Pilots Always Win: A Socio-Epistemic History of European Early Modern Navigation III

And so, as I was saying, such epistemic incommensurabilities need not have been a problem if pilots and cosmographers plied their trades independently—as, indeed, had been the case for much of history. This time round, however, the novel panorama resulting from the early modern oceanic expansion forced their epistemic frameworks to collide.

In the second part of my dissertation, I explore several socio-epistemic clashes between pilots and cosmographers, from 1450 to 1800. By giving a central role to the pilots’ rationale, I offer an original approach to episodes such as the debates on the nautical chart in sixteenth-century Iberia or the introduction of the Mercator-Wright projection in European navigation.

I show that the artisanal epistemic framework constructed by the pilots to perform their profession was as epistemologically sound as the one constructed by cosmographers to perform theirs. Thus, when both frameworks collided, the former always prevailed over the latter.

Jacques Devaulx, Premières Œuvres, 16th c.

Paradoxically, the mainstream narratives of the history of early modern nautical science have been constructed almost exclusively from the voice of those “defeated” in the epistemic clashes I analyze. The truth is that the tempo of early modern navigation was always set by the pilots. The truth is that, after all, pilots always win.

[Jose María Moreno Madrid]

No Country for Mercator’s Charts

It is well known that Mercator charts took a long time to become a common instrument in the nautical panoply of Early Modern pilots. Gerard Mercator (1512-1594) published his Ad Usum Navigatium—the earliest Mercator projection chart—in 1569, and Edward Wright (1561-1615) his Certain errors in Navigation—containing the relevant mathematical tools for constructing such charts—in 1599, but it was still almost two centuries before European Early Modern pilots decided that they were worth using. Cosmographers and mathematicians of the time blamed this decision on the conservatism and scientific illiteracy of the pilots, a representative case being that of the famous Royal Astronomer Edmond Halley (1656-1742). In the preface to his Atlas Maritimus et Commercialis (1728) one can read:

It is well known that many of our sailors, and some that would be accounted artists are at this day obstinate in the use of the Plain Chart […]. And many of our masters that teach navigation teach what they call plain sailing (and many times that only) to such as are designed to take charge of ships […]. And this they do for no other reason but because they think they can measure distances thereon by a scale of equal parts, rejecting the truly Nautical Chart, commonly called Mercator, because one single scale cannot be fitted to all its parts.

Nova et Aucta Orbis Terrae Descriptio
ad Usum Navigantium Emendate Accommodata, Gerard Mercator (1569)

Historians of navigation and nautical science have echoed such view on this issue until our days. The pilots’ decisions on which charts to use, however, have nothing to do with any kind of “conservatism” or “scientific obscurantism”, but with more complex particularities of their epistemological reality. Stay tuned for more news on this subject soon! [José María Moreno Madrid]

The Unexpected Role of a 16th-century Widow

In 1578, Diego Hernández underwent his pilot’s examination at the Casa de la Contratación in Seville. This otherwise mundane event deserves special attention because Hernández was originally from Tavira, Portugal. Within the context of a highly hierarchical and regulated institution, securing an examination for a foreigner aspiring to the position of pilot posed a formidable challenge. While it is important to note that this was not unprecedented, complications did arise due to the substantial responsibility associated with the role of a ship’s pilot.

Hernández requested to undergo a pilot examination at the Casa de la Contratación. In addition to meeting the standard requirements, he faced additional criteria due to his foreign status. He needed to substantiate, with witnesses, that he had been married to a Spanish woman for over fourteen years in a union recognized by the Church. Furthermore, he had to prove that they had resided in Spain throughout that period, thereby asserting his eligibility for the examination. Additionally, other witnesses were required to affirm their acquaintance with him since childhood, vouching for knowledge of his parents and grandparents. They were to confirm that these familial connections were legitimate, recognized by the Church as valid marriages, and that all involved were individuals of reputable conduct.

These were referred to as ”testimonios de naturaleza,” serving as evidence of the purity of the candidate’s lineage. Within the records and documents of these examinations, one can find the names of the witnesses, along with their occupations and places of origin. In this particular case, three testimonios de naturaleza were called:
The first was Juan López, seaman, from Tavira.
The second, Gómez Álvarez, sailor, from Tavira.
The third, Constança López, widow, from Tavira.

It’s intriguing to observe the inclusion of a woman among these witnesses, and particularly to note her occupation, which may appear unusual to those with a more anachronistic perspective. [Carmo Lacerda]

Flowing Water, Floating Knowledge, Fleeting History

Ever flowing since birth, ocean water became a vessel of information from the moment humankind entered its flux. Several waves of cultural connection trace the moments when – carrying objects, people, ideas – Austronesian, Harappan, Phoenician, Iranian, Greek, Roman, Arab, Indian, Norse, and Chinese seafarers left shore. A connectedness magnified to a planetary scale by the transoceanic voyages of the European Age of Exploration, a wave that reached the five oceans, ever since making water a carrier of ideas to other lands. By observing these historical waves, and by following the routes travelled in the Early Modern era, it seems possible to follow the path of human knowledge through the planet. Or, at least, to have a glimpse at the itinerary of certain ideas, perhaps floating adrift, wandering in the ocean of historiography.

