The Legend of Ellemeno Beach

Ellemeno Beach isn’t the most picturesque of beaches. It’s rocky and covered in crushed seashells from years of waves crashing onto the shoreline, carrying with them centuries worth of shells and seaweed. Years of tramping feet ground those into smaller and smaller pieces, which made walking barefoot a rather uncomfortable experience. Not to mention, the roaring of cars as they pass the causeway often rattles your eardrums. 

So why on earth do we faithfully pack hamburgers to drive out and grill dinner there each week? It’s a family tradition, I suppose. But I’ve always wondered… why?

Once, I made the mistake of asking my mom when she was annoyed why we go out there. “Because it’s a lovely spot, Austin. Stop complaining and help us get ready.”

But I wasn’t complaining; I was just curious. And while we’re on the topic I could honestly think of a million places much more lovely than Ellemeno Beach. 

But then Mom told me to stop sassing her and help Jameson load the chairs. 

I huffed quietly enough that she wouldn’t hear and stomped to the garage. 

My older brother gave me a sympathetic expression. “Mom still in a mood?”

“She called you by your full first name, so it must be pretty serious.”

James grimaced. “Sorry. That’s my fault.” He sighed and heaved a reclining chair off the shelf. “You wanna help?”

I told him it’s what I was sent to do, “because I asked why we go to Ellemeno Beach.”

“I don’t think anyone knows. I think one of our cousins said it was because Grandpa’s father proposed there.”

“Oh, how romantic!” 

“Yeah, it would be romantic, but it was Keith who said it, so…”

I groaned. “He could have at least come up with something more original!”

“Austin,” James pointed at another chair. “Help.”

I slid off the bumper, and we loaded the rest of the chairs. “Is someone bringing Great-Aunt Grace?” 

The old woman was, quite possibly, my favorite relative. I could come up with a million reasons why, but mainly it was that she never seemed bothered by my questions. “I bet she would know...”

“I think she’s Uber-ing.”

A few minutes later, five people came through the front door: Uncle Ewan and Aunt Leslie, their son Keith, and our grandparents. Soon it was arranged for Uncle Ewan and Aunt Leslie to take the cousins, and Mom and Dad would drive Grandma and Granddad. 

As soon as we were buckled in, I asked: “So… anyone know why we’ve made this a family tradition?”

Uncle Ewan shrugged. “I believe there was a shipwreck discovered near the grilling spot. Our ancestor was the captain or something and the only one to survive. He felt bad and would visit there each month to remember them. Over time it just became a family get-together.”

Aunt Leslie smiled. “I know your Great-Aunt Grace’s tale is probably one of my favorites.” But, she wouldn’t tell me what Great-Aunt Grace’s rendition was. 

Finally we arrived at Ellemeno Beach. The wind whipped the mangroves and oaks into a frenzy and churned the waves. A few fishermen who were determined, stubborn, or both, stood knee deep in the water with their gear placed at the nearest grill. The sand-shell combination crunched under our feet as we moved toward the second grill, hidden from view by several trees.

I looked around, asking no one in particular: “Where is Aunt Grace?”

“Oh, I’ve been here for hours! What took y’all so long?” We rounded the corner and saw Aunt Grace reclining in a lawn chair. One hand rested on her chest, the other held a necklace.

“Aunt Grace!” I shrieked and raced to her side, nearly tripping on the chairs I carried. She sat up, letting go of her necklace to give me a hug.

“The Uber driver was a nice young man. Offered to carry my chair here for me,” she explained as we pulled apart. “So I figured I’d wait for y’all here.”

Mom called me back to help “set up camp.” When that was done, I returned to Aunt Grace again.

“I’ve been dying to know - no one really knows why we come out here each week for burgers but I figured if anyone knows it’s you.”

Her eyes lit up in delight. “Aah. It wasn't always for grilling hamburgers.” Her hand seemed to creep of its own accord to her necklace, her eyes became unfocused, and I knew it would be a good story.

