There was in our party one horse, a spindle-legged, small-buttocked little animal with eyes haunted by social inadequacy; one horse in a society of mules, and a gelding at that. We thought how often one mule is surrounded by socially dominant horses, all grace and prance, conscious of their power and loveliness. In this pattern the mule has developed his anti-social self-sufficiency. He knows he can out-think a horse and he is pretty sure he can out-think a human. In both respects he is correct. And so your socially outcast mule dwells inward in sneering intellectuality; his mental pattern, conditioned by centuries of this cynical intellectualism, is set, and he is complete, sullen, treacherous, loving no one, selfish and self-centered. But this horse, having no such background, was unable to make the change in one generation. Surrounded by mules, he sorrowed and his spirit broke and his eyes were sad. The stiffening was gone from his ears and his mouth hung open. He slunk ashamedly along behind the mules. Stripped of his regalia and his titles, he was a pitiful thing. Refugee princes usually become waiters, but this poor horse was not even able to be a waiter, let alone a horse. And just as one is irritated by a grand duke if he has no robes and garters and large metal-and-enamel decorations, so we found ourselves disliking this poor horse; and he knew it and it didn’t help him.
We came at last to a trail of broken stone and rubble so steep that the mules could not carry us any more. We dismounted and crawled on all fours, and we don’t know how the mules got up. After a short climb we emerged on a level place in a deep cleft in the granite mountains. In this cleft a tiny stream of water fell hundreds of feet from pool to pool. There were palm trees and wild grapevines and large ferns, and the water was cool and sweet. This little stream, coming from so high up in the mountains and falling so far, never had the final dignity of reaching the ocean. The desert sucked it down and the heat dried it up and on the level it disappeared in a light mist of frustration. We sat beside a pool of the waterfall and our Indians made coffee for us and unpacked a lunch, and one item of this lunch was so delicious that we have wanted it again. It is made in this way: a warm tortilla is laid down and spread with well-cooked beans, and another tortilla laid on top and spread, and another, until it is ten or twelve layers thick. Then it is wrapped in cloth. Before eating it one slices downward through the layers as with a cake. It is a fine dish and very filling. While we ate, the Indians made our beds on the ground, and we fired a few shots at a rock across the canyon. Then it was dark and we lay in our blankets and talked, and here we suffered greatly. For the funny stories began. We suppose they weren’t clean stories, but we couldn’t be sure. Nearly every one began, “Once there was a school-teacher with large black eyes—very sympathetic—” “Muy simpática” has a slightly different connotation from that of “sympathetic,” for sympathy is a passive state of receptivity, but to be “simpática” is to be more active or co-operative, even sometimes a little forward. At any rate, this “simpática” school-teacher invariably had as one of her students “a tall strong boy, con cojones, pero cojones”—this last with a gesture easily seen in the firelight. The stories progressed until they came to the snappers; we leaned forward studiously intent, but the snappers were either so colloquial that we could not understand them or so filled with the laughter of the teller that we couldn’t make out the words. Story after story was told, and we didn’t get a single snapper, not one. Our suspicions were aroused of course. We knew something was bound to happen when a school-teacher “muy simpática” asks a large boy “con cojones” to stay after school, but whether it ever did or not we do not know.
It grew cold in the night, and the mosquitoes were unmerciful. In this sparsely populated country human blood must be a rarity. We were a seldom-found dessert to them, and they whooped and screamed and attacked, power-diving and wheeling up and diving again. The visibility was good, and we made excellent targets. Only when it became bitterly cold did they go away.
We have noticed many times how lightly Mexican Indians sleep. Often in the night they awaken to smoke a cigarette and talk softly together for a while, and then go to sleep again rather like restless birds, which sing a little in the dark, dreaming that it is already day. Half a dozen times a night they may awaken thus, and it is pleasant to hear them, for they talk very quietly as though they were dreaming.
