In the morning the black mystery of the night was gone and the little harbor was shining and warm. The tuna cannery against the gathering rocks of the point and a few houses along the edge of the beach were the only habitations visible. And with the day came the answer to the lightlessness of the night before. The Coast Pilot had not been wrong. There is indeed a light on the end of the cannery pier, but since the electricity is generated by the cannery engine, and since the cannery engine runs only in the daytime, so the light burns only in the daytime. With the arrived day, this light came on and burned bravely until dusk, when it went off again. But the Coast Pilot was absolved, it had not lied. Even Tony, who had been a little bitter the night before, was forced to revise his first fierceness. And perhaps it was a lesson to Tony in exact thinking, like those carefully worded puzzles in joke books; the Pilot said a light burned—it only neglected to say when, and we ourselves supplied the fallacy.
The great rocks on the end of the Peninsula are almost literary. They are a fitting Land’s End, standing against the sea, the end of a thousand miles of peninsula and mountain. Good Hope is this way too, and perhaps we take some of our deep feelings of termination from these things, and they make our symbols. The Friars stood high and protective against an interminable sea.
Clavigero, a Jesuit monk, came to the Point and the Peninsula over two hundred years ago. We quote from the Lake and Gray translation of his history of Lower California,10 page fifteen: “This Cape is its southern terminus, the Red River [Colorado] is the eastern limit, and the harbor of San Diego, situated at 33 degrees north latitude and about 156 degrees longitude, can be called its western limit. To the north and the northeast it borders on the countries of barbarous nations little known on the coasts and not at all in the interior. To the west it has the Pacific Sea and on the east the Gulf of California, already called the Red Sea because of its similarity to the Red Sea, and the Sea of Cortés, named in honor of the famous conqueror of Mexico who had it discovered and who navigated it. The length of the Peninsula is about 10 degrees, but its width varies from 30 to 70 miles and more.
“The name, California,” Clavigero goes on, “was applied to a single port in the beginning, but later it was extended to mean all the Peninsula. Some geographers have even taken the liberty of comprising under this denomination New Mexico, the country of the Apaches, and other regions very remote from the true California and which have nothing to do with it.”
Clavigero says of its naming, “The origin of this name is not known, but it is believed that the conqueror, Cortés, who pretended to have some knowledge of Latin, named the harbor, where he put in, ‘Callida fornax’ because of the great heat which he felt there; and that either he himself or some one of the many persons who accompanied him formed the name California from these two words. If this conjecture be not true, it is at least credible.”
We like Clavigero for these last words. He was a careful man. The observations set down in his history of Baja California are surprisingly correct, and if not all true, they are at least all credible. He always gives one his choice. Perhaps his Jesuit training is never more evident than in this. “If you believe this,” he says in effect, “perhaps you are not right, but at least you are not a fool.”
Lake and Gray include an interesting footnote in their translation. “The famous corsair, Drake, called California ‘New Albion’ in honor of his native land. Father Scherer, a German Jesuit, and M. de Fer, a French geographer, used the name ’Carolina Island’ to designate California, which name began to be used in the time of Charles II, King of Spain, when that Peninsula was considered an island, but these and other names were soon forgotten and that given it by the conqueror, Cortés, prevailed.”
And in a second footnote, Lake and Gray continue, “We shall add the opinion of the learned ex-Jesuit, Don José Campoi, on the etymology of the name, ‘California,’ or ‘Californias’ as others say. This Father believes that the said name is composed of the Spanish word ‘Cala’ which means a small cove of the sea, and the latin word ’fornix’ which means an arch; because there is a small cove at the cape of San Lucas on the western side of which there overhangs a rock pierced in such a way that in the upper part of that great opening is seen an arch formed so perfectly that it appears made by human skill. Therefore Cortés, noticing the cove and arch, and understanding Latin, probably gave to that port the name ‘California’ or Cala-y-fornix, speaking half Spanish and half Latin.
“To these conjectures we could add a third one, composed of both, by saying that the name is derived from Cala, as Campoi thinks, and fornax, as the author believes, because of the cove, and the heat which Cortés felt there, and that the latter might have called that place Cala, y fornax.” This ends the footnote.
