Not So Skookum: A Sailing Adventure (Part Five)

If you must be held at gunpoint in a foreign country, you could do much worse than the Marina del Mar Hotel and Restaurant. There is a large covered terrace that looks out to the Atlantic Ocean across the street. On the eastern side a nice little wetland area attracts a wide variety of waterbirds— roseate spoonbills, black stilts, egrets, and herons. Smiling waiters deliver the Dominican breakfast specialty, mangu, a ridiculous mountain of mashed plantain accompanied by eggs and fried triangles of cheese. The locals are friendly, though clearly hesitant to speak openly with hostages. However, if you ask the waiter quietly you just might be able to borrow his cell phone and fire off a call to the US embassy.

After a restless night on Skookum and one more discussion of where to hide the gun, we had returned to town at the appointed hour of 7 AM.  It quickly became clear that this was only for the purpose of more waiting outside the comandante’s office. We convinced one of his henchman to allow us to relocate to the more civilized prison across the street, where they could still guard us closely.

Circumstances in the past had twice given me cause to call a US embassy. Once in Istanbul, after my employer and friend passed away in his sleep and the authorities made the aftermath difficult; and again in Chile, when civil unrest kept a group of my students trapped in Punta Arenas and delayed our kayaking expedition. In neither case did it prove useful.

But the nice folks in Santo Domingo were already at work, using their local resources and contacts to come to our aid. When a dark SUV pulled up to the hotel hours later and demanded we return to the boat with a slew of officials in tow, the embassy official on the phone assured us all would be fine. Sure enough, as Skookum was being searched and paperwork examined, a phone call came in to the comandante. The effect was immediate. Passports were returned, papers cleared, effusive apologies all around.

Back on land, this time as free men, we were finally able to explore the charming town, collecting some supplies and chatting with the locals. The gringo sailors were locally famous by this point. Everyone knew the story and didn’t hide their disgust with the comandante, a corrupt official whose 6 month posting discourages any accountability. It turned out that Saraya and others had been secretly coming to our aid, making phone calls to people who might be in a position to help. We were amazed by their warmth and generosity and sad that they had to deal with petty corruption all the time.

By evening our ordeal was forgotten and we were enjoying the holy trinity of beer, grilled chicken, and ear-splitting music along with the townspeople. We stayed up late with Santo and Saraya, exchanging stories and sampling Dominican rum.  Since they don’t drink they were intent on us drinking all the rum in their house. Out of sheer politeness we obliged.

That small act of charity was greatly lamented the following day. Good Friday dawned anything but. Determined to make headway towards St. Thomas after our recent setbacks, we fooled ourselves into thinking the storm had past. This delusion was rewarded with an old-fashioned smack-down once we left the protected waters of Monte Cristi. Skookum was slammed by big swell from the north and we struggled to make 3 kt. The beer, the rum and possibly the chicken had taken a terrible toll. Kavour never emerged from below. I buried my face in the cushion of the cockpit, leaving Ben to single-hand the boat, which didn’t matter since we could no longer sail. Even when dolphins came to swim alongside, just a few feet away from me, I couldn’t look at them for more than a few seconds. I finally stumbled down through the pitching cabin to the head, where unspeakable things transpired. The trip had found a new nadir, at least for me.

One hour later I was fine. Ben was not. He’d been brooding all morning and presently launched into his soliloquy. He was worn down by the stress of boat problems. Already weeks behind schedule, we were looking at more 400 miles,  fighting the trade winds with no sails. It was time to drop the anchor for good. Luperon, our next port of call, would be our last.  George, the owner, would come fix her and finish the trip. I couldn’t blame Ben. It was clearly the right choice. But, still a sad one.

The joys of the trip—the swims, the fish, the stars, the absolute freedom of the sea—were going to be hard to let go. We’d developed some wonderful routines within our little community of three. Ben kept us on course and fixed things when they broke. Kavour was the consummate deejay and bartender and ocassionally regaled us with song. I kept the meals coming from the galley all day long. Trivial Pursuit (the original 1982 edition), cribbage, backgammon, and euchre filled the spaces.  When a fish struck the line we dropped everything and ran around like little kids at summer camp.

In the next few days we’d arrive in Luperon and meet lots of cool boat people. We’d have crazy adventures on land and see the site of the first European settlement in the Americas. We would haul Skookum out of the water and bid her farewell forever. But for the moment we had one more afternoon at sea and damn if we weren’t going to fish, storm or no storm. 

Soon enough, as the boat continued to pitch and heave, the fishing line sung it’s sweet song. Fish on! We landed a small member of the tuna family and Ben filleted it just in time to drop anchor at a beautiful cove.  I made a glistening plate of ruby-red tuna sashimi. Kavour opened the last bottle of wine.  The three of us sat in the cockpit and talked and laughed for hours. On the beach and in the water around us hundreds of people were celebrating, determined to enjoy their holiday despite the cold and stormy weather.  We were home.