“The Nueva Santa Maria was the wealthiest ship in the merchant convoy sailing from Havana. Pristine white sails graced the Spanish galleon as it sliced through the water with its immaculate hull. Its precious cargo of spices, gold, silver, and gems wait in the hold for their arrival in Spain. Your great-great-great… Well, ten times great-grandfather was honored to be the quartermaster under Captain Emilio. The day was going well until Matteo- your great-times-ten grandfather- sees trouble. Trouble that came in the form of dark storm clouds, threatening to break the humid stillness that lay upon the ship

“It’s the calm before the storm,” Captain Emilio commented. 

“Yessir. An awfully nastly one it looks, too.”

Emilio nods. “Draw in the sails as taut as possible to catch any breeze. We need to get this shipload home.” Matteo relays the orders. Then, Emilio gives final commands before heading stern to his cabin. Only an hour later, the trouble hits. The clouds were overhead when Matteo felt the first few drops fall. The wind churns the water and fills the sails with a snap, wanting to pull the vessel off course. 

For consolation, Matteo grabs onto the gold cross, emblazoned with the figure of Jesucristo with a heart-shaped ruby at its center, that lies fixed around his neck on a ribbon. 

“Fetch the capitan!” He orders a crewmate. The rain is pounding harsher, the wind blowing fiercer, and walking is growing harder. A rumble of thunder vibrates his teeth so hard Matteo thinks they will fall out. The rain is now coming with as much force as hail; he can hardly see more than a few feet out.

Now Emilio arrives and bellows over the storm: “Take down the sails! Everyone else rope yourselves to the deck!” Matteo repeats the order in case anyone misses the captain’s booming command. The men charged with tending the sails run and slide toward masts. More than one loses their balance, and the tumultuous water rises up and over the rail, sweeping several sailors away. The captain is already handing out the thick rope. “Forget the sails! Rope yourselves now!” The quartermaster grabs rope and helps a few of the younger sailors tie themselves to the masts. 

Fear shows in every person’s eyes. “We need more rope!” Matteo, with his cross clutched in a death grip, shouts to Emilio, who nods and sends three cabin boys to strip the boat of anything that can be used to tie people to safety. Two boys head below to the community sleeping space. Matteo is about to tie himself to a rail when one of the boys from below- Samuel- rushes up empty handed.

“Help! Santiago is unconscious!” 

Matteo follows him toward the ladder. The boy slides across the deck as the wave rams into the port side, but this time Matteo is ready and yanks him back. Below, in the crew’s space, Santiago is floating facedown in the briney water washed in from above deck.

“He hit his head when the waves rocked us!” The other boy explains. Matteo nods and together they heave the unconscious cabin boy up the stairs. 

“Lash yourself in, Samuel!” Matteo ties the other boy snugly and finally turns to do his own. The fore topsail splinters and crashes as the thunder rolls across the ocean. Matteo grabs onto Santiago for balance. In another moment, he has tied himself onto the mizzenmast. He has just secured himself when the most ferocious wave yet rears its glistening head and sweeps his feet out from under him. The water lurches past him, dropping him back down, and he hits his own head back on the mast, falling into unconsciousness.” 

Great-Aunt Grace sighed as she paused, hand tightly clutching her pendant. “What comes next?” I clapped my hands together with excitement. 

“I need some water, first.” She rubbed the back of her hand along her forehead. “Do you think it’s going to rain?” 

I got up. “I hope not. I need to hear the rest of this!” That made her chuckle. After I filled her cup, I took a detour back to her along the water. 

The wind and the water had settled a bit, but mountainous waves still tumbled into shore, swamping my feet. How did it feel to be in the middle of the ocean, on a wooden boat, with no land to be seen? Thinking of her story, I hurried back to Great-Aunt Grace. Impatiently and uncomfortably squirming, I waited for her to begin again. Soon enough, she did:

“Matteo feels a cold wet cloth on his head, and soon he stirs. He certainly does not feel lashed to the ship’s mast anymore; it feels more like blankets spread on the deck… the ship! He bolts awake. 

