The master would have had me wait at San Lucar until he went forth again.

But I was bound for the strand by Palos and the gray, piling Atlantic.
August was the month and the day warm.

The first of August in the year 1492.

Two leagues east of Palos I overtook three men trudging that way, and talking now loudly and angrily and now in a sullen, dragging fashion.

I had seen between this road and ocean a fishing hamlet and I made out that they were from this place.