From the log of the Galleon Sol de los Mares:
June 13th, 1683
Continuing the ships log of Captain Alexi Cordova after his unfortunate death four days ago at the hands of what I can only describe as the Mano del dios. The Hand of God.
The storm has come and gone now, leaving only five of us alive.
Giuseppe, a boorish sort of fellow who stinks of garlic and boasts of a cooking ability he has yet to show us.
Miguel, who is gravely wounded and may yet die of injuries sustained in the storm.
Ferdinand, a soldier by his own account, who knows things no soldier could possibly know. He can fight, of that there is no doubt, but I suspect he gained his martial knowledge somewhere beyond the Queen’s army.
Sato, though if that is truly his name I cannot say. He is a brown skinned devil from somewhere in the south Pacific and knows very little of any civilized tongue. He keeps to himself, and has been unwavering in making repairs to the ship, so we have welcomed him as a brother.
My own name is Juan Carlos DeVila. I began this voyage as something of a drifter. The New World was to be my new beginning. Now, it is a shadow of a dream filled with crashing waves and murderous creatures of the depths waiting to eat us all. I no longer have any hope of seeing the New World. I doubt very much if we will even see land of any sort again.
June 14th, 1683
We awoke from a fitful sleep this morning to a sight both wonderful and terrible in the same moment. For days we have been blown about the seas unable to control the ship in any meaningful way, simply fighting to keep it afloat. But the storm finally passed, and has left us in another kind of dilemma.
I am not a mariner. I have been on water all my life, but in small craft, nothing of this size. Reading back through the former Captain’s logs, I find it quite normal after the passage of a major storm to have the seas calmed and the winds nonexistent. Finding at least some reference to our current situation was something of a relief, but our problems are only growing worse while these devil seas decide what they have in store for us next.
Seas that are unnaturally still now, like blown glass. The winds, blowing to the ends of the earth only days ago, are nowhere to be found. Our sails are torn and tattered, but Sato feels sure they are still serviceable, provided we can find wind to fill them. Ferdinand and I have helped him secure what rigging we could from the mass of tangled and broken ropes we discovered hanging from the sides of the ship after the storm. What we could not salvage had to be cut away.
Atop the glass waters today we can also see thousands of small islands, floating along as if it were perfectly normal to be there. The scope of such a storm that can tear tree and sod from the land and throw it thousands of miles out to sea is unimaginable to me, and yet I see it with my own eyes. Occasionally I will look out and think for a moment there is true land on the horizon, but I know this is a wishful myth born of my own desperate frustration at having survived what few men could have, only to die on the calm dead sea. The irony is not lost on me.
Miguel is even closer to death today than before. His wound is festering and I have nothing to give him that will do any more than ease his pain. God help me, I do not even know this man’s full name. Ferdinand says when the time comes we must have him off the ship or risk disease ourselves. It sickens me, the thought of feeding him to the thousands of sharks that swim around us each day. I have always been a man to do what must be done, but there are places even men such as I find it difficult to go.