A way to catch such a glimpse may be tracing what ideas were physically transported in these oceanic voyages, that is, what recreational printed books were carried from Europe to the New World and to the Indies. While in the Spanish case seasoned research on the libraries transported across the Atlantic Ocean to American territories has been made, in the Portuguese case there is some work to be made to understand how the history of knowledge and ideas was affected by the flux of information going on board Portuguese ships across the Atlantic and the Indian oceans. The presence of a booklet of the most famous play of Portuguese literary history –the Auto da Barca do Inferno (Act of the Boat of the Netherworld, 1517), by Gil Vicente– in the library of Inéz de la Peña (d. 1521), famous for having travelled from Castille to Santo Domingo with 224 printed objects, is paradigmatic.

The earliest artistic depiction of a round caravel, in the upper right of the oil painting “Arrival of the relics of Saint Auta at Madre de Deus Monastery”. This piece of the polyptych Saint Auta Altarpiece was made by an unknown painter at a Lisbon workshop, circa 1522, and is now displayed at the National Museum of Ancient Art.

A classical allegory of the afterlife in the river of the dead –good souls go to Glory by embarking on an angelic ship, not so-good souls go to Hell by embarking on a devilish ship–, the freshly out of print Auto da Barca do Inferno crossed the Atlantic, disseminating more than a Renaissance literary trope. Surprisingly, it transforms the Virgilian and Dantesque fluvial journey into an oceanic voyage. The traditional vessel transporting the dying souls is not only duplicated, but both Vicente’s ships are turned into square-rigged or round caravels, the late fifteenth-century invention and choice of Portuguese navigators for long-distance oceanic voyages. While the angelic ship is praised as a “saint caravel” all wish to embark, the devilish vessel is rejected by all the deceased, who deprecating it do not wish to enter “in such a caravel”, since its destination is a “lost island” in the middle of the ocean. Adding to the unpleasant idea of spending eternity to Hell, the deceased are offered a sense of lack of security in this voyage, as, while both caravels have instruments to guide them, such as the nautical compass, the devil will not make use of it to arrive to safe port. A lack of care stated by the Fool, who describes the Devil as “one who pisses on the magnetic needle”.

By following the path of this booklet in the Atlantic waters, and its literary transformations, it seems possible to grasp something fleeting in the Early Modern History of Science. A transformation in the perception about how the use of nautical instruments is entwined with the notion of a safe voyage. A transformation of the very scenery of the voyage of life –now oceanic, now magnified. A transformation of the scale of the transmission and circulating of ideas, ever flowing like blue water. [Joana Lima]

The Deadliest Enemy (II)

The era of oceanic navigation was concurrent with the prevalence of scurvy, often referred to as the “plague of the sea.” Prior to the 14th-15th centuries, sailors used to navigate fairly close to the coast, and only brief periods of time were spent far from land and fresh food (and vitamin C).

Remedies to alleviate symptoms and to cure scurvy were known, but largely ignored. For instance, Chinese used to cultivate ginger in pots on their ships since the fifth century, an infusion of spruce needles provided by native populations proved able to cure French explorers in Quebec, lemon juice kept Captain Lancaster’s crew healthy, and the medicinal virtues of the Drymis winteri bark to deal with scurvy were discovered by Drake’s Vice-Admiral John Winter.

If knowledge of how to prevent and cure scurvy has been present in various historical periods and regions, why didn’t official medicine recognize it for such a long time?

Stephen Bown, the author of “Scurvy: How a surgeon, a mariner, and a gentleman solved the greatest medical mystery of the age of sail” primarily attributes this oversight to the narrow-minded stance of the scientific authorities of that era, particularly within the British context.

They relied on unfounded theories related to humoral imbalance or putrefaction, and medical philosophies looked for comprehensive explanations for bodily functions and diseases. This emphasis on unified theories may have disregarded the importance of specific nutritional factors in preventing scurvy. Additionally, the hierarchical structure of the medical profession and the reluctance to question prevailing beliefs hindered the dissemination and acceptance of alternative knowledge on scurvy prevention and treatment.

As a result, despite the existence of effective practices used by sailors and native populations, it took an extended period for official medicine to recognize and adopt these methods in the prevention and cure of scurvy.

It was only in 1747 that the first clinical trial was conducted by the Scottish naval surgeon James Lind on sailors in the Salisbury. His experiment tested the effects of various supplements on twelve members of the crew suffering from scurvy. After few days, the men supplied with orange and lemon were completely recovered. Despite this significant finding, Lind’s recommendations were largely overlooked, as they clashed with the prevailing theories of the time.

