Equatorial Landscape
Ulysses, on his journey back to Ithaca, decided to tie himself to the mast of his ship and ordered the crew not to untie him under any circumstances. His intention was to listen to the sirens’ song without succumbing to the seduction of the strange and beautiful melody that would inevitably throw him into the sea.
Similarly, the British painter William Turner once said that, to paint the masterpiece Snow Storm, he tied himself to the mast of a sailing ship to fully grasp the violent beauty of the ocean in tempest.
If humanity has one remarkable quality, it is the willingness to take risks in pursuit of absolute beauty. And this means that true beauty is not for the faint of heart.
Perhaps there is no activity more noble than gazing upon a landscape.
—Take the risk! Risk it for the beauty! —Ulysses and Turner seem to tell us…
Snow Storm, William Turner.
On December 23, we sailed through the realms of the equatorial line, and with each passing night, the North Star sank lower on the horizon, while, conversely, the Southern Cross climbed higher into the black depths of the night.
We were entering a new landscape.
A navigator must not only look but must also possess the ability to truly see. It is essential to be captivated by the tempest and, equally, by the subtle nuances that emerge from one day to the next. Without this gift, a sailor might see only a heavy, monotonous blue horizon—a reality that would soon lead to alienation and perhaps madness.
We had calculated that we would cross the equator at 2 a.m., but during the day, as we approached, I thought of Christopher Columbus, Admiral of the Ocean Sea, who, in his letter during his third voyage to the Americas, described what he saw and dared to form theories about the shape of the Earth:
[…] and I found that it was not round as they describe, but rather like a pear, entirely round except where the stalk rises, or like a woman’s breast, where the nipple is higher; and this peak, the highest point closest to the heavens, lies beneath the equinoctial line in this ocean at the edge of the East.
(Third Voyage: Letter to the Catholic Monarchs)
The pear-shaped Earth of Columbus
Based on his observations near the equator, Columbus concluded that he was sailing upwards, as though the Earth had a summit much closer to the heavens.
Yannick on top of the main mast, observing the equatorial landscape.
We found ourselves precisely there, sailing westward at the same latitude Columbus had described. I dare say the Admiral wasn’t entirely wrong. The landscape was profoundly unique, and I couldn’t resist writing (perhaps directed to Columbus) my own impression of our journey across the equator:
At the Equatorial Line the horizon was expanding.
We were on our way to the summit of planet Earth. Here, the ocean was a vast plateau, and we could touch the clouds with the tip of the mast—not because the clouds were low, but because the sea was high. We sailed closer to the heavens, and there was a deep scent of stars.
We witnessed an unreal, almost imaginary sunset. The crew remained silent until long after dusk, for the landscape carried a sacred charge. The sun plunged into a fiery blaze, making way for other celestial bodies, as the clouds aligned like constellations.
A massive cumulonimbus awaited us on the bow. The mast must have offended it, for the cloud split open like fruit, and the rain fell with a weight that defied scientific reality.
With the rain, everything darkened. The lights of the theater dimmed, and we were invited to leave the hall.
Later, we crossed the equator, and nothing happened.
Domingo Abelli
Filmmaker