“The storm! The captain! Did Santiago make it? What happened?” He tries to shout but the words come out like a croak, and the back of his head hurts terribly. 

“Don’t worry yourself, sir.” The worried face of Samuel comes into view. “The ship made it, but we lost about half of everybody. We also lost sight of the convoy.” He gave Matteo a drink of tea. 

“And Captain Emilio?” Matteo asks. Samuel bites his lip and looks sideways at one of the deckhands. Their silence could only mean one thing:

The sailor speaks. “He didn’t make it. Swept overboard trying to help Luis.” He hesitates, then doffs his hat. “I’m sorry… Cap’n.”

No. No! Matteo sits up so fast he sees spots. Then he just stares with shock. Quartermaster Matteo is now Acting Captain Matteo. This can’t be happening. Emilio had a big head but a bigger heart; he was a good captain and friend. Matteo groans and rubs his face, slowly reclining again. Looking at the lost and nervous expressions of Samuel and the deckhand - Gabriel - he realizes he has to take charge. Mourning can wait. Mind made up, he sits up again, more slowly this time to avoid hurting his head again. As he thinks of what to say, he fingers his necklace. It seems miraculous that the ribbon survived the tempest.

“Gabriel and Samuel, assemble the men by the fore mast. I will address them there.”

The two young men hurried to do his bidding. A few tears leak from his salt-encrusted eyes and dribble down his cheeks. So much death. 

28. That’s how many crew members survived the storm. There used to be 51. He scans them all. His gut twists as he realizes Santiago is not among the gathered crew. Santiago, Luis, Emilio… so many deaths…

“Good men, thank you for gathering here.” He clears his parched throat. “I- it’s been- we’ve had it rough. I’ll not waste time, so I’ll ask now: as quartermaster, I’ve been the late-” his voice cracks- “late Captain Emilio’s right hand. Now, I step up to take his place for now. Does anyone have a problem with that? Speak now or forever hold your peace.” The men shift and murmur softly, but no one speaks up.

“All right then!” Matteo claps his hands. “Gabriel, I need you to be my quartermaster.” The sailor looks surprised but acquiesces. Jorge, Martin, and Benjamin, a few of the crew who control the sails, are ordered to rotate being the helmsman. The tasks go on, seemingly never ending. The fore topsail needs to be replaced, several other sails were torn by the rough wind, the longboat is in shambles, and the once beautiful figurehead is now splintered and chipped. 

It isn’t until late afternoon that most of the crew are done with their chores. Matteo tells Sebastian, the cook’s apprentice, to portion out the food.

“Land! I see land!” Comes the elated cry from the lookout on the main mast. Meal forgotten, everyone rushes to see the smudge of dark against the horizon. Matteo bellows orders for the sails and Gabriel repeats them. The pleasant breeze swoops the sails taut and the Nueva Santa Maria begins slicing through the waves once more. For the first time in several hours, Matteo dares to hope again. 

Of course, that was when the second trouble was spotted: pirates. 

“Piratas!” The lookout calls. Off in the distance, a blood red flag streams in the wind. 

Gabriel chews his lip. “Red flag means no mercy. It’s all or none.”

“I know what the flag means; thank you, Gabriel.” Mattteo speaks through gritted teeth. Matteo assumes he is still around the Caribbean, meaning the pirates are likely the crew of Augustin Blanco. “Tell the gunners to prepare the cannons. Get Jorge to load all extra sails onto the mast. Throw over anything that can be spared. We can’t fight her. We’ll have to out-sail her.” Matteo is no fool; no one would dare to stand up against Augustin Blanco, however amateur a pirate Blanco is. 

Gabriel passes on the orders, and the crew runs around in a frenzy to obey. Matteo joins the crew in prayer as he grabs at his cross.  