When the dawn came, our Indians made coffee for us and we ate more of the lunch. Then, with some ceremony, the ranch-owner presented a Winchester .30-30 carbine with a broken stock to those Indians, and they set off straight up the mountainside. This, our first hunt for the borrego, or big-horn sheep, was the nicest hunting we have ever had. We did not raise a hand in our own service during the entire trip. Besides, we do not like to kill things—we do it when it is necessary, but we take no pleasure in it; and those fine Indians did it for us—the hunting, that is—while we sat beside the little waterfall and discussed many things with our hosts—how all Americans are rich and own new Fords; how there is no poverty in the United States and everyone sees a moving picture every night and is drunk as often as he wishes; how there are no political animosities; no need; no fear; no failure; no unemployment or hunger. It was a wonderful country we came from and our hosts knew all about it and told us. We could not spoil such a dream. After each one of his assurances we said, “Cómo no?” which is the most cautious understatement in the world, for “Cómo no?” means nothing at all. It is a polite filler between two statements from your companion. And we sat in that cool place and looked out over the hot desert country to the blue Gulf. In a couple of hours our Indians came back; they had no borrego, but one of them had a pocketful of droppings. It was time by now to start back to the boat. We intend to do all our future hunting in exactly this way. The ranch-owner said a little sadly, “If they had killed one we could have had our pictures taken with it,” but except for that loss, there was no loss, for none of us likes to have the horns of dead animals around.
We had sat beside the little pool and watched the tree-frogs and the horsehair worms and the water-skaters, and had wondered how they got there, so far from other water. It seemed to us that life in every form is incipiently everywhere waiting for a chance to take root and start reproducing; eggs, spores, seeds, bacilli—everywhere. Let a raindrop fall and it is crowded with the waiting life. Everything is everywhere; and we, seeing the desert country, the hot waterless expanse, and knowing how far away the nearest water must be, say with a kind of disbelief, “How did they get clear here, these little animals?” And until we can attack with our poor blunt weapon of reason that causal process and reduce it, we do not quite believe in the horsehair worms and the tree-frogs. The great fact is that they are there. Seeing a school of fish lying quietly in still water, all the heads pointing in one direction, one says, “It is unusual that this is so”—but it isn’t unusual at all. We begin at the wrong end. They simply lie that way, and it is remarkable only because with our blunt tool we cannot carve out a human reason. Everything is potentially everywhere—the body is potentially cancerous, phthisic, strong to resist or weak to receive. In one swing of the balance the waiting life pounces in and takes possession and grows strong while our own individual chemistry is distorted past the point where it can maintain its balance. This we call dying, and by the process we do not give nor offer but are taken by a multiform life and used for its proliferation. These things are balanced. A man is potentially all things too, greedy and cruel, capable of great love or great hatred, of balanced or unbalanced so-called emotions. This is the way he is—one factor in a surge of striving. And he continues to ask “why” without first admitting to himself his cosmic identity. There are colonies of pelagic tunicates39 which have taken a shape like the finger of a glove. Each member of the colony is an individual animal, but the colony is another individual animal, not at all like the sum of its individuals. Some of the colonists, girdling the open end, have developed the ability, one against the other, of making a pulsing movement very like muscular action. Others of the colonists collect the food
and distribute it, and the outside of the glove is hardened and protected against contact. Here are two animals, and yet the same thing—something the early Church would have been forced to call a mystery. When the early Church called some matter “a mystery” it accepted that thing fully and deeply as so, but simply not accessible to reason because reason had no business with it. So a man of individualistic reason, if he must ask, “Which is the animal, the colony or the individual?”’ must abandon his particular kind of reason and say, “Why, it’s two animals and they aren’t alike any more than the cells of my body are like me. I am much more than the sum of my cells and, for all I know, they are much more than the division of me.” There is no quietism in such acceptance, but rather the basis for a far deeper understanding of us and our world. And now this is ready for the taboo-box.
