The Log from the Sea of Cortez (13 page)
Read The Log from the Sea of Cortez Online
Authors: John Steinbeck,Richard Astro
So many people are interested in this subject but most of them are forced to pretend they are not. A man, for his own ego’s sake, must, publicly at least, be over-supplied with libido. But every doctor knows so well the “friend of the client” who needs help. He is the same “friend” who has gonorrhea, the same “friend” who needs the address of an abortionist. This elusive friend—what will we not do to help him out of his difficulties; the nights we spend sleepless, worrying about him! He is interested in an aphrodisiac; we must try to find him one. But the
damiana
we brought back for our “friend” possibly just now is in the hands of the customs officials in San Diego. Perhaps they too have a friend. Since we suggested the qualities of
damiana
to them, it is barely possible that this fascinating liquor has already been either devoted to a friend or even perhaps subjected to a stern course of investigation under laboratory conditions.
damiana
we brought back for our “friend” possibly just now is in the hands of the customs officials in San Diego. Perhaps they too have a friend. Since we suggested the qualities of
damiana
to them, it is barely possible that this fascinating liquor has already been either devoted to a friend or even perhaps subjected to a stern course of investigation under laboratory conditions.
We have wondered about the bawdiness this book must have if it is to be true. Bawdiness, vulgarity—call it what you will—is such a relative matter, so much a matter of attitude. A man we know once long ago worked for a wealthy family in a country place. One morning one of the cows had a calf. The children of the house went down with him to watch her. It was a good normal birth, a perfect presentation, and the cow needed no help. The children asked questions and he answered them. And when the emerged head cleared through the sac, the little black muzzle appeared, and the first breath was drawn, the children were fascinated and awed. And this was the time for their mother to come screaming down on the vulgarity of letting the children see the birth. This “vulgarity” had given them a sense of wonder at the structure of life, while the mother’s propriety and gentility supplanted that feeling with dirtiness. If the reader of this book is “genteel,” then this is a very vulgar book, because the animals in a tide pool have two major preoccupations: first, survival, and second, reproduction. They reproduce all over the place. We could retire into obscure phrases or into Greek or Latin. This, for some reason, protects the delicate. In an earlier time biologists made their little jokes that way, as in the naming of the animals. But some later men found their methods vulgar. Verrill, in
The Actinaria of the Canadian Arctic Expeditions,
broke out in protest. He cries, “Prof. McMurrich has endeavored to restore for this species a name
(senilis)
used by Linnaeus for a small indeterminable species very imperfectly described in 1761.... The description does not in the least apply to this species. He de
scribed the thing as the size of the last joint
of a finger, sordid, rough, with a sub-coriaceous tunic. Such a description could not possibly apply to this soft and smooth species ... but it would be mere guesswork to say what species he had in view.... Moreover, aside from this uncertainty, most modern writers have rejected most of the Linnaean names of actinians on account of their obscenity or indecency. All this confusion shows the impossibility of fixing the name, even if it were not otherwise objectionable. It should be forgotten or ignored, like the generic names used by Linnaeus in 1761, and by some others of that period, for species of Actinia. Their indecent names were usually the Latinized forms of vulgar names used by fishermen, some of which are still in use among the fishermen of our own coasts, for similar things.”
The Actinaria of the Canadian Arctic Expeditions,
broke out in protest. He cries, “Prof. McMurrich has endeavored to restore for this species a name
(senilis)
used by Linnaeus for a small indeterminable species very imperfectly described in 1761.... The description does not in the least apply to this species. He de
scribed the thing as the size of the last joint
of a finger, sordid, rough, with a sub-coriaceous tunic. Such a description could not possibly apply to this soft and smooth species ... but it would be mere guesswork to say what species he had in view.... Moreover, aside from this uncertainty, most modern writers have rejected most of the Linnaean names of actinians on account of their obscenity or indecency. All this confusion shows the impossibility of fixing the name, even if it were not otherwise objectionable. It should be forgotten or ignored, like the generic names used by Linnaeus in 1761, and by some others of that period, for species of Actinia. Their indecent names were usually the Latinized forms of vulgar names used by fishermen, some of which are still in use among the fishermen of our own coasts, for similar things.”