Our feeling about this, and all the erudite discussion of the origin of this and other names, is that none of these is true. Names attach themselves to places and stick or fall away. When men finally go to live in Antarctica it is unlikely that they will ever speak of the Rockefeller Mountains or use the names designated by breakfast food companies. More likely a name emerges almost automatically from a place as well as from a man and the relationship between name and thing is very close. In the naming of places in the West this has seemed apparent. In this connection there are two examples: in the Sierras there are two little mountains which were called by the early settlers “Mag gie’s Bubs.” This name was satisfactory and descriptive, but it seemed vulgar to later and more delicate lovers of nature, who tried to change the name a number of times and failing, in usage at least, finally surrendered and called them “The Maggies,” explaining that it was an Indian name. In the same way Dog -----Point (and I am delicate only for those same nature lovers) has had finally to be called in print “The Dog.” It does not look like a dog, but it does look like that part of a dog which first suggested its name. However, anyone seeing this point immediately reverts to the designation which was anatomically accurate and strangely satisfying to the name-giving faculty. And this name-giving faculty is very highly developed and deeply rooted in our atavistic magics. To name a thing has always been to make it familiar and therefore a little less dangerous to us. “Tree” the abstract may harbor some evil until it has a name, but once having a name one can cope with it. A tree is not dangerous, but the forest is. Among primitives sometimes evil is escaped by never mentioning the name, as in Malaysia, where one never mentions a tiger by name for fear of calling him. Among others, as even among ourselves, the giving of a name establishes a familiarity which renders the thing impotent. It is interesting to see how some scientists and philosophers, who are an emotional and fearful group, are able to protect themselves against fear. In a modern scene, when the horizons stretch out and your philosopher is likely to fall off the world like a Dark Ages mariner, he can save himself by establishing a taboo-box which he may call “mysticism” or “supernaturalism” or “radicalism.” Into this box he can throw all those thoughts which frighten him and thus be safe from them. But in geographic naming it seems almost as though the place contributed something to its own name. As Tony says, “The point draws the waves”—we say, “The place draws the name.” It doesn’t matter what California means; what does matter is that with all the names bestowed upon this place, “California” has seemed right to those who have seen it. And the meaningless word “California” has completely routed all the “New Albions” and “Caro linas” from the scene.
The strangest case of nicknaming we know concerns a man whose first name is Copeland. In three different parts of the country where he has gone, not knowing anyone, he has been called first “Copenhagen” and then “Hagen.” This has happened automatically. He is Hagen. We don’t know what quality of Hagen-ness he has, but there must be some. Why not “Copen” or “Cope”? It is never that. He is invariably Hagen. This, we realize, has become mystical, and anyone who wishes may now toss the whole thing into his taboo-box and slam the lid down on it.
The tip of the Cape at San Luc
as, with the huge gray Friars standing up on the end, has behind the rocks a little beach which is a small boy’s dream of pirates. It seems the perfect place to hide and from which to dart out in a pinnace on the shipping of the world; a place to which to bring the gold bars and jewels and beautiful ladies, all of which are invariably carried by the shipping of the world. And this little beach must so have appealed to earlier men, for the names of pirates are still in the rock, and the pirate ships did dart out of here and did come back. But now in back of the Friars on the beach there is a great pile of decaying hammer-head sharks, the livers torn out and the fish left to rot. Some day, and that soon, the more mature piracy which has abandoned the pinnace for the coast gun will stud this point with gray monsters and will send against the shipping of the Gulf, not little bands of ragged men, but projectiles filled with TNT. And from that piracy no jewels or beautiful ladies will come back to the beach behind the rocks.
On that first morning we cleaned ourselves well and shaved while we waited for the Mexican officials to come out and give us the right to land. They were late in coming, for they had to find their official uniforms, and they too had to shave. Few boats put in here. It would not be well to waste the occasion of the visit of even a fishing boat like ours. It was noon before the well-dressed men in their sun helmets came down to the beach and were rowed out to us. They were armed with the .45-caliber automatics which everywhere in Mexico designate officials. And they were armed also with the courtesy which is unique in official Mexico. No matter what they do to you, they are nice about it. We soon learned the routine in other ports as well as here. Everyone who has or can borrow a uniform comes aboard—the collector of customs in a washed and shiny uniform; the business agent in a business suit having about him what Tiny calls “a double-breasted look”; then soldiers if there are any; and finally the Indians, who row the boat and rarely have uniforms. They come over the side like ambassadors. We shake hands all around. The galley has been prepared: coffee is ready and perhaps a drop of rum. Cigarettes are presented and then comes the ceremonial of the match. In Mexico cigarettes are cheap, but matches are not. If a man wishes to honor you, he lights your cigarette, and if you have given him a cigarette, he must so honor you. But having lighted your cigarette and his, the match is still burning and not being used. Anyone may now make use of this match. On a street, strangers who have been wishing for a light come up quickly and light from your match, bow, and pass on.