It took some decades more for the antiscorbutic properties of citrus juice to be fully recognized and for the devastating toll of the disease that characterized the Age of Discovery to come an end. [Silvana Munzi]

Squeaky Drama

It is well known that rats have always been among the most undesirable travel companions for seafarers. The consequences of allowing just a couple of them to embark could be catastrophic. I have come across some Early Modern stories lamenting such an eventuality, with the one told by the English seaman Richard Hawkins (1562-1622) being my favorite. It is narrated in his celebrated The observations of Sir Richard Hawkins, Knight, in his Voyage into the South Sea in the year 1593 (ed. 1622), which recounts the voyage he commanded from Plymouth to the Pacific, via the Strait of Magellan:

Here [at the Strait of Magellan] we made also a survey of our victuals; and opening certain barrels of oaten meal, we found a great part of some of them, as also of our pipes and vats of bread, eaten and consumed by the rats; doubtless, a fifth part of my company did not eat so much as these devoured, as we found daily in coming to spend any of our provisions. When I came to the sea, it was not suspected that I had a rat in my ship; but with the bread in cask, which we transported out of the Hawke, and going to and again of our boats unto our prise (though we had diverse cats and used other preventions), in a small time they multiplied in such a manner as is incredible. It is one of the general calamities of all long voyages; and would be carefully prevented, as much as may be. For besides that which they consume of the best victuals, they eat the sails; and neither pack nor chest is free from their surprises. I have known them to make a hole in a pipe of water, and saying the pump, have put all in fear, doubting lest some leak had been sprung upon the ship. Moreover, I have heard credible persons report, that ships have been put in danger by them to be sunk, by a hole made in the bulge. All which is easily remedied at the first, but if once they be somewhat increased, with difficulty they are to be destroyed. And although I propounded a reward for every rat which was taken and sought means by poison and other inventions to consume them, yet their increase being so ordinary and many, we were not able to clear ourselves from them [quoted in Moreno Madrid, José María & Henrique Leitão, Atravessando a Porta do Pacifico. Roteiros e relatos da Travessia do Estreito de Magalhães, 1520-1620 (Lisboa: ByTheBook), p.209].

If you are about to set sail, take a good note of Hawkins’ advice and revise carefully your ship… you do not want to start hearing squeaks in the middle of the ocean! [José María Moreno Madrid]

Life is a Voyage

Life is a voyage. From Homer and Virgil to Dante and Cervantes, could one think of a more timeless metaphore in Western culture? Traced by joy and pain, the route from birth to death, such different places, is not without risk of transforming someone along the way. The unsafety and the uncertainty of travelling from one space to another – a movement of growth, gaining knowledge, and being saved in the end if following the correct path – are at the core of every voyage. A classic, given the verisimilitude of its representation of human life, this literary trope can be found in the opening lines of Ioannes Princeps Tragoedia (1558), by Portuguese Neo-Latin writer Diogo de Teive (c. 1514-1565):

“As the small boat, in the fury of the sea, is a toy of the cruel Notus and, because of huge waves, is unable to maintain the rhumb, a weak spirit wounded by pain is agitated in distressing worries, no rest is offered to the insecure heart, and no consolation receives the saddened soul.”

Foreshadowing the death of João Manuel, Prince of Portugal (1537-1554) – the last surviving son of King John III’s nine children, deceased at 16 years old, right before the birth of his only child, the future King Sebastian of Portugal (1554-1578) –, this comparison of the human suffering to a rudderless vessel portrays how a feeling of being adrift may have existed in the Portuguese court during the second half of the sixteenth century. There seems to be a fear that the life of the kingdom is in danger of losing its course by being engulfed in a succession crisis.

Painting of João Manuel, Prince hereditary of Portugal, by the workshop of Anthonis Mor (1552)

Besides the political problem, this comparison conveys something intriguing. In a time when Portuguese literature is laced with nautical rhetoric, this tragedy is not. In a neoclassical fashion, Teive uses the Greek mythical Notus – god of the Sirocco wind causing storms and sinkings in the Mediterranean Sea – to describe a maritime voyage where there are no instruments and techniques that could help the boat maintain its rhumb. The fragility of the hereditary prince’s lifeline is not only depicted by the comparison but also by the absence of science and technology in this symbolic route. Portuguese Early Modern playwriters often used the image of astrolabes and magnetic needles to portray the human ability to overcome tribulations and to accomplish a path. Unlike a planned oceanic voyage, guided by instruments and regiments that help find the vessel’s way when lost, there is no safe and successful arrival to the destination in the life of João Manuel – to be the King of Portugal. His route came to no salvation in the end. [Joana Lima]

“Ipse dixit”: The Experienced Pilot

“¿Qué ruta podrán llevar más acertada que por donde guio tan experimentado piloto?
(“What route could be more certain than the one led by such an experienced pilot?)”

This quotation comes from the Spanish book Diálogo sobre la necesidad y obligación y provecho de la oración y divinos loores vocales (Dialogue on the need, duty and benefit of vocal prayer and praises), authored by Fray Juan de la Cruz (Saint John of the Cross), and published in Salamanca in 1555. While the sentence may initially evoke imagery of maritime routes, its meaning in context differs significantly, as it is part of a broader discourse on seeking spiritual perfection.

The metaphorical essence of the sentence is intriguing, as it employs specific nautical imagery, such as guiding a ship and tracing a route. These associations prove how encounters with the sea were normalized and integrated into various aspects of life, even in unexpected contexts. The author employs the experience of a pilot as an effective means to describe the actions of God in relation to human life, implying a long and arduous journey towards perfection.

Throughout the centuries in which society lived immersed in a reality where the human and the divine, the visible and the invisible, blended seamlessly, oceanic long-distance voyages became embedded in everyday language and permeated European culture. Within this framework, I wanted to draw attention to the indirect testimonies of oceanic pilots, or at least their end applications.