This strange attempt to “clean up” biology will have, we hope, no effect whatever. We at least have kept our vulgar sense of wonder. We are no better than the animals; in fact in a lot of ways we aren’t as good. And so we’ll let the book fall as it may.
We left the truck and walked through the sandy hills in the night, and in this latitude the sky seemed very black and the stars very white. Already the smell of the land was gone from our noses, for we were used to the smell of vegetation again. The beer was warm in us and pleasant, and the air had a liquid warmth that was really there without the beer, for we tested it later. In the brush beside the track there was a little heap of light, and as we came closer to it we saw a rough wooden cross lighted indirectly. The cross-arm was bound to the staff with a thong, and the whole cross seemed to glow, alone in the darkness. When we came close we saw that a kerosene can stood on the ground and that in it was a candle which threw its feeble light upward on the cross. And our companion told us how a man had come from a fishing boat, sick and weak and tired. He tried to get home, but at this spot he fell down and died. And his family put the little cross and the candle there to mark the place. And eventually they would put up a stronger cross. It seems good to mark and to remember for a little while the place where a man died. This is his one whole lonely act in all his life. In every other thing, even in his birth, he is bound close to others, but the moment of his dying is his own. And in nearly all of Mexico such places are marked. A grave is quite a different thing. Here one’s family boasts, or lies, or excuses, in material of elegance and extravagance. But that is a family or a social matter, not the dead man’s own at all. The unmarked cross and the secret light are his; almost a reflection of the last piercing loneliness that comes into a dying man’s eyes.
From a few feet away the cross seemed to flicker unsubstantially with a small yellow light, seemed to be almost a memory while we saw it. And the man who tried to get home and crawled this far—we never knew his name but he stays in our memory too, for some reason—a supra-personal being, a slow, painful symbol and a pattern of his whole species which tries always from generation to generation, man and woman, which struggles always to get home but never quite makes it.
We came back to the pier and got into our little boat. The Sea-Cow of course would not start, it being night time, so we rowed out to the
Western Flyer.
Before we started, by some magic, there on the end of the pier stood the sad beautiful young men watching us. They had not moved; some jinni had picked them up and transported them and set them down. They watched us put out into the darkness toward our riding lights, and then we suppose they were whisked back again to the
cantina,
where the proprietor was putting the records away and feeling with delicate thumbs the dollar bills we had left. On the pier no light burned, for the engine had stopped at sundown. We went to bed; there was a tide to be got to in the morning.
Western Flyer.
Before we started, by some magic, there on the end of the pier stood the sad beautiful young men watching us. They had not moved; some jinni had picked them up and transported them and set them down. They watched us put out into the darkness toward our riding lights, and then we suppose they were whisked back again to the
cantina,
where the proprietor was putting the records away and feeling with delicate thumbs the dollar bills we had left. On the pier no light burned, for the engine had stopped at sundown. We went to bed; there was a tide to be got to in the morning.
On the beach at San Lucas there is a war between the pigs and the vultures. Sometimes one side dominates and sometimes the other. On occasion the swine feel a dynamism and demand
Lebensraum,
and in the pride of their species drive the vultures from the decaying offal. And again, when their thousand years of history is over, the vultures spring to arms, tear up treaties, and flap the pigs from the garbage. And on the beach there are certain skinny dogs, without any dynamisms whatever and without racial pride, who nevertheless manage to get the best snacks. They don’t thrive on It—always they are meager and skinny and cowardly—but when the
Gauleiter
swine has just captured a fish belly, and before he can shout his second
“Sieg Heil!”
the dog has it.
Lebensraum,
and in the pride of their species drive the vultures from the decaying offal. And again, when their thousand years of history is over, the vultures spring to arms, tear up treaties, and flap the pigs from the garbage. And on the beach there are certain skinny dogs, without any dynamisms whatever and without racial pride, who nevertheless manage to get the best snacks. They don’t thrive on It—always they are meager and skinny and cowardly—but when the
Gauleiter
swine has just captured a fish belly, and before he can shout his second
“Sieg Heil!”
the dog has it.