Hammocks, flour, and crewmates’ clothes get tossed overboard. The galleon picks up speed, but it is obvious that the red-flagged pirate ship is gaining on them. Matteo roars for the cannons to be loaded and the men to grab their muskets and swords, anything they could use to fight.

“Fire at will!” Matteo calls to the lead gunner. 

The ship rocks as the cannons fire with thundering booms. A few minutes later, the piratas shoot back, grazing the mizzenmast. 

“They’re too close!” Gabriel screams. He realizes a deadly truth: the crew would not make it to land before the pirates hit. 

The ships exchange a few more volleys with guns and cannons, and sailors from both sides fall, but Gabriel is correct: the pirates will be able to board them in a matter of minutes. 

“Stop fleeing or we will shoot!” Captain Blanco calls across the water.

“We can’t lose any more men!” Matteo tells Gabriel. In a louder voice, he shouts, “Take whatever you can carry and jump overboard!”

“Jump?!” Samuel shrieked.

Matteo nods. “It’s the only way we might survive. He takes no prisoners!” 

Samuel runs below with Gabriel and together they throw barrels of spices overboard. They land with a loud splash but remain afloat. Matteo himself runs below and grabs a few pouches of the valuables. When he returns above deck, he finds Samuel staring down nervously into the water. 

“Samuel!” Matteo gets his attention. “Take this!” Samuel grabs onto one of the pouches, and then Matteo pushes him overboard. The capitan looks in sorrow at the once-beautiful galleon. “I’m sorry, my friend.” He salutes the ship one last time before another cannonball blasts into the upper deck, blowing up the prow and sending Matteo into the ocean. 

Of the 21 crewmates who survived the storm, only 15 survived the pirate’s attack. As they drift towards shore, that number drops to 11. About two days later, they reach the shore. A few pounds of precious gems and metals and a few barrels of spices are all that remain of the proud ship’s cargo. Gabriel, Sebastian, Martin, Jorge, Benjamin, and Matteo are all who remain of the brave and loyal seamen of the Nueva Santa Maria. 

Once Matteo is well enough to walk, he returns to the beach hoping to find some crew who may have washed up on shore. His hand reaches for his gold cross as he prays, only to find it missing. A wave of sadness washes over him at the loss, until he reminds himself that people were lost too. He keeps walking and spots a small figure struggling to rise. 

“Samuel!” He shouts. Everyone had presumed he drowned when he vanished one night. Only a miracle had let the water spit him onto the beach that day. Matteo helps the half-dead cabin boy to recover. Then, they return daily to look for survivors. Eventually they only return once a week to pray, and Matteo dubs the beach “Emilio Beach.””

“Ellemeno Beach!” 

Aunt Grace frowned. “Yes, decades of poor pronunciation have changed it to that. And so this beach’s history was forgotten.” Her eyes grew unfocused as she clutched her necklace, staring into the distance.

She dropped her hand, and I finally noticed the pendant: a small gold coin, engraved with a crown and tiny, possibly Spanish, lettering. Dad called us, but I didn't move, transfixed by the story. 

“Thank you, Aunt Grace,” I said, finally shifting to my feet. “That was epic.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve told that story. No one is interested anymore.”

I turned to follow her to the table, but the wind pushed me toward the water, and a small shaft of sunlight broke through the dense clouds. A shell caught the light as it was finally exposed to the air after years of wind and shifting tides. 

I bent down to pick it up, singing again. “Why’d we go to Emilio...” I stopped. The sea shell was not a shell after all. I dug out the sand-encrusted item: a wide, mildewed ribbon supported a hefty golden cross, fixed in the center with a heart-shaped ruby. I could almost imagine, looking at the undulating ocean, I saw the Nueva Santa Maria, slicing through the water. 

My dad called again.

“Coming!” I give a small salute to the imaginary ship. “I’m sorry, my friend.”

Then I turn and race back to my family, as the clouds part and rain pours down.