It is not enough to say that we cannot know or judge because all the information is not in. The process of gathering knowledge does not lead to knowing. A child’s world spreads only a little beyond his understanding while that of a great scientist thrusts outward immeasurably. An answer is invariably the parent of a great family of new questions. So we draw worlds and fit them like tracings against the world about us, and crumple them when they do not fit and draw new ones. The tree-frog in the high pool in the mountain cleft, had he been endowed with human reason, on finding a cigarette butt in the water might have said, “Here is an impossibility. There is no tobacco hereabouts nor any paper. Here is evidence of fire and there has been no fire. This thing cannot fly nor crawl nor blow in the wind. In fact, this thing cannot be and I will deny it, for if I admit that this thing is here the whole world of frogs is in danger, and from there it is only one step to anti-frogicentricism.” And so that frog will for the rest of his life try to forget that something that is, is.
On the way back from the mountain one of the Indians offered us his pocketful of sheep droppings, and we accepted only a few because he did not have many and he probably had relatives who wanted them. We came back through heat and dryness to Puerto Escondido, and it seemed ridiculous to us that the Western Flyer had been there all the time. Our hosts had been kind to us and considerate as only Mexicans can be. Furthermore, they had taught us the best of all ways to go hunting, and we shall never use any other. We have, however, made one slight improvement on their method: we shall not take a gun, thereby obviating the last remote possibility of having the hunt cluttered up with game. We have never understood why men mount the heads of animals and hang them up to look down on their conquerors. Possibly it feels good to these men to be superior to animals, but it does seem that if they were sure of it they would not have to prove it. Often a man who is afraid must constantly demonstrate his courage and, in the case of the hunter, must keep a tangible record of his courage. For ourselves, we have had mounted in a small hardwood plaque one perfect borrego dropping. And where another man can say, “There was an animal, but because I am greater than he, he is dead and I am alive, and there is his head to prove it,” we can say, “There was an animal, and for all we know there still is and here is the proof of it. He was very healthy when we last heard of him.”
After the dryness of the mountain it was good to come back to the sea again. One who was born by the ocean or has associated with it cannot ever be quite content away from it for very long.
Sparky made us a great dish of his spaghetti, the veritable Enea spaghetti, and we ate until we were bloated with it.
Now our equipment began to show its weaknesses. The valve of the oxygen cylinder gave trouble owing to the humidity. The little ice-plant was not powerful enough, and where it should have cooled sea water for us, it was all it could do to keep the beer chilled. Besides, it broke down very often.
By now, some animals began to emerge as ubiquitous. Heliaster kubiniji, the sun-star, was virtually everywhere, but we did observe that the farther up the Gulf we went, the smaller he became. Eurythoë, the stinging worm, occurred wherever there were loosely imbedded rocks or coral under which he could hide. In this connection it is interesting that in the description of this worm in Chamberlin,40 the one descriptive item completely ignored is the one most important to the collector—that he stings like the devil, his hair-like fringe breaking off in the hands and leaving a burn which does not disappear for a long time. Tiny, who is able to translate experience readily into emotion, found that anger did not overcome Eurythoë, and he grew to have the greatest respect for the worm, even to the point of adopting the usual collector’s caution of never putting the hands where one hasn’t looked first.
The purple sharp-spined urchin41 occurred wherever there was rock or reef exposed to wave-shock or fast-scouring currents. There were the usual barnacles and limpets on the rocks high up in the littoral wherever their pattern of alternating water and air was available. Anemones, the small bunodid forms, were everywhere too. And, of course, the porcelain crabs, hermit crabs, and sea-cucumbers.