10
MARCH 18
The tidal series was short. We wished to cover as much ground as possible, to establish as many collecting stations as we could, for we wanted a picture as nearly whole of the Gulf as possible. The next morning we got under way to run the short distance to Pulmo Reef, around the tip and on the eastern shore of the Peninsula. It was a brilliant day, the water riffled and very blue, the sandy beaches of the shore shining with yellow intensity. Above the beaches the low hills were dark with brush. Many people had come to Cape San Lucas, and many had described it. We had read a number of the accounts, and of course agreed with none of them. To a man straight off a yacht, it is a miserable little flea-bitten place, poor and smelly. But to one who puts in hungry, in a storm-beaten boat, it must be a place of great comfort and warmth. These are extremes, but the area in between them also has its multiform conditioning, and what we saw had our conditioning. Once we read a diary, written by a man who came through Panama in 1839. He had read about the place before he got there, but the account he read was about the old city, and in his diary, written after he had gone through, he set down a description of the city he had read about. He didn’t know that the town in the book had been destroyed, and that the new one was not even in the same place, but he was not disturbed by these discrepancies. He knew what he would find there and he found it.
There is a curious idea among unscientific men that in scientific writing there is a common plateau of perfectionism. Nothing could be more untrue. The reports of biologists are the measure, not of the science, but of the men themselves. There are as few scientific giants as any other kind. In some reports it is impossible, because of inept expression, to relate the descriptions to the living animals. In some papers collecting places are so mixed or ignored that the animals mentioned cannot be found at all. The same conditioning forces itself into specification as it does into any other kind of observation, and the same faults of carelessness will be found in scientific reports as in the witness chair of a criminal court. It has seemed sometimes that the little men in scientific work assumed the awe-fullness of a priesthood to hide their deficiencies, as the witch-doctor does with his stilts and high masks, as the priesthoods of all cults have, with secret or unfamiliar languages and symbols. It is usually found that only the little stuffy men object to what is called “popularization,” by which they mean writing with a clarity understandable to one not familiar with the tricks and codes of the cult. We have not known a single great scientist who could not discourse freely and interestingly with a child. Can it be that the haters of clarity have nothing to say, have observed nothing, have no clear picture of even their own fields? A dull man seems to be a dull man no matter what his field, and of course it is the right of a dull scientist to protect himself with feathers and robes, emblems and degrees, as do other dull men who are potentates and grand imperial rulers of lodges of dull men.
As we neared Pulmo Reef, Tony sent a man up the mast to the crow’s-nest to watch for concealed rocks. It is possible to see deep into the water from that high place; the rocks seem to float suddenly up from the bottom like dark shadows. The water in this shallow area was green rather than blue, and the sandy bottom was clearly visible. We pulled in as close as was safe and dropped our anchor. About a mile away we could see the proper reef with the tide beginning to go down on it. On the shore behind the white beach was one of those lonely little
rancherias
we came to know later. Usually a palm or two are planted near by, and by these trees sticking up out of the brush one can locate the houses. There is usually a small corral, a burro or two, a few pigs, and some scrawny chickens. The cattle range wide for food. A dugout canoe lies on the beach, for a good part of the food comes from the sea. Rarely do you see a light from the sea, for the people go to sleep at dusk and awaken with the first light. They must be very lonely people, for they appear on shore the moment a boat anchors, and paddle out in their canoes. At Pulmo Reef the little canoe put off and came alongside. In it were two men and a woman, very ragged, their old clothes patched with the tatters of older clothes. The
serapes
of the men were so thin and threadbare that the light shone through them, and the woman’s
rebozo
had long lost its color. They sat in the canoe holding to the side of the
Western Flyer,
and they held their greasy blankets carefully over their noses and mouths to protect themselves from us. So much evil the white man had brought to their ancestors: his breath was poisonous with the lung disease; to sleep with him was to poison the generations. Where he set down his colonies the indigenous people withered and died. He brought industry and trade but no prosperity, riches but no ease. After four hundred years of him these people have ragged clothes and the shame that forces the wearing of them; iron harpoons for their hands, syphilis and tuberculosis; a few of the white man’s less complex neuroses, and a curious devotion to a God who was sacrificed long ago in the white man’s country. They know the white man is poisonous and they cover their noses against him. They do find us fascinating. However, they sit on the rail for many hours watching us and waiting. When we feed them they eat and are courteous about it, but they did not come for food, they are not beggars. We give the men some shirts and they fold them and put them into the bow of the canoe, but they did not come for clothing. One of the men at last offers us a match-box in which are a few misshapen little pearls like small pale cancers. Five pesos he wants for the pearls, and he knows they aren’t worth it. We give him a carton of cigarettes and take his pearls, although we do not want them, for they are ugly little things. Now these three should go, but they do not. They would stay for weeks, not moving nor talking except now and then to one another in soft little voices as gentle as whispers. Their dark eyes never leave us. They ask no questions. They seem actually to be dreaming. Sometimes we asked of the Indians the local names of animals we had taken, and then they consulted together. They seemed to live on remembered things, to be so related to the seashore and the rocky hills and the loneliness that they are these things. To ask about the country is like asking about themselves. “How many toes have you?” “What, toes? Let’s see—of course, ten. I have known them all my life, I never thought to count them. Of course it will rain tonight, I don’t know why. Something in me tells me I will rain tonight. Of course, I am the whole thing, now that I think about it. I ought to know when I will rain.” The dark eyes, whites brown and stained, have curious red lights in the pupils. They seem to be a dreaming people. If finally you must escape their eyes, their timeless dreaming eyes, you have only to say,
“Adiós, señor,”
and they seem to start awake.
