it is crazy. It would be nice to have new Ford cars and running water, but not at the cost of insanity.” And in us the factor of time had changed: the low tides were our clock and the throbbing engine our second hand.
Now, approaching Guaymas, we were approaching an end. We planned only two or three collecting stations beyond, and then the time of charter-end would be crowding us, and we would have to run for it to be back when the paper said we would. The charter at least fixed our place in time. And already our crew was trying to think of ways to come back to the Gulf. This trip had been like a dreaming sleep, a rest from immediacies. And in our contacts with Mexican people we had been faced with a change in expediencies. Perhaps—even surely—these people are expedient, but on some other plane than our ordinary one. What they did for us was without hope or plan of profit. We suppose there must have been some kind of profit involved, but not the kind we are used to, not of material things changing hands. And yet some trade took place at every contact—something was exchanged, some unnamable of great value. Perhaps these people are expedient in the unnamables. Maybe they bargain in feelings, in pleasures, even in simple contacts. When the Indians came to the
Western Flyer
and sat timelessly on the rail, perhaps they were taking something. We gave them presents, but it is sure they had not come for presents. When they helped us, it was with no idea of material payment. There were material prices for material things, but one couldn’t buy kindness with money, as one can in our country. It was so in every contact, and they were so used to the spiritual transaction that they had difficulty translating material things into money. If we wanted to buy a harpoon, there was difficulty immediately. What was the price? An Indian had paid three pesos for the harpoon several years ago. Obviously, since that had been paid, that was the price. But he had not yet learned to give time a money value. If he had to go three days in a canoe to get another harpoon, he could not add his time to the price, because he had never thought of time as a medium of exchange. At first we tried to explain the feeling we all had that time is a salable article, but we had to give it up. Time, these Indians said, went on. If one could stop time, or take it away, or hoard it, then one might sell it. One might as well sell air or heat or cold or health or beauty. And we thought of the great businesses in our country—the sale of clean air, of heat and cold, the scrabbling bargains in health offered over the radio, the boxed and bottled beauty, all for a price. This was not bad or good, it was only different. Time and beauty, they thought, could not be captured and sold, and we knew they not only
could
be, but that time could be warped and beauty made ugly. And again it was not good or bad. Our people would pay more for pills in a yellow box than in a white box—even the refraction of light had its price. They would buy books because they should rather than because they wanted to. They bought immunity from fear in salves to go under their arms. They bought romantic adventure in bars of tomato-colored soaps. They bought education by the foot and hefted the volumes to see that they were not short-weighted. They purchased pain, and then analgesics to put down the pain. They bought courage and rest and had neither. And they are vastly amused at the Indian who, with his silver, bought Heaven and ransomed his father from Hell. These Indians were far too ignorant to understand the absurdities merchandising can really achieve when it has an enlightened people to work on.
Western Flyer
and sat timelessly on the rail, perhaps they were taking something. We gave them presents, but it is sure they had not come for presents. When they helped us, it was with no idea of material payment. There were material prices for material things, but one couldn’t buy kindness with money, as one can in our country. It was so in every contact, and they were so used to the spiritual transaction that they had difficulty translating material things into money. If we wanted to buy a harpoon, there was difficulty immediately. What was the price? An Indian had paid three pesos for the harpoon several years ago. Obviously, since that had been paid, that was the price. But he had not yet learned to give time a money value. If he had to go three days in a canoe to get another harpoon, he could not add his time to the price, because he had never thought of time as a medium of exchange. At first we tried to explain the feeling we all had that time is a salable article, but we had to give it up. Time, these Indians said, went on. If one could stop time, or take it away, or hoard it, then one might sell it. One might as well sell air or heat or cold or health or beauty. And we thought of the great businesses in our country—the sale of clean air, of heat and cold, the scrabbling bargains in health offered over the radio, the boxed and bottled beauty, all for a price. This was not bad or good, it was only different. Time and beauty, they thought, could not be captured and sold, and we knew they not only
could
be, but that time could be warped and beauty made ugly. And again it was not good or bad. Our people would pay more for pills in a yellow box than in a white box—even the refraction of light had its price. They would buy books because they should rather than because they wanted to. They bought immunity from fear in salves to go under their arms. They bought romantic adventure in bars of tomato-colored soaps. They bought education by the foot and hefted the volumes to see that they were not short-weighted. They purchased pain, and then analgesics to put down the pain. They bought courage and rest and had neither. And they are vastly amused at the Indian who, with his silver, bought Heaven and ransomed his father from Hell. These Indians were far too ignorant to understand the absurdities merchandising can really achieve when it has an enlightened people to work on.
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