Though he told me his name on the morning we left, it wouldn’t be until later that we’d actually speak. Our ship, the Orgulho de Cabral, had been struggling to cut through the waves since we hit open water, but after three weeks of toil, our sails finally harnessed the wind. I was glad to rest. One evening, I heard Bonifácio and Cezário singing songs from the quarter deck, and I went up to join them. He was already out. I found him standing like a grey heron, watching the sun melt.
Orgulho de Cabral, “Joaquim,” I called. “Come sit with us.”
He sang well. Our songs over the women we left in Lisbon carried us into the night, until Gaspar came out from the navigation room and stopped us. It was a miracle, he declared. If conditions stayed like this, we’d cross the ocean in sixteen days. If