We were impatient for the officials, and this time we did not have to wait long. It developed that the Governor of the southern district had very recently been to Cape San Lucas and just before that a yacht had put in. This simplified matters, for, having recently used them, the officials knew exactly where to find their uniforms, and, having found them, they did not, as sometimes happens, have to send them to be laundered before they could come aboard. About noon they trooped to the beach, scattering the pigs and Mexican vultures which browsed happily there. They filled the rowboat until the gunwales just missed dipping, and majestically they came alongside. We conducted the ceremony of clearing with some dignity, for if we spoke to them in very bad Spanish, they in turn honored us with very bad English. They cleared us, drank coffee, smoked, and finally left, promising to come back. Much as we had enjoyed them, we were impatient, for the tide was dropping and the exposed rocks looked very rich with animal life.
All the time we were indulging in courtliness there had been light gunfire on the cliffs, where several men were shooting at black cormorants; and it developed that everyone in Cape San Lucas hates cormorants. They are the flies in a perfect ecological ointment. The cannery cans tuna; the entrails and cuttings of the tuna are thrown into the water from the end of the pier. This refuse brings in schools of small fish which are netted and used for bait to catch tuna. This closed and tight circle is interfered with by the cormorants, who try to get at the bait-fish. They dive and catch fish, but also they drive the schools away from the pier out of easy reach of the baitmen. Thus they are considered interlopers, radicals, subversive forces against the perfect and God-set balance on Cape San Lucas. And they are rightly slaughtered, as all radicals should be. As one of our number remarked, “Why, pretty soon they’ll want to vote.”
Finally we could go. We unpacked the Hansen Sea-Cow and fastened it on the back of the skiff. This was our first use of the Sea-Cow. The shore was very close and we were able just by pulling on the starter rope to spin the propeller enough to get us to shore. The Sea-Cow did not run that day but it seemed to enjoy having its flywheel spun.
The shore-collecting equipment usually consisted of a number of small wrecking bars; wooden fish-kits with handles; quart jars with screw caps; and many glass tubes. These tubes are invaluable for small and delicate animals: the chance of bringing them back uninjured is greatly increased if each individual, or at least only a few of like species, are kept in separate containers. We filled our pockets with these tubes. The soft animals must never be put in the same container with any of the livelier crabs, for these, when restrained or inhibited in any way, go into paroxysms of rage and pinch everything at random, even each other; sometimes even themselves.
The exposed rocks had looked rich with life under the lowering tide, but they were more than that: they were ferocious with life. There was an exuberant fierceness in the littoral here, a vital competition for existence. Everything seemed speeded-up; starfish and urchins were more strongly attached than in other places, and many of the univalves were so tightly fixed that the shells broke before the animals would let go their hold. Perhaps the force of the great surf which beats on this shore has much to do with the tenacity of the animals here. It is noteworthy that the animals, rather than deserting such beaten shores for the safe cove and protected pools, simply increase their toughness and fight back at the sea with a kind of joyful survival. This ferocious survival quotient excites us and makes us feel good, and from the crawling, fighting, resisting qualities of the animals, it almost seems that they are excited too.