We had taken a great many animals and, as compared with the work of some expensive, well-equipped, well-manned expeditions, our results began to cause us to wonder what methods were used by those collectors. For instance, the best reports to date (with the possible exception of the Hancock Expedition reports—and these are so expensive and rare that an amateur cannot afford them, and even university libraries do not always have them) are those of a well-known scientific expedition into the Gulf, about thirty years ago. There were eight naturalists aboard a specially built and equipped steamboat, with a complete and well-trained crew. In two months out of San Francisco they occupied thirty-five stations and took a total of 2351 individuals of 118 species of echinoderms both from deep water (including dredge hauls down to 1760 fathoms) and from along shore, and in two great faunal provinces. Only 39 species were from shallow water; 31 of these, in about 387 individuals, were from the Gulf. Already, in only nine days of Gulf collecting, in the one zoogeographical province and entirely along shore, we had taken almost double their 31 Gulf echinoderm species—the only group we had so far tabulated—and had begun to restrain our enthusiasm owing to the lack of containers. We worked hard, but not beyond reason, and our wonder is caused not by the numbers we took, but by the small numbers they did. We had time to play and to talk, and even to drink a little beer. (We took 2160 individuals of two species of beer.)
The shores of the Gulf, so rich for the collector, must still be fairly untouched (again except for the largely unreported Hancock collections). We had not the time for the long careful collecting which is necessary before the true picture of the background of life can be established. We rushed through because it was all we could afford, but our results seem to indicate that energy and enthusiasm can offset lack of equipment and personnel.
17
MARCH 27
We had collected extensively on the outer parts of Puerto Escondido, but not in the inner bay itself. At five-thirty A.M. Mexican time, we set out to circle this inner bay in the little skiff. It was dark when we started, and we used the big flashlights for collecting. There was a good low tide, and we moved slowly along the shore, one rowing while the other inspected the bottom with the light. There was no ripple to distort the surface. The eastern shore was dominated by the big, flat, chocolate-brown holothurian.42 They moved slowly along, feeding on the bottom, many hundreds of them. They far overshadowed in number any other animals in this area. There were many of the ruffled clams43 with hard, thick, wavy shells. The under-rock fauna was not very rich. The eastern and northern shores were littered with shattered rock, recently enough splintered so that the edges were still sharp, and in this quiet bay no waves would have ground the edges smooth. Mangroves bordered a great part of the bay, and the spicy smell of their flowers was strong and pleasant. A few of the giant, snake-like synaptids that we had taken in the outer bay waved and moved on the bottom. As we rounded toward the westerly side of the bay, we came to sand flats and a change of fauna, for the big brown cucumbers did not live here. The dawn came as we moved along the sand flats. Two an
imals were at the waterside, about as large as small collies, dark brown, with a cat-like walk. In the half-light we could not see them clearly, and as we came nearer they melted away through the mangroves. Possibly they were something like giant civet-cats. They had undoubtedly been fishing at the water’s edge. On the smooth sand bottom of this area there were clusters of knobbed, green coral (probably Porites porosa—no samples were gathered), but except for Cerianthus and a few bivalves this bottom was comparatively sterile.
Rounding the southern end of the bay, we came again to the single narrow entrance where the water was rushing in on the returning tide, and here, suddenly, the area was incredibly rich in fauna. Here, where the water rushes in and out, bringing with it food and freshness, there was a remarkable gathering. Beautiful red and green cushion stars littered the rocky bottom. We found clusters of a solitary soft coral-like form44 in great knobs and heads in one restricted location on the rocks. Caught against the rocks by the current was a very large pelagic coelenterate, in appearance like an anemone with long orange-pink tentacles, apparently not retractable. On picking him up we were badly stung. His nettle-cells were vicious, stinging even through the calluses of the palms, and hurting like a great many bee-stings. At this entrance also we took several giant sea-hares,45 a number of clams, and one small specimen of the clam-like hacha. For hours afterwards the sting of the anemone remained. So very many things are poisonous and hurtful in these Gulf waters: urchins, sting-rays, morays, heart-urchins, this beastly anemone, and many more. One becomes very timid after a while. Barnacle-cuts, which are impossible to avoid, cause irritating sores. The fingers and palms become cross-hatched with cuts, and then very quickly, possibly owing to the constant soaking in salt water and the regular lifting of rocks, the hands become covered with a hard, almost horny, callus.
The Log from the Sea of Cortez Page 19