Texts from the 16th century, spanning various genres, abound with expressions related to experienced Iberian pilots. The Jesuit Father José de Acosta, for instance, referred to them as “masters of art” and engaged in fruitful conversations with them. Furthermore, Father Acosta sought to understand the technical aspects of navigation and devoted a substantial portion of his book, Historia natural y moral de las Indias (Sevilla, 1590), to discussing the variation of the needle. He based his explanations on insights provided by an anonymous but highly skilled Portuguese pilot. Similar assertions are given also by the cosmographer Andrés de Céspedes in his Regimiento de navegación (Madrid: 1606) regarding terrestrial magnetism and the northeasting of the needles. His primary sources were pilots, especially the renowned pilot major Vicente Rodrigues. In Céspedes’ words:

“Vicente Rodrigues, a Portuguese pilot who excelled in the India Run and had made fourteen voyages to the Portuguese India, told me that from the moment they passed the Cape of Good Hope until they reached Goa, the compass needle always northeasted with increasing angles. And this is what all the other pilots say.”

While there is no factual confirmation of the specific conversations Father Acosta had with pilots, these affirmations acknowledge, on a deeper level, the commonly accepted reputation of pilots as reliable eyewitnesses. Whether considered as myth, a literary trope, or not, it is likely that many of the keys to the treasure chest of oceanic knowledge were transmitted through informal and unwritten channels. Returning to the initial excerpt, the parallelism between the maritime journey, the spiritual path, and the turbulent waters of life may not have been a novelty, yet the metaphorical power of the skilled pilot’s voyage grew increasingly profound with each passing decade of navigating the vast oceans. [Luana Giurgevich]

Biscuit fot the Navy Fleet II

“Wheat biscuits are the best, because rye and barley are more humid and colder, and their bread takes on more mould and spoils sooner” (F. Oliveira). Prepared with yeast, salt, and a little less water than everyday bread, and kneaded in large quantities with hand- and feet-power, often by slaves, it was rolled out like huge round cookies, with varying diameters, on a measured plate. Before being placed in the oven, it was pricked with a kind of fork or a larger instrument with spikes, to help release gases during cooking. Cooking was repeated to remove as much moisture as possible (one or more times).

The amount to be distributed daily to each sailor would be around half a kilo, the amount with which the loading for the ships was calculated, multiplied by the number of sailors and days foreseen for the trip. Great care was taken with storage in barrels to avoid rodents and insects that could destroy them, and the different diameters adjusted to the curves of the inner shape of the barrels, from the bottom to the top. The word biscuit (biscoito), at the time of the Iberian expansion, in the 15th and 16th centuries, appears attributed to two very different objects: (1) a type of dry food for consumption during sea voyages, and (2) a type of land and stone present in the volcanic islands of the Azores, similar to the slag of forges, and which even today gives names to parishes and places.

Clay mold to mark the size of the armadas biscuits

It is possible to visit the archaeological remains of the biscuit ovens in Vale do Zebro (Palhais, Barreiro), today located inside the Escola de Fuzileiros do Vale do Zebro (Fuzileiro Museum), on the banks of the Coina river. Construction of the Lisbon fleets started and was completed there, with the loading of stones (Seixal), cannons, and other pieces for life on board such as plates, bowls and lamps or moulds for sugar and biscuits, produced in the pottery of Mata da Machada (Barreiro), where wood was cut for construction and for the ovens, as well as a tide mill to manufacture flour. The river here was for centuries a large and sheltered port where the preparation of the ships of the 1497 Indian fleet was completed; Paulo da Gama, brother of Vasco da Gama, accompanied the last preparations from his nearby Quinta in Arrentela (Seixal).

Today, small “biscuits” (some are even called “marinheiras”—the “little sailors”), in unrestricted quantity and rarely kept in barrels, are a landlubber’s treat, especially accompanied with jelly or jams. [José Madruga Carvalho]

How to Save a Life in a 16th Century Ship

Alonso de Chaves' book, Quatri partitu en cosmographia (c. 1528), provides an insightful look into the art of sailing during this period. Chaves’ writing style is so detailed and vivid that it easily transports the reader to the described context. One notable section of the book (II.3,4) warns of potential dangers that can occur onboard, such as someone falling overboard, and provides solutions. Chaves gives precise and practical instructions on how to respond in such a situation.

The first step was to alert the crew by screaming “man at sea!” and throwing a rope into the water for the person to grab onto. The person who fell should also yell and make a commotion, and strike the water to indicate to those on board the side of the ship from which he had fallen, and deter sharks and other large fish from approaching him with the noise. If the individual was unable to climb the rope himself, the ship should launch a lifeboat to rescue them. However, adverse sea conditions could make this process difficult, requiring the ship to reposition itself for optimal conditions.

It was crucial to follow all of these procedures to save a life. It was such an important matter that failing to do so could result in legal consequences for the crew, who would be held responsible for the person’s death. But this would be the worst-case scenario. Chaves also outlines steps to take after a successful rescue. The person should be placed in a safe, ventilated area and turned upside down while feathers or fingers were placed in their mouth to remove any swallowed water. He should then be given a soup fortified with pure wine and washed with vinegar, and given preserves to eat, to regain strength. They should also apply oil to their belly and breast to aid the recovery.