We collected down the littoral as the water went down. We didn’t seem to have time enough. We took samples of everything that came to hand. The uppermost rocks swarmed with Sally Lightfoots, those beautiful and fast and sensitive crabs. With them were white periwinkle snails. Below that, barnacles and Purpura snails; more crabs and many limpets. Below that many serpulids—attached worms in calcareous tubes with beautiful purple floriate heads. Below that, the multi-rayed starfish, Heliaster kubiniji of Xanthus. With Heliaster were a few urchins, but not many, and they were so placed in crevices as to be hard to dislodge. Several resisted the steel bar to the extent of breaking—the mouth remaining tight to the rock while the shell fell away. Lower still there were to be seen swaying in the water under the reefs the dark gorgonians, or sea-fans. In the lowest surf-levels there was a brilliant gathering of the moss animals known as bryozoa; flatworms; flat crabs; the large sea-cucumber 11; some anemones; many sponges of two types, a smooth, encrusting purple one, the other erect, white, and calcareous. There were great colonies of tunicates, clusters of tiny individuals joined by a common tunic and looking so like the sponges that even a trained worker must await the specialist’s determination to know whether his find is sponge or tunicate. This is annoying, for the sponge being one step above the pro tozoa, at the bottom of the evolutionary ladder, and the tunicate near the top, bordering the vertebrates, your trained worker is likely to feel that a dirty trick has been played upon him by an entirely too democratic Providence.
We took many snails, including cones and murexes; a small red tectibranch (of a group to which the sea-hares belong); hydroids; many annelid worms; and a red pentagonal starfish.12 There were the usual hordes of hermit crabs, but oddly enough we saw no chitons (sea-cradles), although the region seemed ideally suited to them.
We collected in haste. As the tide went down we kept a little ahead of it, wading in rubber boots, and as it came up again it drove us back. The time seemed very short. The incredible beauty
of the tide pools, the brilliant colors, the swarming species ate up the time. And when at last the afternoon surf began to beat on the littoral and covered it over again, we seemed barely to have started. But the buckets and jars and tubes were full, and when we stopped we discovered that we were very tired.
Our collecting ends were different from those ordinarily entertained. In most cases at the present time, collecting is done by men who specialize in one or more groups. Thus, one man interested in hydroids will move out on a reef, and if his interest is sharp enough, he will not even see other life forms about him. For him, the sponge is something in the way of his hydroids. Collecting large numbers of animals presents an entirely different aspect and makes one see an entirely different picture. Being more interested in distribution than in individuals, we saw dominant species and changing sizes, groups which thrive and those which recede under varying conditions. In a way, ours is the older method, somewhat like that of Darwin on the Beagle. He was called a “naturalist.” He wanted to see everything, rocks and flora and fauna; marine and terrestrial. We came to envy this Darwin on his sailing ship. He had so much room and so much time. He could capture his animals and keep them alive and watch them. He had years instead of weeks, and he saw so many things. Often we envied the inadequate transportation of his time—the Beagle couldn’t get about rapidly. She moved slowly along under sail. And we can imagine that young Darwin, probably in a bos‘n’s chair hung over the side, with a dip-net in his hands, scooping up jellyfish. When he went inland, he rode a horse or walked. This is the proper pace for a naturalist. Faced with all things he cannot hurry. We must have time to think and to look and to consider. And the modern process—that of looking quickly at the whole field and then diving down to a particular—was reversed by Darwin. Out of long long consideration of the parts he emerged with a sense of the whole. Where we wished for a month at a collecting station and took two days, Darwin stayed three months. Of course he could see and tabulate. It was the pace that made the difference. And in the writing of Darwin, as in his thinking, there is the slow heave of a sailing ship, and the patience of waiting for a tide. The results are bound up with the pace. We could not do this even if we could. We have thought in this connection that the speed and tempo and tone of modern writing might be built on the nervous clacking of a typewriter; that the brittle jerky thinking of the present might rest on the brittle jerky curricula of our schools with their urge to “turn them out.” To turn them out. They use the phrase in speeches; turn them out to what? And the young biologists tearing off pieces of their subject, tatters of the life forms, like sharks tearing out hunks of a dead horse, looking at them, tossing them away. This is neither a good nor a bad method; it is simply the one of our time. We can look with longing back to Charles Darwin, staring into the water over the side of the sailing ship, but for us to attempt to imitate that procedure would be romantic and silly. To take a sailing boat, to fight tide and wind, to move four hundred miles on a horse when we could take a plane, would be not only ridiculous but ineffective. For we first, before our work, are products of our time. We might produce a philosophical costume piece, but it would be completely artificial. However, we can and do look on the measured, slow-paced accumulation of sight and thought of the Darwins with a nostalgic longing.
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