The wind blew from the southwest, bringing salt and gunpowder. There was a strange silence on the coast. It wasn't the silence of fear. It was another kind. The kind you hear when men decide to resist.
In the Arguineguín harbor, the fishermen didn't go out that day. They knew something was coming. They'd known it for days. To the south, toward the horizon, the war sails were rising. Tall sails, black sails. It was the English. There were many of them.
In the autumn of 1595, the English fleet led by Sir John Hawkins and his cousin Francis Drake approached the southern coast of Gran Canaria. Their objective was simple but ambitious: to supply supplies and attack Spanish possessions in the Americas. Hawkins, an experienced naval officer and fleet administrator, was ill but determined.
The southern coasts—places like Arguineguín, Pasito Blanco, and Santa Águeda—seemed like peaceful ports for replenishing supplies. But the local militias, made up of peasants, fishermen, and artisans, had other plans. They organized quickly and used the rugged terrain to fiercely defend their land.
Hawkins opposed the attack, warning of the loss of surprise and the risk it entailed. However, Drake persisted. The English attempted to land, seeking water and supplies, but encountered fierce resistance. Skirmishes ensued, resulting in casualties and injuries.
Within days, the English fleet was forced to withdraw without achieving its objectives. Hawkins, weakened by illness and failure, died weeks later off the Venezuelan coast. His death marked the end of an era and is a testament to the resilience of Gran Canaria and the limits of English naval power at the time.
Today, Hawkins is remembered in England as a naval pioneer and controversial figure, but his defeat at Gran Canaria remains a little-known episode that marked Elizabethan maritime history.
Drake sailed south of Gran Canaria with no less than a fleet of 28 ships and 4.000 men. He was accompanied by John Hawkins, older, wiser, and more weary. They wanted to take the island, burn the city, fill the ships, and continue on to the Caribbean. They thought it would be easy. But it wasn't.
The men of the south weren't soldiers. They were millers, shepherds, tanners, boatmen. But they had eyes that looked to the sea and hands that knew how to shoot. From Santa Águeda—where another kind of cement piracy exists today—to Maspalomas, the roads were closed. Stones were piled up. Women sewed gunpowder in sacks. There was silence. And within the silence, determination.
Drake circled the island. He considered entering from the north. He changed his mind. Then he tried to enter through Arguineguín. Then through Meloneras. He couldn't. The coastal batteries roared. The waters were shallow. The waves battered them. They lost men. They lost time. They lost the most valuable element: surprise.
From the heights of Ayagaures, the sentries lit a fire. The stokers of Fataga saw the smoke and responded. In Tunte, talk of defense was already brewing. In less than two days, the entire island was on its feet. No one slept. No one fled.
The Canarian militias were there. People from Mogán, from Tunte, from Fataga. They didn't have cannons. They didn't have ships. But they had shotguns, knives, and time. They had rage.
One of the English captains returned wounded. Another didn't. Hawkins said enough. He said there should be no fighting over water. He said we should continue.
Drake didn't listen.
Hawkins returned to his cabin. He had a fever. His hands were shaking. He wrote something. Maybe a report. Maybe a letter. No one saw it.
The ship sailed. The southern coast was left behind. The dunes, the cliffs, the gray mountains. No one sang. No one fired a shot in the air. They just left.
A week later, Hawkins died.
He died far away. Off the coast of America. He died without an island, without victory. They wrapped him in canvas. They tied two cannonballs to his feet. And they threw him into the sea. The south of Gran Canaria wasn't his grave. But it was his end.