After reading such a passage, with such clear and detailed instructions, even the 21st century landlubber feels prepared to save a man who has fallen overboard! [Carmo Lacerda]

The Winds in Western Tradition

The month of February in the French republican calendar was Ventôse. Since the beginning of time, winds have accompanied the daily lives of human communities. Symbol of life (are we not “dust in the wind”?), they scatter seeds in all directions, winds can also bring storms and death; what is certain is that they are generally unstable. Guiding yourself by the winds has become a habit, especially for sea voyages. Eastern Mediterranean navigators identified the prevailing winds and aligned them with the sun, the east wind where the sun rises, the south wind from the highest sun side, the west wind from where the sun sets, and the north wind blowing from the mountains over which the North Star is visible. In Homer’s times we find winds from four directions: Boreas from the north, Euros from the east, Notos from the south and Zephyr from the west.

In the Tower of the Winds in Athens, 8 winds are fixed: Boreas [N], Cecias [NE], Apeliotes [E], Euros [SE], Notos [S], Argestes [SO], Zephyrus [O], Sciron [NO]. This simple design of four main directions as perpendicular regions was easy to understand and transmit. But as pilots move onto new lands and new islands, new winds and new directions are identified. The directions are not necessarily exact points on the horizon, sometimes they are just somewhat undefined zones: there are six directions when distinguishing between east and west intermediate winds: Boreas [N], Euros [NE], Apeliotes [SE], Notos [S ], Argestes [SO], Zephyrus [NO]. The Romans speak of 12 directions that will combine intermediate winds by combining the names of adjacent ones… Sometimes the main directions are multiplied by two –2, 4, 8, 16, 32—, other times they are multiplied by three –2, 6, 12—, with increasingly smaller angles.

In Portugal, facing the Atlantic Ocean, it was the west wind that was best known: the Greek Zephyr, sweet and bringing rain, who lives where the sun sets, in the house of the evening star, became Favónio with the Romans, a soft and pleasant wind that heralds spring and melts the snow (Pliny the Elder remembers that in the lands of the Lusitanians he was the one who fertilized the mares). In the times of Charlemagne it was the Vuestroni. In the humble speech of sailors from Iberia, it became Ponente (“the setting-sun direction”) (Catalan Atlas, 1375). With more demanding navigations in the 15th and 16th centuries, the Portuguese and Spaniards expanded the “wind-wheel” to 32 wind and compass directions, and navigation books recorded variants such as “ponente” or “poente” or “oeste”. These smaller angles, of 11º and 15', are 32 in the wind rose. Each one receives the name of “quarta” (a fourth), and each one, in the identification of the tides throughout the lunar month, corresponds to the interval of 48 minutes of the moon’s position from one day to the next. [José Madruga Carvalho]

Esmeraldo de Situ Orbis, a Book of Secrets

Half-forgotten and out of sight for centuries, Esmeraldo de Situ Orbis (1505–1508), by Portuguese navigator and cosmographer Duarte Pacheco Pereira (1460–1533), is a technical treatise describing the African ports known by Portuguese mariners sailing to India, following Vasco da Gama’s (1469–1524) discovery of this nautical route (1497–1498).

Duarte Pacheco Pereira - Anonymous (17th century)

The “Prologue” of this veritable treasure chest of maritime rutters, which allowed King Manuel I (1495–1521) to rule the trade from Asia to Europe, offers to the historian of science an unexpected gift – the very modern idea that the wealth and fame of a kingdom is a consequence of scientific and technological achievements:

We can say that the glory of your victories and the praise of your name and great navigation and conquest is related to Menelaus & Hanno the Carthaginian & Eudoxus, whom the authors celebrate and mention so much, & also to all the Kings and princes your predecessors; & how in so little time your Highness has discovered almost one thousand and five hundred leagues beyond all the ancients and moderns that had never been known or navigated by any nations of our west (…).

By specifying the giants whose shoulders’ King Manuel is standing on, Pacheco Pereira sets the monarch’s success on two pillars. On one side, the author refers to Menelaus of Alexandria (c. 70–140 CE), a Greek astronomer and mathematician who studied the geometry of the sphere and how it can be applied to astronomical measurements and calculations; and to Eudoxus of Cnidus (c. 408 BCE–355 BCE), another Greek astronomer and mathematician, also dedicated to the study of spherical astronomy, crucial for Early Modern celestial navigation. On the other side, the author refers to Hanno the Navigator (c. 500 BCE), the mythical Carthaginian navigator and author of Periplus Hannonis, an itinerary detailing a voyage of exploration and colonization from Carthage down the coast of West Africa to the Gulf of Guinea, the type of text that precedes the oceanic rutter, certainly an inspiration to the Esmeraldo.

