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Unbearable heat. Rotting water. Nothing but red fog. The air around has solidified into a tepid jelly, holding the ship, stopping its sail so it barely slides over the yellowy-green carpet of seaweed. Drinking water is in short supply; two sailors are already dead, buried in the seafaring tradition: thrown overboard.
“Let’s put ashore! Why aren’t we putting ashore?!” grumbled the disgruntled sailors.
But they couldn’t put ashore: the shore they could see in the distance was equatorial Africa. No-one but cannibals will greet you there, while the jungle belongs to monkeys who open their séance by throwing coconuts as soon as you come anywhere near. There are a few settlements somewhere on the shore, but they’re Portuguese, so in other words, a Dutch ship had better steer clear. Portuga
