'“Do you think Mescalitán could be New Albion?” Lee asked as I finished the last column in the waning twilight.
“I suppose it would have to be, whether he landed around here or not—part of his grandiose claim, but the ship I saw didn’t look exactly like the Golden Hind.” It had been similar but lower fore and aft, different lines, packing more sail.
“Maybe it happened more than once,” Lee suggested.
Ultimately the cannons were identified as late Eighteenth Century, cast in New England, and likely belonging to a ship that had entered the Pacific as the Eagle and been renamed the Dorotea (the Dorothy), the galeta after which the adjacent town had been named.
“I was so close that day, Lee. And I wasn’t even stoned.”
“Getting high,” she said, “has never been entirely about the drugs and sex, but how much fun you’re willing to have, and how far you’re willing to go.”
She’s an all-the-way sort of person.
“I like the drugs,” I said, reloading the bowl.
“Well, you’re an orthodox old hippie. But you know what I mean: it’s about following the rapture to where it leads, getting higher.”'
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