These pillars for the glory of Early Modern Portugal are, on the one hand, astronomy and mathematics, the scientific disciplines that allow for a pilot in the middle of the ocean to make a correct measurement of latitude. On the other hand, the practice itself of navigation, made possible by the pilot’s knowledge of celestial navigation using instruments — a practice guided by charts and rutters, the secret for the Portuguese kingdom to establish a maritime route made of safe, and repeated, roundtrip voyages, which ultimately led to the creation of a global empire. [Joana Lima]

From the Ship’s Angle

In early modern times the ship, as a means of transport, was an old invention. However, its use in the new context of high-seas navigation and long-distance voyages changed deeply the way of understanding travel, the relation with space and time, and a concrete perception of the world.

A new way of reporting the world was witnessed and made evident by pilots in their nautical rutters.

Nautical rutters fulfilled perfectly their primary task, that was informative, with a neutral language, with a synthetic prose and a pragmatic second person plural. In such an information flow devoted to the reliability of data gathering, the texts should not reach a tone of stylistic pleasantness or elegance. Even so, surprisingly, figurative discourses were not completely absent, and one can find them especially related to the observation of coast profiles.

The images used by pilots were very significant because they represented a piece of world that was not visible from all directions; instead, it was visible only from one specific angle. The observer’s location coincided with the position of the ship at a very precise navigational moment which was the best for a safe navigation.

Figueiredo’s rutters collection was a receptacle of such images. The images were related to pilots’ everyday life, like shipbuilding, known animals, or even food.

An island’s tip could be described by sailors as the spur of a galley (“esporão de galé”), or another could look like a galley with a covered poop (“galé toldada”). Some islands could bring to mind a round bread (“pão redondo”) rising above the sea, or delicious sugar bread (“pão de açucar”) as the Islands Estácio and Saba did. Very common were also the similitarities of coasts with some chess pieces, to indicate especially high peaks, as well as animal heads (like turtle-head or dolphin’s snout).

Such details were never useless: placing themselves in relation to the object observed (with specific expressions like coming from the north side, moving in North-South direction, etc.), the pilots thus reinforced an intrinsic practical value. [Luana Giurgevich]

The Living Light (O lume vivo)

“I saw and clearly saw, the living Light, / Which sailor-people hold their Patron-saint, / In times of trouble and the winds’ rude fight, / And sable orcan when man’s heart is faint” (“Vi, claramente visto, o lume vivo / Que a marítima gente tem por santo / Em tempo de tormenta e vento esquivo, / De tempestade escura e triste pranto.”) [English translation by Richard Francis Burton, London 1880]

With these four verses Luís de Camões (Os Lusíadas, 1572) mentioned a curious weather phenomenon which took place during a tempest on his ship while sailing to the East. Such an episode was also described several decades later by William Shakespeare in The Tempest, in connection with the character of Ariel, a spirit with special skills capable of causing storms. Our current explanation is that a bright luminous plasma was generated by an electric discharge in an atmospheric electric field. The intensity of the effect, a blue or violet glow around the object, often accompanied by an audible discharge, was proportional to the strength of the electric field and therefore noticeable primarily during storms or volcanic eruptions. This impressive phenomenon gave rise to a wide variety of explanations, and it was discussed also in more technical maritime literature, like the Arte de navegar published by Simão de Oliveira in 1606.

Oliveira devoted an entire chapter to the “light that appears on certain areas of the ships, after great storms” (Chapter 52). He started by naming this light in many ways, such as S. Frei Pedro Gonçalves, Santelmo, or Corpo Santo. The first of these names referred to Pedro Gonçalves Telmo (hence English “St Elmo’s fire”), the patron saint of sailors, a Spanish catholic priest, born in 1190, to whom various miracles were attributed. The most spectacular was that of Baiona’s big storm, when Saint Telmo asked the winds to stop blowing. Oliveira then went on to explain that this strange event also happened to the ancient sailors, even before the saint was born. The ancients called it Castor and Pollux, when two lights appeared, and Helena when it manifested itself in the form of only one light. Helena was a bad sign, but Castor and Pollux meant happiness.

Finally, Oliveira concluded the chapter by stating that these fires were no sign of a saint, or of a miracle, but were the result of antiperistasis, which was a term used to explain various events, where one quality heightened the force of another opposing, quality. He linked the phenomenon to the ship’s rocking. The ship “sent” —as he put it— “viscous excitements”, that generated the light. Although the author emphasized that such a phenomenon could happen in many other places, like prisons, churches, over sweaty horses or even on the head of strangled prisoners, the textual tradition linked it mostly to maritime contexts. Oliveira’s explanation of the phenomenon had its origins in sailors’ experiences and accounts (oral and written, especially rutters, like D. João de Castro’s texts) of long-distance voyages, where “the living lights” were frequent signals for sailors. [Leonor Pedro & Luana Giurgevich]

Reflections on the Red Sea: Part 2

The first part of this story introduced a question made by some Portuguese sailors: what was the reason behind the name of the Red Sea? At the end, it was mentioned that Afonso de Albuquerque had provided King Manuel with an explanation, after passing through the strait of Aden. “The riddle was solved” – or so it seemed.

