It was like a little fishing fleet going out together.

The rowers bent to the oars, a strip of water widened between us and Spain.

Loud chanted the friars, but over their voices rose the crying of farewell, now deep, now shrill.

"_Adios!_" The sailors cried back, "Adios! Adios!" From the land it must have had a thin sound like ghosts wailing from the edge of the world.

That, the sailors held and Palos held, was where the ships were going, over the edge of the world.