In the first days, the Indians used to say, the land where their ancestors lived was destroyed by fire, and the great oaks on which they relied for food were burned to ash. The people cried out to Squirrel, who obligingly dug deep into the earth, uncovering his trove of acorns for the people to eat. But the Bellotas were many, and soon exhausted what Squirrel had laid up. He had to forage farther and farther afield, the hungry Bellotas trailing, until their home had been left far behind.
     At length they came to a great river, in the midst of which the wreck of an immense tree drifted, one bough still green with foliage. The Indians recognized it as the sacred tree of their nation, which they had thought lost in the firestorm. As it floated close to shore, Squirrel leapt onto the log, which carried him away downstream. The Indians followed along the shore.
     They trailed the tree many weary moons, through hostile tribes and strange lands. Many died or fell by the wayside. At last the river ended in an wide marsh of cat-tails, and beyond lay a broad expanse of water. As the tree moved out onto the waters of the bay, the Indians pulled tules from the marsh and made reed boats in which they continued to follow.
     They had no more to eat, and the water turned bitter with salt, and could not be drunk. The sun burned their skin, the wind and rain lashed their backs, and some boats foundered, spilling their passengers. Yet still the survivors followed Squirrel, and the tree.
     One moonless night they approached a new shore that glowed with pale light. The log drifted on into the shining waters, and Bellotas entered a broad tidal slough, which opened onto a sheltered cove. The light emanated from the cove itself, lit by the bioluminescence of thousands of tiny fish. The Bellotas were afraid, but Squirrel told them the wonder meant their ordeal was at an end. Heartened, they paddled after the log until it lodged in a snag against the inner shore.
     Squirrel hopped to shore and scurried inland, and the people beached their boats and followed. Soon they came upon a clearing, with Squirrel in its center, sitting back on his hind legs. He said this was their new home, a place of plentiful oaks and waters teeming with shellfish. The people raised a shout, and were he sat they after planted the single live acorn remaining on the tree that had led them for so long. When it sprouted, it grew into their new sacred oak. This tree, it is said, was the same Gaspar de Portola camped beneath centuries later, now called Discovery Oak.
     The Bellotas settled between the tree and the harbor, where they prospered, growing fat from the region’s bounty until all the country about was heaped with huge acorn shell and sea shell middens. Acorns and shellfish they ate in plenty, and many fish, though the little luminous sardines of the cove were not eaten, except for once a year. Then, in the season of their coming to the country, the Indians consumed them in remembrance of their beginnings.
     No one knows just when the Bellotas came to this area, but we do know the season, as it is only for a few weeks each winter that the fish of the harbor exhibit their odd bioluminescence. Doubtless it is connected with their life cycle, though as far as I know the phenomenon has never been scientifically studied. One point of interest is that save during the period of luminescence the fish appear to be poisonous to humans.
     In the Mission era the Padres attributed the glowing fish to Saint James, and their sporadic edibility to his blessing. This was the original “Miracle of Santiago,” or of the Luminous Fish, as it is known locally, though people nowadays associate that name with an event of more recent vintage. It was celebrated in a holy festival, in origin probably a pagan Indian ceremony the Padres co-opted. By the Mexican era it was well-established, and particularly popular in the fishing community.