agination caught at the drama of that terrifying holocaust 

 of wind and storm as it attacked the doomed flotilla. In 

 my mind I pictured the sequence of events which must 

 have occurred starting that hot, still summer morning in 

 July. 



An orange-red sunrise spread itself across the eastern 

 sky, reflected in shades of palest peach in the transparent 

 waters of Havana harbor. From the grim stone bastions of 

 Morro Castle overlooking the entrance to the port issued 

 a series of heavy cannon blasts in long and continuous 

 salute, startling the eager crowds which had gathered on 

 the opposite shore to watch the silver fleet of Rear Ad- 

 miral don Rodrigo de Torres begin its long, hazardous 

 journey back to Spain, 



Led by the admiral's galleon and squired by three 

 additional two-decker warships bristling with guns, the 

 remaining fifteen heavily laden merchant ships maneu- 

 vered awkwardly in the fitful breezes of early morning to 

 take the places assigned to them. One by one, as they 

 reached the harbor mouth, they broke out full sails to 

 take every advantage of the increasing breezes from the 

 southwest. 



Many hours later, the patient watchers on the shore 

 could still discern the flotilla on the far horizon, making its 

 slow way toward the Bahama canal to the north. With that 

 distant fleet went the hopes and prayers of all Havana, as 

 well as those of the scattered Spanish colonists; for close 

 family ties bound those left behind to the nearly three 

 thousand souls aboard; and many were the fortunes that 

 would be won or lost, depending on the safe passage of 

 the convoy. 



There was a special urgency to their prayers that year 

 of 1733, for the silver fleet bore one of the richest treasures 

 which had ever been sent off to Spain, and its successful 



80 Sea Diver 



