tion of the harbor at San Salvador, and then we were 

 flying over Cape Comete and Grassy creek. 



Soon I saw beneath us the varicolored pattern of ex- 

 tensive acres of salt flats. Banks of completely dehydrated 

 salt gleamed blindingly in the sunlight as we circled a 

 small town at the end of South Caicos. Below, in the 

 nearby harbor, I spotted Sea Diver. I thrilled with pleased 

 anticipation as I saw a familiar figure drop into the dinghy 

 at her side and start across the water toward town. 



We landed on a rough coral strip and taxied back to 

 the end of the runway. Ed arrived soon after in a battered 

 jeep, and we greeted each other happily after a separa- 

 tion of more than seven weeks. 



As we drove into town, I was amazed to discover 

 that almost the entire community was built on salt. The 

 road itself was salt, and heaps of salt hke snowdrifts 

 banked it on either side. As we neared the docks, we 

 passed large open sheds, inside which black-skinned work- 

 ers were attacking huge piles of the white crystals with 

 heavy shovels. As they filled sturdy hempen bags, others 

 loaded the bags into little carts hitched behind small, 

 patient donkeys. 



At this point the whole tempo of the operation 

 changed, as the drivers set off for the water front with 

 whoops and a flourish of whips, like Roman charioteers 

 charging to the fray. Small sailboats scuttled back and 

 forth between a steamer, which lay at anchor in the open 

 road, and the docks, carrying the heavy bags of salt that 

 had been dumped from the donkey carts at the water's 

 edge. 



Ed hustled us into Wee Diver, which put-putted us 

 across the harbor to Sea Diver's anchorage. Three grinning 

 faces looked down upon us from the deck above — Mendel 

 Peterson, Vital and Kemp. 



Ed cut the motor and we coasted up to the side of 



On the Track of Columbus 309 



