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Kostantine never did understand why his mother acted the way she did. He only knew that on the way back to his house, after the Spaniards had been forced to leave by a growing crowd of surly townspeople, he heard his mother say to a neighbor, "Those travelers are ignorant. They know nothing of history; of the stain they carry on their skin and inside their animal bodies. They think that moving from one place to another will rid them of their shame. It won't; they must carry that into eternity." From that time on, Kostantine knew that Spaniards, no matter what their standing, were stained animals. Nothing would ever change this attitude. So, the Greek had to suffer under the flawed directions of the Spanish captain, Miadro Bejarano. As bothersome as that was, it made little difference in the larger scheme since Kostantine's plan was to get to America and leave the dirty life of a seamen to those who really deserved it -- those with no future to wish for and no past to speak of -- the Alegrete's crew.
The S.S. Alegrete was moving into the dawn below a rolling ceiling of ugly, perspiring gray clouds, heading to the lower North Atlantic. The bow of the craft had some difficulty negotiating the undulating seas; the pitching and rolling was now fairly constant. An occasional wave would break over the shipboard, sending swirling seawater across the deck and gushing out the scuppers. A cup of tea normally kept rock-solid stationary in a wire restraint was now freely sloshing its cold contents across the face of the ship's compass. Radioman Raphael Cortese, acknowledging the emerging requirements owing to the expanding military disruptions. worked his dial in the newly-installed Talk-Between-Ships setup. The signal, owing to the combination of storm, untested equipment and atmospheric conditions, was weak. The communication was intermittent. Surviving amid squeaks and static, a few garbled phrases surfaced. "... bearing 32 degrees North, 75 degrees West. Suggest others.......Shifting course to more.......alert to all....seems to be the edge of the..." Then, as it had done so many times over the past few months, the radio slipped into silence. This erratic phrasing was nothing more than a continuation of what Cortese had been hearing for the past few days. No need for concern since the storm's movements had already been relayed to the Alegrete's wheelhouse. Besides, he thought, it should be fairly obvious what was taking place as winds were now starting to buffet the vessel. It had been almost three weeks since the Brazilian merchant ship first left Egypt's Port Said. Throughout the trip, weather had been a problem. Reports of high winds just off Africa's west coast forced a major shift in the anticipated course. This moved the ship onto a more southerly route, placing it on a course more parallel to the 27 North latitude, and extended the schedule by a little more than a week. Normally this wouldn't prove troublesome but the owners of the Alegrete could hardly afford the extra expense. This year, 1938, was proving to be difficult. Events in Europe had reduced the demand for a number of products normally transported by Aldrus Worldwide Shipping. There was simply no call for many of the Middle East and African fabrics that usually made their way to the closets of wealthy Europeans. Politics, mostly coming from the reckless German activist, Adolph Hitler, had diverted the region's taste away from fashion into a craving for rifles and tanks. Everywhere in Europe, there was mounting concern that events inside Germany would burst, spilling out onto the rest of the continent like entrails from a slit stomach. In desperation, the owners had authorized a series of new routes carrying cargo that, while unfamiliar, was profitable. In this case it was a mixture of fruits and animal hides. And while profitability was a concern, there was another factor in seizing this new route to the United States -- it would be safe. There was no threat of unintentional involvement with the events in Europe. Despite claims to the contrary, the Alegrete's owners were concerned that shipping of any kind would be a prime target for the warring factions. Risking loss of their largest ship at this time would not only be foolish, it would mean financial collapse.
The crew, many of whom had been with the company for years, was acutely aware of the need to make this a profitable run. They also knew that this was mid-September and there was not much time to post a gain before year's end. On the watch this rainy night was Kostantine Paruvis, a young Greek who had only recently signed on board. It was his tea rolling in the cup. The Greek's lack of seniority, but familiarity with navigation, obligated him to the dreary task of this late night/early morning shift, and he resented having to take orders from the captain. It wasn't that the captain lacked any of the knowledge necessary to command a ship; it stemmed from his place of birth -- Spain. Kostantine didn't know exactly why, but he detested the Spanish. He recalled a time when, as a young child in Greece, a Spanish family moved through the outskirts of town. They were apparently traders on their way to Pakistan. Kostantine's mother, a widow normally characterized by complacency, became very agitated when she heard Spaniards were in the area. At first her mutterings reflected a mild scorn. But as the day wore on, she became more vocal until finally she marched, son in tow, out to the open fields where the Spanish family was staying. With Kostantine at her side, his mother cursed the group, screaming that they were not welcome in this, or any area of Greece. "You have no reason to be here," she bellowed, "You bring dirt wherever you go. You are a nation of animals and you take, take, take," arms and fists hurtling forward, then retracting with equal speed. She demanded they leave immediately, and began hurling rocks and sticks at anyone she saw. At one point, one of the larger rocks smashed into the cheek of an elderly woman, but the woman stoically stood her ground as a trickle of blood oozed down her face. A man -- and it appeared to Kostantine that the man was the band's leader -- tried to make his way toward the Greek woman, but her outrage only grew. "Why?" yelled the man as he tried to deflect the stones, "Why do you attack my people? Crazy woman, we have done nothing to you." And in a burst of ferocious behavior never before witnessed by Kostantine, his mother screamed, "You are stained. You are stained. And there is nothing you can ever do to change that. You get it from birth, from inside your mother's womb. My people know that of you, and you are too stupid to know that for yourself. You must leave because you are stained." Others from the village, hearing the shouting, gathered and joined in the assault until the interlopers were driven from the area.