In 1541, it was João de Castro who joined another expedition, this time going all the way to the Gulf of Suez. Castro wrote a comment about the name of the Red Sea, refuting all the ideas that were mentioned previously: the water was not red; the storms did not seem to carry any red dust; and the sand was brownish, rather dark. This was not to say that the color red was entirely missing in this region. João de Castro continues to explain that it was only north of Sawakin (where Albuquerque’s expedition had not reached) that coral reefs started to appear: some were red, some were green and some were white. “Now, we should have in mind that the water of this sea, especially north of Sawakin, is the clearest that has ever been seen.” Whenever the coral or the algae around it were red, the red colour showed through the crystal-clear waters. Given that most reefs seemed to be red, Castro believes that it should be the reason why the sea gained the name red, instead of green or white.

Like Albuquerque, João de Castro also enquired Muslim pilots about the name of this sea. They were surprised by the question – Castro writes – for they themselves used the name Sea of Mecca, and none had ever seen or heard of red dust being brought by the wind. “Despite all this, I do not disapprove of the opinion of the Portuguese, but I do state that – having gone through this sea longer than they have gone, and knowing all of its length when they only knew a fragment – I have not seen in the whole of it what they claim to have seen in a little part.” [Inês Bénard]

Reflections on the Red Sea: Part 1

One of the most immediate effects that 16th-century oceanic voyages had on the European population was the emergence of new kinds of questions. Long-distance expeditions exposed sailors to completely new information and, apart from that, it also enabled many of them to confront theories and descriptions which had been hitherto known only through ancient authorities.

One of the many examples of these questions was the reason for the name of the Red Sea. João de Castro mentioned in his rutter that Pliny provided two explanations: the first was that it used to be called Erythraean Sea after a king called Erythras – a name akin to the classical Greek term for red; the second explanation was that the sun in that sea was so strong, that it made it turn reddish. João de Castro added that some people also held that its name “was due to the color of the sand and the earth that went through it”; while others claimed that the water itself was red.

https://medea.fc.ul.pt/view/chart/1/viewer

In 1513, Afonso de Albuquerque organized an expedition to the south of the Red Sea, going as far as the Dahlak Islands. The Portuguese governor wrote to King Manuel I claiming to have seen big red spots on the water, right at the strait of Aden. According to Albuquerque, some of his sailors enquired Muslim pilots about such phenomenon and were told that the earth on the mainland was red. Strong winds would bring dust into the sea, and then heavy currents would generate the spots. The riddle was solved – or so it seemed... (to be continued) [Inês Bénard]

Sailing in Green Waters

The experience of long-distance voyages made pilots develop new skills, including training their eyes to read the different colors of the waters. Why were colors so important?

Vicente Rodrigues’ first rutter (c. 1575), first published by Linschoten, informed that near the Bay of Arguin, the pilots could see “water of green color”. If the green water was seen “twice”, it was a clear sign of proximity to the continent, otherwise, the ships were closer to Cape Verde’s Islands. This information was crucial to the safe continuation of the journey.

We can find the description of green waters also in connection with the Brazilian Run. In fact, the chief cosmographer Manuel Pimentel (1650-1719), in his collection of sailing directions, wrote that in the Maranhão basin there were many dangerous sandbanks of different sizes. The biggest ones were typically introduced by green water. The same author describing the sea route from Tobago Island to Cartagena de Indias noted that the pilot might see “very green water at high sea”. In any case, the pilot should not be afraid, because this water should be interpreted as a good sign (“não tema nada [o piloto], esta agua é certa”).

According to this rutter, the color of water could be very different in a certain place, depending on the season of the year. In the proximity of the Andaman Archipelago, in September, the surface of the sea was like a patchwork, full of spots, while in May, when rainfall was insufficient, the water was fully blue.

The nuances of water helped pilots not only to identify the location of the ship, but also to understand atmospherical phenomena which were previously unknown. [Luana Giurgevich]

Fernão de Oliveira: a Globalization Agent of Iberian Maritime Knowledge

Fr Fernão de Oliveira (1507-1581?) was a significant author in 16th century nautical science. In 1555, he published the Arte da Guerra do Mar (The Art of Sea Warfare) and around 1570 he wrote another work, which remained in manuscript, named Ars Nautica (a treatise on nautical construction). In 1580, he also wrote the Livro da Fábrica das Naus (The Book on Shipbuilding). Oliveira’s works are intimately connected with his adventurous life between Portugal and Europe.

Oliveira completed initial studies in Évora at a Dominican Convent. He then went to Spain for unclear reasons. After his return, he published the first ever Portuguese grammar in 1536, and became the preceptor of important figures at the Portuguese court. During the 1540s, his life took other paths. In 1541 he intended to travel to Italy, but he only went as far as France. His maritime knowledge impressed the French baron of Saint Blanchard, who employed him as his pilot. By this time, Oliveira had already learned much on board Spanish, Italian and French ships in European waters. When France invaded England in 1545, Oliveira participated in the expedition and was captured by the English in a naval fight. Brought to Henry VIII’s court, Oliveira gave his contributions to the English art of naval construction. When he returned to Portugal in 1547, he was jailed by the Inquisition because of his sympathies for Henry VIII’s position towards Rome. Soon afterwards he was released, but by the time of his death (circa 1580), Oliveira had been imprisoned again by the Inquisition. While working on his books, he also considered leaving Portugal again. In 1566, the Spanish ambassador in Lisbon reported that Oliveira received proposals to pass to France. He did not depart because the Spanish ambassador prevented him from going to France by enlisting him in the service of Philip II. It remains unknown whether Oliveira left Portugal to serve Philip II, but it seems improbable.

