In Which Monte Explains His Origins

Day 157/35

Noon Position: 11 22S 155 07W

Course/Speed: NNE6

Wind: E13-17

Bar: 1010, falling

Sea: E6

Sky: Cumulus 20%

Cabin Temperature: 86

Water Temperature: 85

Sail: Working Jib, one reef; Main one reef, close reaching on starboard

Noon-to-Noon Miles Made Good: 139

Miles this leg: 4,236

Avg. Miles this leg: 121

Miles since departure: 21,480

“Explains his what?” asks Monte, choking on his coffee.

It’s just after breakfast. I have finished my Muesli with Soylent and have come on deck to take Monte’s plate, as it’s my turn to do the washing up. I find he’s dawdling over a spinach omelet.

“How you are finding spinach aboard I can’t explain,” I say. “Not to mention eggs.”

“Only the unsolved mystery is still delicious after many months, Senior.”

“Monte, I thought today we would answer a burning question my readers have been thus far too shy to ask; that is, why did I name my Monitor Windvane Monte?”

Senior, if you will allow, I think the pregunta del fuego,” pipes in Monte, “is why you talk to your wind vane at all. Es verdad, that is the starting point!”

“Oh, but that’s easy. Have you ever tried talking to an autopilot? What a morose, whiny creature,” I say.

“Yes, we have a saying in my country, ‘better to talk to a donkey than an autopilot.’ But maybe it is that he feels rejected.”

“Not the point. The point is how you got your name. Would you like to tell everyone, please? Now.”

“Me? Why, my mother and father christened me as Pedro Montague Nunez Estrella de Oro. How else does one get a name?”

“But that’s not a very interesting story!”

“No matter if it is the truth!”

“A poor excuse. But tell us then how you came to be on this ship.”

“Ah, el gusto es mio, Senior. You see, in my village…”

“…and where are you from Monte?”

“Spain.”

“Wait, last time you said Portugal.”

“This may be. It does not matter.”

“And what, again, is the name of your village?”

“This ALSO does not matter. PLEASE, Senior, to let me continue. In my village many of us take on the profession of pilot.”

“Peelot? What on earth is that?”

(Sighs.) “It is of the Latin, Senior. ‘Pedota,’ por exemplo, is an ‘oar’ or ‘rudder.’ You can say ‘the one who steers the ship.’ It is a very high profession and most sought after. Only the strongest and smartest are allowed such an honor, and because we take such pride in this important role, many early explorers chose their pilots from our village. Why, all of Prince Henry’s ships used our pilots. My cousin helped Vasco de Gama and Ferdinand Magellan’s pilot was also my cousin…”

“I don’t recall Pigafetta ever mentioning a pilot.”

“Pttt on Pigafetta.” Monte spits. “He was no sailor. Also Columbus used our pilots. The pilot from the Pinta is particularly famous. Surely you will remember him.”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“Oh, well, some years after he helped Columbus to discover America, he came to the assistance of a  Joshua Slocum, from Boston–I think is in your country–captain of the *Spray*. You will recall…”

“Ah, yes, of course…”

“…that when the captain ate too many plums and with a fresh white cheese, very questionable cheese, he became ill and in the middle of a storm and with all his sail flying as well. And my cousin from the Nina…”

You said Pinta.”

“Yes, that is fine. So, you see, my cousin, he was there to take the wheel.” Monte beams.

“Are all the pilots in your village also your cousins?”

“Only the good ones.”

“And I suppose they are all good ones.”

Claro que si.”

“If all these cousins of yours were pilots to famous explorers, how is it you came to be pilot aboard my little boat?”

“Ah, eer, well. Ahem. You see, Senior, we had a meeting and it was decided that among all the explorers, your ship should go to the most experienced and resourceful of all the pilots that our village has ever produced.”

“That would be you, I’m guessing. And why did such an honor befall you?”

“Well, surely it is obvious, Senior. You are the one who needs the most help.”

—

How Monte appears to others is at the head of this post. A rendering closer to his appearance on this ship is captured here in a drawing of his cousin from the Pinta.

“It is a very nice drawing,” says Monte, “but please to know that I am taller.”

—

Two squalls last night. Both t-boned Mo starting at three in the morning. Clear sailing before and after. Not the greatest speed, I’ll admit. We’re angling into the sea, so pitching, pounding, sloshing are the best descriptors for the day. Still, good progress to the NNE is being made.

—

One bird visitor today. A boobie, possibly immature red footed. Almost willing to land on my outstretched hand.