Giuseppe takes charge of my carpetbag, and does not part from me until I stand on the slippery deck of "Relief Boat No.

3." An hour later I am in the pilothouse, looking down upon what was once the channel of a peaceful river.

But its banks are only defined by tossing tufts of willow washed by the long swell that breaks over a vast inland sea.

Stretches of "tule" land fertilized by its once regular channel and dotted by flourishing ranchos are now cleanly erased.

The cultivated profile of the old landscape had faded.