Throughout his career, Father Oliveira became an object of attention for the main maritime powers of the period: Spain, France and England. His ties with all of them motivated their interests in hiring him and learning from him. This is explained because as a skilled pilot, Oliveira’s 1555 Arte da Guerra no Mar (The Art of War at Sea) is the first important European treatise on maritime warfare, and the 1570 Ars Nautica is a systematic encyclopaedia on navigation. Not innocently, the Ars Nautica’s manuscript is held at the University of Leiden, as the Dutch Republic during the 1590s also became interested in Oliveira’s work for its maritime expansion.

Thus, Father Oliveira’s agitated life and works are a good example of how far an important humanist could contribute to the globalization of Iberian nautical knowledge and produce a major impact on the overall process of European maritime expansion. Nevertheless, Father Oliveira works’ circulation was not a unique case in 16th century Europe, as the circulation of maritime knowledge was truly unstoppable by any power. [Nuno Vila-Santa]

Beware the Edge of the Earth!

When you reach that page where they say sailors were afraid of the ship falling down the edge of the earth, you know you have reached the moment to close the book.

The awareness of the earth’s sphericity, in fact, has been a cultural heritage since ancient times, and common to many civilizations traditionally mentioned as “ancient” and “medieval”, such as the Hellenistic, the Christian, the Islamic, the Indian, and the Chinese. Philosophers (Pythagoras, Plato, Aristotle, Isidore of Seville, Bede the Venerable), astronomers (Eratosthenes, Al-Farghānī), geographers (Strabo, Ptolemy), and mathematicians (Ibn Hazm, Al-Biruni, Shen Kuo), with very few and marginal exceptions, helped to pass on and fix this awareness essential to navigation and voyages, which only in relatively recent times has been questioned.

This “Myth of the Flat Earth,” part of a rather progressionist narrative, has been pinned down in detail and it is mostly due to some 19th-century American and English authors. What is amazing is how stubborn and reoccurring this fictional view of the “good flat earthers of old” has been over decades.

In any case, what is relevant from our nautical end is to make this clear: it is totally inconceivable that sailors on board a 15th or 16th-century Iberian ship would entertain any idea of a flat earth. Not only is the curvature of the earth very obviously observable when at sea, but it is also that the techno-scientific environment in the oceanic vessels was imbued with a sophisticated cosmography, heir to countless centuries of study. Crews aboard the Columbus and Magellan expeditions, just to name the most prominent examples, may have had other grievances and misgivings, but certainly not that they would fall down the edge of the earth—their “job” made them part of an elite fully acquainted with a wealth of cutting-edge navigational knowledge, perhaps comparable to something between our aviators and astronauts. [Acevedo/Moreno Madrid/Salomoni]

How to Establish a Maritime Route: The Case of the Strait of Magellan (2/3)

Where were we a few weeks ago? Oh yes! The Pelican—renamed as Golden Hind before reaching the Fuegian channel—was entering the waters of the Strait of Magellan on August 21, 1578. Although commanded by Francis Drake, the British fleet counted on the invaluable help of Nuno da Silva—a Portuguese pilot that Drake kidnapped in the island of Santiago de Cabo Verde—to reach and cross the Strait. The corsair held Da Silva in high esteem, and the technical documents written by the Portuguese certify his “top level” sailing skills.

Excerpt from Nuno da Silva’s Logbook
Archivo General de Indias, Patronato 33, N.3, R.30.

While Drake was beginning his piratical activities in the Pacific, his Vice-Admiral, John Winter, delved into the Strait to return to England. This return journey allowed him to go down in history as the third man to go through the Strait in a West-East direction and as the discoverer of the medicinal virtues of the Drymis winteri bark to deal with scurvy. Supposedly, also a small boat of Drake’s fleet, captained by Peter Curder, would have returned to England by undoing the path through the Strait.

Canelo (Drymis winteri). The bark of this tree became known as Winter’s Bark.

Thus, the Door to the Pacific—and to the Spanish riches it contained—was also opened to English ships. Obviously, this fact set off all the alarms in Philip II’s court. The response to Drake’s boldness was to send a fleet to the Strait under the command of Pedro Sarmiento de Gamboa (1579–1580), a man well-versed in nautical issues. His mission was to collect as much information as possible on the Fuegian channel, in order to fortify the passage and to avoid unwelcome guests. The documentary result of the expedition was an outstanding brand new rutter for the Strait and some nautical charts. However, the fortification project never materialized; in light of this, some of Drake’s compatriots began to set a course for the coveted channel. Thomas Cavendish crossed the Strait in 1587, and then completed the third circumnavigation of the Earth; Andrew Merrick tried to follow in his footsteps in 1590, but he did not go past Cape Froward; Cavendish again, in 1592, tried to repeat his own achievement, but he also ran into Cape Froward. Finally, it was Richard Hawkins in 1594 who managed to reach the Pacific again through the Strait, in an interesting journey that can be read in The Observations of Sir Richard Hawkins (1622).

Do not miss the third part of the series to find out which nation took over from the English sailors on the Strait of Magellan! [José María Moreno Madrid]