Captain Ayala jumped out of bed and threw open a window. He poked his head outside, eager for the first daylight view of his surroundings. He could see only a narrow angle of the bay, but even the limited scene exceeded his expectations. He leaned farther and farther out the hole, marveling at the breadth and beauty of the boat’s surroundings—until he nearly slipped and fell through. Dragging his body back inside, Ayala hurriedly dressed and crossed the room to unbolt the door. Wincing at the pain in his foot, the captain stepped over Humphretto, who’d fallen asleep at his post, and hobbled down the hallway to the main deck. Ayala whipped out his binoculars and scanned the shoreline, slowly pivoting to capture the full extent of the bay. Rolling hills cupped the harbor like a giant green hand, sealing it off from the beastly Pacific. It was just as he had suspected the night before. Despite the difficulties the San Carlos had encountered navigating the entrance, once the tides and currents were properly mapped, the area would become a haven of first resort for every ship passing along the continent’s west coast.
