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even landed on the Farralones, that cluster of rocks just thirty miles to the west, but their captains somehow didn’t see the opening. That all of these mariners were specifically looking for protected ports suitable for settlement makes the failure that much more remarkable. Each one sailed right past the Golden Gate, the passage to the largest estuary on the Pacific side of both North and South America.”
    The Baron tapped his fingers against the podium.
    “How is that possible?” he asked the silent audience. No one volunteered a response.
    “The anomaly can’t be explained by the fog that frequents our coast. Look around you, my friends. We get a number of clear, sunny days. Surely a ship sailing past on a day like this would have seen the opening.”
    The crowd murmured in puzzled agreement. Taking another sip of water, the Baron let his listeners ponder this curious circumstance for several seconds before he provided the answer.
    “I’ll tell you why they missed it, because I’ve been out there myself. In good weather, an optical illusion masks the bay’s mile-wide channel. If it weren’t for the city now built up on the shoreline and the boats that constantly populate these waters, I might even sail past it myself.
    “When you look in through the Golden Gate from the Pacific Ocean side, the inner islands of Angel and Alcatraz fill in the space above the water, making the opening look like uninterrupted coastline. The Berkeley Hills fill in the distant horizon, enhancing the effect.”
    The crowd shuffled, as many stared across the bay, trying to envision the illusion the Baron had described.
    “It wasn’t until 1769—nearly two hundred years after the first European ships began sailing these waters—that a land expedition led by Governor Portola overshot Monterey and stumbled across what would later become one of the busiest ports in North America. Even then, it took another six years before a small Spanish packet ship found the ocean opening.
    “As we prepare to embark on the regatta’s last race and the end of what has been an historic America’s Cup, I thought I’d take a moment to share with you the story of the
San Carlos
, the first sailboat to enter the San Francisco Bay. The first ever to cross through the Golden Gate.”
    He coughed an aside.
    “And, of course, let’s hope that team New Zealand doesn’t get distracted on the far west turn of the racecourse trying to make out the optical illusion.”
    —
    OSCAR’S EYES FLUTTERED. The voice from the loudspeaker blurred as images flitted through his brain.
    A few details were missing from the Baron’s recap of that signature voyage.
    He knew this from his research—and from firsthand experience.
    In addition to its Spanish captain, the unique crew of the
San Carlos
had included a portly chef with short rounded shoulders, the man’s niece, and her two cats, a pair of Siamese flame point mixes with white coats and orange-tipped ears and tails.

On Board the
San Carlos
    Off the California Coast
    August 1775

Chapter 7
    SEA LEGS
     
    CAPTAIN JUAN DE Ayala stood at the helm of the
San Carlos
, surveying the rocky shoreline. The Spanish seaman gripped the ship’s steering wheel, bracing himself against the buffeting wind and the deck’s constant roll. A seasoned mariner, he hardly noticed the disturbance.
    The
San Carlos
was a tiny ship, especially compared to the rest of the fleet, but he’d take her any day over the Commodore’s finicky galleon. His vessel had daring and pluck, along with a dogged determination that he couldn’t help but admire.
    Ayala looked up at the complicated network of heavy canvas cloth and roped rigging. The
San Carlos
featured two masts, with the forward pole being slightly taller than the one in the rear. Each mast bore three trapezoid-shaped sails, arranged so that the sheets decreased in size as they rose in height. A second set of triangular sails or jibs were strung semihorizontally from the mast poles