Captain Bejarano had told his new navigator to watch the pace of what earlier in the evening had proven to be an alarming sign -- the growing swells. There had been word that this summer had been especially wet throughout the Sahel region of west Africa and for some unexplainable reason that usually meant the Caribbean's traditionally unpredictable weather would be even more precocious. But Kostantine had been to sea, and the pattern of this night's waves didn't bother him. He had seen worse while putting time in with another Brazilian ship near the Cape of Good Hope. Tonight's episode was little more than a particularly unruly squall and it would soon be over. For this Greek, there were plans to be made -- plans to live in freedom, plans to live the good life, plans for getting rich in America. The hand shaking Kostantine's shoulder was that of Enrico, a veteran of some eight years service to the Alegrete. "Wake up, wake up," yelled Enrico. Startled, Kostantine reacted by throwing his arm swiftly into the air, slamming his crewmate back into the wall. "Damn you," shouted Enrico, "look." Kostantine went to the mist-laden window. He rubbed a small area clear and discovered that what had once simply been rising and falling swells was now a continuous line of white-capped waves breaking freely over the bow of the ship. He estimated the size of the larger crests to be about 5 to 7 feet above the ship's rail. The consolation was that the larger waves only came on every fifth or sixth hit. There was still time to adjust.
Slowly coming to realize he had been dozing for almost two hours, Kostantine yelled, "How long has it been like this?" He couldn't reconcile why he slept through this change in wave patterns, but could only conclude that the shift hadn't been all that drastic, the crests were simply larger. "About 30 minutes," answered Enrico, "I'm the only one to leave. The rest are still up front. They're redoing lashes on the cargo below. It happened so suddenly. Two skids broke free; one hit Armondo. He was bleeding badly, but no one could take care of him. He's still inside the hold." "Has anyone told the captain?" asked the young Greek. "I told you, I'm the only one who could get away and I came right here," said Enrico, "I'll tell him, if you want." Kostantine thought for a moment, then dispatched the crewman to the captain's quarters. That deranged Spaniard is too old to help lash down the shifting cargo, thought Kostantine, and he certainly can't work the deck. But it is his ship. It won't be much to order the bilge pumps up to full speed and head toward the closest port. Anyone can direct that. It might as well be the captain who gives the orders. It took some 10 minutes before the captain made it to the deck and he could hardly contain his rage. "I should have been called earlier. Idiots. I thought you knew what to do," he bellowed. "Get me Ziya." The scene outside was much the same as when Kostantine first awoke. Waves, almost every third one by now, continued to break over the bow of the Alegrete, except now the deck cargo had completely broken free of its lashings and was moving easily from one side to the other, buoyed by the sloshing, foamy white water. The captain calculated the water's depth at around half a meter, enough to keep the skids in constant motion and, in the captain's mind, extremely dangerous. Immediately, a call was placed to the crew working the forward compartments and first mate Ziya Brantos was summoned to the communications stand. "Report," demanded Captain Bejarano. "Forward hold -- one and-a-half meters of water," screamed Ziya over the sound of sloppy water, "but cargo hasn't broken loose. Hold two is our problem. "Lower-level crates are sliding. Some of the uppers are no longer secure. We're trying to get two on the starboard back in place. But unless we get some stability, we can't do it -- we can't get enough footing. Lines are starting to bind. Already we see damage to the ship." "What sort?" asked the captain. "The wall plates are dented but holding." "Do you need more men?" "No, there are seven of us here now. More would only add to the confusion. We need stability." Captain Bejarano, a man of vast experience, understood the peril and adjusted course. The ship had to be redirected. Trying to make port with the storm obviously overtaking them was useless. It would be better to turn the ship, placing the bow directly into the surging waves. The action would then be transferred to the entire length of the ship, reducing the bobbing and perhaps providing the stability needed for repairs. The maneuver, which should have taken about 20 minutes, lasted more like 50 as the size of the cresting waves was now approaching twelve feet. The report from hold number two grew increasingly more desperate as Ziya described for Captain Bejarano a losing effort to reassign the toppled cargo to its proper place. Moreover, the lower crates were now smashing easily into the sidewall and, of most concern, what had initially been a dent now began to show signs of leakage. The integrity of the ship was now compromised.