Columbus Reaches Canary Islands on First Voyage

The 15th-century equivalent of a roadside pit stop, but with considerably more at stake than a faulty exhaust pipe, is what greeted Christopher Columbus on August 12, 1492. His small fleet – the *Santa María*, a lumbering carrack, and two nimble caravels, the *Pinta* and the *Niña* – had limped into the Canary Islands, specifically the harbor of San Sebastián on La Gomera. They’d already spent several days bouncing between islands after a quick repair stop in Gran Canaria for the *Pinta*, whose rudder had conveniently decided to give out almost immediately after leaving Palos. One might almost suspect sabotage, given the general enthusiasm for Columbus’s venture among some of his crew. Almost.

Columbus himself, a man in his early forties, with a perpetually furrowed brow and an unshakeable conviction in his destiny, was not amused by these delays. He was on a timetable, funded by monarchs who expected a rather swift return on their investment in this improbable westward gamble. His crew, a motley collection of about 90 men – including the three Pínzon brothers, seasoned mariners from Palos, and a few teenagers who had likely signed on for the promise of adventure and gold – were perhaps less concerned with schedules than with the immediate comforts of terra firma. After all, the open ocean, even then, was less a highway and more a vast, watery question mark.

While the *Pinta* was being patched up and the ships restocked with fresh water, firewood, and provisions like cheese, wine, and salted meat, the men had a chance to stretch their legs. Imagine the scene: sun-baked docks, the smell of salt and fish, the guttural sounds of Castilian blending with the local Guanche dialect. For many of the crew, like the young ship’s boy, Pedro de Acevedo, who couldn’t have been much older than 12 or 13, this was probably the furthest they’d ever been from home. They were just lads, some of them, caught up in the wake of a visionary who was, perhaps, a little too certain of his visions.

It was here, on La Gomera, that Columbus met Beatriz de Bobadilla, the island’s formidable governor. A woman known for her sharp wit and even sharper reputation, Beatriz was a widow who governed her domain with an iron fist, having inherited the post after her husband’s assassination. Legend has it they struck up a rather close acquaintance, which, regardless of its romantic veracity, certainly made Columbus’s resupply efforts smoother. One must appreciate the efficiency of such a relationship, especially when one is trying to cross an unknown ocean before the ship’s biscuits go truly stale.

After weeks of preparation and repairs, the fleet finally departed La Gomera on September 6th, leaving the familiar shores of Europe behind. The Canary Islands, the last known outpost of civilization before the vast, terrifying expanse, receded into the horizon. The crew, having enjoyed their brief respite, were now faced with the true purpose of their voyage: sailing west until they hit something. Columbus, for his part, was utterly convinced that “something” would be Asia. He was wrong, of course, but not in the way he, or anyone else on that day, could have possibly imagined. The irony, as history would later reveal, was that his spectacular failure to reach Asia would become one of the most consequential successes in human exploration, though perhaps less so for the inhabitants of the lands he was about to “discover.”

The Crusaders, fresh from the blood-soaked capture of Jerusalem, believed their work done. Many had begun the long trek home. Then came the messengers: a massive Fatimid army, estimated between 20,000 and 50,000 men, was marching north from Egypt, aiming to retake the Holy City. This was not a skirmish; it was a reckoning. Just five weeks after claiming Jerusalem, the exhausted Frankish forces, barely 10,000 strong, turned south to meet them at Ascalon.

It is early morning, August 12, 1099. The sun, already a hammer, beats down on the coastal plain near Ascalon. Godfrey of Bouillon, recently named 'Advocate of the Holy Sepulchre,' surveys his assembled forces. His knights, a hardened core of perhaps 1,200, form the spearhead. Accompanying them are some 9,000 foot soldiers, a mix of hardened veterans and newly arrived pilgrims, all weary but resolute. Behind the dunes, the Fatimid army under the vizier al-Afdal Shahanshah is a shimmering expanse of color and steel, their numbers dwarfing the Frankish contingent.

At 8:00 AM, the advance begins. The Crusaders deploy in a classic three-division line. Godfrey commands the center, Raymond IV of Toulouse the left wing closer to the sea, and Robert of Normandy the right, hugging the foothills. Their plan is simple: hit hard, hit fast. They march in tight formation, their shields locked, a moving wall against the desert heat. The Fatimid cavalry, with their lighter armor and swift horses, begin to harass the flanks, peppering the Frankish lines with arrows. The Crusaders absorb the blows, maintaining their discipline.

Then, the moment of truth. Al-Afdal orders a general charge. Waves of Fatimid cavalry, including Sudanese archers and Turkish horsemen, thunder towards the Frankish lines. The ground trembles. The air fills with the thrum of bowstrings and the shouts of men. But the Crusader formation holds. Their heavy mail and long lances prove a brutal counter to the lighter Fatimid forces. Godfrey, recognizing the breaking point, bellows the order to charge. The Frankish knights, a disciplined mass of steel, slam into the Fatimid center.

What follows is a rout. The Fatimid lines, expecting a prolonged exchange of arrows and feints, are unprepared for the sheer, unyielding momentum of the Frankish heavy cavalry. Their formations shatter. Panic spreads like wildfire. Al-Afdal's personal guard, the elite Black Guard, attempts a stand, but they are overwhelmed. The Fatimid vizier himself, seeing the collapse, flees back to the safety of Ascalon, leaving his camp and standard behind. The battle, for all its grand scale, is over in a matter of hours.

The Crusaders, having decimated the Fatimid army—estimates of Fatimid dead range from 10,000 to 12,000, with Crusader losses in the hundreds—do not press the siege of Ascalon. Internal squabbles over who would control the strategically vital port city prevent a unified effort. Raymond of Toulouse, wanting Ascalon for himself, refuses to cooperate with Godfrey. The opportunity is lost. The city remains in Fatimid hands for another 50 years, a constant thorn in the side of the fledgling Crusader states, an open door for future Egyptian aggression. An undeniable tactical victory, yet a strategic blunder that would echo for decades. The Holy Land, it turned out, was not quite secured.