I still remember Captain Solís's choked cry, a man who had sailed every known sea, when he saw his own men, his men, begin to bore holes in the hull of the Santa María. It wasn't an act of war; it was sacrilege. Axes bit into the wood with a dull thud, like bones breaking. The water, the very water that had cradled us for weeks, now seeped slowly, inexorably, into the belly of our wooden sisters. The sails, torn with blind fury, looked like funeral shrouds being lowered over a corpse. The anchors, our last ties to civilization, were dragged ashore, leaving deep furrows in the sand, like open wounds. Every blow, every tear, was a stab to the heart, a piece of our soul detaching and sinking. "Master," Solís murmured to me, tears mingling with sweat on his wrinkled face, "this is the ultimate betrayal. He has condemned us. We are dead, Diego, dead on this cursed beach." I couldn't find a word. My throat was dry, my breath short. Terror was a glacial vise gripping my chest. The ships weren't just means of transport; they were our home, our hope, our only way back, to escape this green, unknown hell.
Without them, we were human wrecks, cast upon a hostile shore, with nothing left to cling to.
I watched the soldiers' faces. There was no longer the silent fear from before, but a fierce, almost animal despair. Some wept openly, others cursed under their breath, but in all of them there was the same terrifying realization: there was no way out. Every sinking ship, every detached piece of wood, sealed our fate. Retreat was a phantom, an unreachable dream. When the last keel disappeared beneath the waves, there was no roar of fire, but a deafening silence. It was the silence of death, the silence of a pact with the devil. We were alone, in an alien land, with only one terrifying path ahead of us: forward. Die or conquer. And at that moment, we didn't know which was the greater condemnation.
Cortés's Irrevocable Choice
Hernán Cortés's decision to render his ships unusable, which occurred in 1519 after landing in Veracruz (in present-day Mexico), is one of the most iconic episodes of the New World conquest. Contrary to the popular legend that speaks of "burning them," Cortés actually sank or dismantled them. This drastic move was not an act of folly but a calculated strategy driven by several necessities: * Eliminating retreatability. Many of his soldiers were discontent and wished to return to Cuba, lured by promises of a safe return or frightened by the expedition's uncertainties. By destroying the ships, Cortés removed any escape route, forcing his men into total commitment to the conquest. The only possible direction was forward. * Strengthening ground troops. By releasing the sailors from their naval service, Cortés added valuable units to his infantry force, increasing the number of men available for the march inland. * Recovering resources: The ships were not merely destroyed. They were dismantled to salvage everything useful: sails, ropes, anchors, weapons, and timber. These materials would prove crucial later, especially for the construction of new brigantines on Lake Texcoco during the siege of Tenochtitlan, the Aztec capital.
* Asserting Authority. Cortés had undertaken the expedition in defiance of orders from the governor of Cuba, Diego Velázquez. The act of sinking the ships was also a symbolic gesture of definitive rupture with his previous authority, asserting his total independence and power over the expedition. In summary, the destruction of the ships was an act of pure determination and leadership, transforming a
group of reluctant explorers into an unstoppable force, compelled to win or perish in an unknown territory.
*Board Member, SRSN (Roman Society of Natural Science)
