Greg Scowen: The Spanish Helmet

Friday, January 22, 1526

We have finally made it into the entrance of the Estrecho de Magallanes, but not without drama. On reaching the straits, a violent storm blew up and we were again thrown into confusion. The Sancti Spiritus was driven ashore. Nine souls were lost. She was under the command of our chief pilot, Elcano, who is also second in command of the fleet. The following day she broke up in a severe gale which destroyed all her bread and much wine and merchandise. Elcano transferred to the Anunciada to resume his acting command of the squadron, leaving his crew to live on shore as best they can.

Elcano has clearly been affected by the loss of his vessel and, I doubt not, by the loss of his men. I would not like to fall victim to the same circumstance.

But all is not dismal. We have been greatly blessed by the return of the Santa Maria and San Gabriel. As a fleet of six ships now, we are feeling optimistic about the journey ahead through the straits. The spirits of the men remain high. There has only been some minor disciplinary action needed to date, that for men who have fallen asleep during their watch or used foul language in the hearing of the officers. For the most, the journey is one of the most pleasant I have partaken in.

Saturday, February 13, 1526

Our joy at the reunited squadron was short-lived. Another gale blew up and forced me to put my little caravel to sea to avoid being wrecked in the straits. I remained there the next few days, along with the other caravel, drifting south into the coldest seas I have ever known. We travelled fifty-eight leagues south of the straits in all, and had to battle our way back. The men and I are tired and miserable, but there has been something good in our misfortune. When we were at the 56th parallel, our lookout informed me of open waters to the west of a land’s end. This would mean there is a passage between the Oceano Atlantico and El Pacifico. Upon rejoining the fleet, I reported this discovery to Loaisa, who has had the cartographer add the passage to our charts. Loaisa has bestowed a great honour on me and named it after my family, el Mar de Hoces. My father, God rest his soul, would have been very proud to have seen this day.

During our absence, the Anunciada also put out to sea and hasn’t since been seen. The flagship, Santa Maria, has also now run aground and although she has been refloated, is in need of repairs. We are so battered that Loaisa has decided we will return north to the Rio Santa Cruz for a complete overhaul. This decision has greatly displeased the captain of the San Gabriel. He has chosen to depart from the expedition and is heading back to Spain. We keep getting smaller. We are now a fleet of just four ships, three of us less than 80 tons a piece. Our total tonnage has been halved. It means we have taken on some of the supplies of the wrecked vessels, but we are also running heavier, having taken on extra crew. My 36 berth ship is now home to 52 men.

I am starting to question if we can continue our journey. Will we make it through the Estrecho de Magallanes with our lives?

The sunny Wednesday morning moved backwards past the car window as Warren and Matt drove north out of the Auckland suburbs into the countryside. A refreshing breeze blew in through the open car windows. It brought a tang of the sea and the trees that lined the road. This was much more pleasant than Auckland, which had so far proven to be humid a lot of the time.

The previous two days had been a perfect welcome to New Zealand for Matt. He had a chance to overcome the lack of sleep he experienced during the flight and had already been introduced to a few lovely little bays around the North Shore of Auckland. Warren had also taken him to a great restaurant in a little shopping area beginning with T. Matt had no chance of pronouncing that name again though.

As they drove, the world blurred past at 100km per hour.

‘The motorway here was extended a few years back,’ Warren said, ‘before that the on-ramp where we came on was the end of the road. From there it used to be a slow half hour drive just as far as Orewa, a little beach town up ahead. Many years back it was a quiet beach holiday destination for Aucklanders. Now it’s just another off-ramp twenty minutes up the road.’

‘That’s progress for you, I suppose?’

‘Yeah. Still, I don’t mind. The whole journey up to my friend’s place is less stressful with this motorway extension. Knocks a bit of the trip off anyway.’

‘Does your friend work the farm?’ Matt asked.

‘No.’ Warren laughed. ‘It’s just a hunting haunt for him. Man’s got too much money to know what to do with it all.’

Matt watched the family in the car in front of them pull off to a service centre. No doubt they were making a bee-line for the Burger King.

‘The land is leased out to one of the local farmers,’ Warren said. ‘He’s the owner of the land where our site is.’

It all came together in Matt’s head. He had wondered how Warren had managed to arrange permission to dig all over someone’s land. He figured the owner got a sweet deal on the friend’s land rental. A few minutes later Warren pulled the car off the motorway at the Silverdale off-ramp.

‘Here’s our first spot.’ Warren said as he stopped at the entranceway to a fairly modern looking suburban development.

Matt spotted their target immediately. Off the side of the road, a few large round boulders were nestled in the ground, looking as out of place as an elephant in a goldfish bowl.

‘They look like concretions.’ Matt got out of the car.

‘Yes, they do, but concretions form in mudstone, not the yellow clay that abounds on this hill. Moreover, how did it happen that a collection of them appeared at the top of this hill?’

Warren made a good argument. Looking closely at the boulders, Matt could also make out reliefs etched in the rock. Whether this was natural, or made by ancient or modern man was merely speculative. But overall, the rocks bore some thought.

‘Now I want you to remember this location as the Silverdale trig,’ Warren instructed. ‘Sometime this week I want to show you the Auckland Alignments, and this trig is a part of them.’

‘Understood.’

They climbed in the car and continued up the road, passing through the beach town of Orewa that Warren had mentioned. Three hours later the car slowed down and Warren pointed out a valley on the left.

‘This valley, Waiotapu, is one of the most concentrated points of megalithic remains in the country.’

‘Are we going to stop and have a look?’

‘No, unfortunately not. The local Maori are causing trouble again. Anyone they find on the land gets threatening notes put on their car. I don’t want to drag you into trouble like that.’

Matt watched as the valley disappeared behind them, wondering what wonders it had in store. It seemed a bit odd that the Maori would threaten visitors. Maybe Warren was exaggerating. Not more than a couple of kilometres later, Warren pulled the car off the main road on to a smaller country road that led off to the right.

‘My friend’s place is just on the other side of the Donnelly’s Crossing settlement,’ Warren said, as they drove towards a spattering of farm houses. ‘But before we go there, let’s go straight to the site first.’

Matt was pleased Warren wanted to go to the site directly. He was nervous with anticipation of what he was about to see. This could be a life-changing moment.

‘Thanks for bringing me in on this, Warren.’

‘It’s me who has to do the thanking, mate. Without an academic on board, there’s no way I’ll ever be listened to. I need you more than you can imagine.’

Warren turned right onto an even smaller gravel road and right again down what was nothing more than a track. Ahead of them a little farmhouse and some outbuildings came into view. As they rounded the corner of the house to where there was a large dirt parking area, Matt let out a surprised gasp. He looked to Warren for reassurance but saw he, too, had turned white as a sheet. Parked near the house were a Ford Transit cargo van and two white sedans with wording on the sides that read, in an unmistakably proud fashion, Department of Cultural Identity.