“Adiós,”
they say softly.
“Que vaya con Dios.”
And they paddle away. They bring a hush with them, and when they go away one’s own voice sounds loud and raw.
rancherias
we came to know later. Usually a palm or two are planted near by, and by these trees sticking up out of the brush one can locate the houses. There is usually a small corral, a burro or two, a few pigs, and some scrawny chickens. The cattle range wide for food. A dugout canoe lies on the beach, for a good part of the food comes from the sea. Rarely do you see a light from the sea, for the people go to sleep at dusk and awaken with the first light. They must be very lonely people, for they appear on shore the moment a boat anchors, and paddle out in their canoes. At Pulmo Reef the little canoe put off and came alongside. In it were two men and a woman, very ragged, their old clothes patched with the tatters of older clothes. The
serapes
of the men were so thin and threadbare that the light shone through them, and the woman’s
rebozo
had long lost its color. They sat in the canoe holding to the side of the
Western Flyer,
and they held their greasy blankets carefully over their noses and mouths to protect themselves from us. So much evil the white man had brought to their ancestors: his breath was poisonous with the lung disease; to sleep with him was to poison the generations. Where he set down his colonies the indigenous people withered and died. He brought industry and trade but no prosperity, riches but no ease. After four hundred years of him these people have ragged clothes and the shame that forces the wearing of them; iron harpoons for their hands, syphilis and tuberculosis; a few of the white man’s less complex neuroses, and a curious devotion to a God who was sacrificed long ago in the white man’s country. They know the white man is poisonous and they cover their noses against him. They do find us fascinating. However, they sit on the rail for many hours watching us and waiting. When we feed them they eat and are courteous about it, but they did not come for food, they are not beggars. We give the men some shirts and they fold them and put them into the bow of the canoe, but they did not come for clothing. One of the men at last offers us a match-box in which are a few misshapen little pearls like small pale cancers. Five pesos he wants for the pearls, and he knows they aren’t worth it. We give him a carton of cigarettes and take his pearls, although we do not want them, for they are ugly little things. Now these three should go, but they do not. They would stay for weeks, not moving nor talking except now and then to one another in soft little voices as gentle as whispers. Their dark eyes never leave us. They ask no questions. They seem actually to be dreaming. Sometimes we asked of the Indians the local names of animals we had taken, and then they consulted together. They seemed to live on remembered things, to be so related to the seashore and the rocky hills and the loneliness that they are these things. To ask about the country is like asking about themselves. “How many toes have you?” “What, toes? Let’s see—of course, ten. I have known them all my life, I never thought to count them. Of course it will rain tonight, I don’t know why. Something in me tells me I will rain tonight. Of course, I am the whole thing, now that I think about it. I ought to know when I will rain.” The dark eyes, whites brown and stained, have curious red lights in the pupils. They seem to be a dreaming people. If finally you must escape their eyes, their timeless dreaming eyes, you have only to say,
“Adiós, señor,”
and they seem to start awake.
“Adiós,”
they say softly.
“Que vaya con Dios.”
And they paddle away. They bring a hush with them, and when they go away one’s own voice sounds loud and raw.
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