In the early seventeenth century, before engineers learned to speak with iron or governments learned to speak with algorithms, the strait was crossed by boats.
It was not a difficult crossing, but it was unpredictable. The currents ran obliquely, the winds twisted strangely between the cliffs and the coves, and the water was deep enough to swallow a careless ferry in a single unlucky surge. People crossed anyway: farmers with baskets of fruit, artisans hauling tools for barter, pilgrims drawn to shrines on either shore. They waited on mud banks or stone steps for rafts lashed from barrels, pulled by ropes that groaned as though resenting their labor.
The two peninsulas regarded one another with a mix of reliance and resentment. The western side grew grain, olives, hardy vegetables. The eastern side quarried stone and hammered it into tools that the west bought at whatever price was demanded. Neither side wished to be the lesser, and neither side could survive alone.
In 1617, after a season of storms that s