Not So Skookum: A Sailing Adventure (Part Four)

The boat pitched and rolled in ten foot seas. A big wave pounded us on the port side, sending spray into the cockpit. Ben steadied himself on deck as he trimmed the headsail. Below decks, as things tumbled from shelves and dishes clattered in cupboards, Kavour hunkered down on his bunk with the railing raised to keep him from falling off. It was the kind of day where we wouldn’t see him until it was time to drop anchor and pour cocktails. I was driving hard at the wheel trying to anticipate the rolls and keep us on course. Several times, I corrected hard to starboard when I knew we needed to go to port. This would backfill the sail, which would snap violently as it came around.  Ben cringed. The long awaited frontal system had arrived from the north and we were being pitched towards Hispaniola.

Cruising is famously described as 90 percent sheer boredom and 10 percent sheer terror. I wasn’t ever bored on our trip, and not really terrified, but I can relate to the sentiment.  The trip was a constant series of highs and lows. One moment it was all unicorns and butterflies, the next cockroaches and failing equipment. We had started the day floating aimlessly, hoping for a little puff of wind.  Now we were surfing hard on a jibe, holding 7 kts. and hoping the bowsprit would hold.  Ben altered course to due south, towards a small town near the Haitian border. This would avoid a late arrival at our intended port of Luperon, which has, according to the guidebooks, a tricky harbor entrance.

Like countless mariners before us we thrilled at the first sight of mountains, the first birds and the smell smells that meant we were almost there. After the flat, dry Bahamas the lush peaks of Hispaniola plunging into the sea were a dramatic and welcome change of scenery.  We took visual bearings off a couple landmarks, hugged the coast for a bit and dropped anchor off of a small beach.  We had arrived, thirty-six hours after leaving the Turks and Caicos, in the village of Monte Cristi, northwest Dominican Republic.

The local authorities—two men in uniform and one in jeans with a pistol in his front pocket— motored out in a skiff and boarded Skookum. We went through the standard protocols undertaken upon entering a new country: fees, forms, a cursory search of the boat. The men took our passports and told us that when we were ready to leave we could come by the office to collect them, along with the forms we would need to show at future ports. They introduced us to their skiff captain Santo, a local guide who could help us find diesel and whatever else we might need.

We put on our cleanest dirty shirts and headed for town. Santo along with his wife Saraya greeted us on the beach with waves and warm smiles, and within five minutes they had set us up with drinking water, a plan to get diesel, wifi, and cold Presidente beers on the terrace of a beachfront hotel.  It was just after dark on the Wednesday before Easter and the streets were filling with holiday revelers kicking off the Semana Santa festivities. Music blasted from parked cars, young couples strolled arm in arm, and girls in short skirts sold beer and grilled chicken from tents along the main drag. Despite the uncertain future of the journey, we all felt a great sense of relief to have arrived in the Dominican Republic. The long passage and its challenges were behind us and we were delighted to be back in America Latina, where a guy can live well for a handful of pesos. We grinned and brought our bottles of Presidente together for a toast.
Our celebration turned out to be very short-lived. The blue jeans/pistol guy was standing above our table. "Pay your bill and come with me,” he growled. “Why?” we asked. ”Just come with me.” 

He lead us through the street party and into a small building that held the office of the harbor comandante and military and police officials. The comandante, an imperious man in a khaki uniform embellished with epaulets, eyed us from behind a desk . Various other officials, including the ones who had boarded Skookum, were milling about.

We were told that we were in the country illegally and would not be allowed to leave. Furthermore, Skookum would have to be towed immediately into the boatyard. This was an absurd proposition given the darkness, the storm, and an entrance too shallow for our boat’s six foot draw.  The problem? The boat’s name didn’t appear on the title. Never mind that the serial number was clearly marked on the title and matched the number engraved on the hull. The registration paperwork was in order, and all of the Bahamian paperwork as well. It made no difference. We tried to explain that boats change names all the time, that the serial number is the one consistent identifier.

“All boats have names, “ the comandante replied. “this boat has no name.”

Things became weirder and whole thing descended into a bad Laurel and Hardy routine. We would say one thing, they'd reply with something unrelated. Reasoning was clearly futile. Even Ben’s perfect Spanish was no help. Hours passed. All we wanted after our long journey was food and sleep.  It was decided that the boat wouldn’t be towed, but perhaps a military official would spend the night on the boat with us. “For your protection,” they said. What the hell was going on? In the end they let us return alone to the boat, after parading us through town and watching from shore as we left in our dinghy. I guess since we had no fuel or passports we weren’t too much of a flight risk. On the way out of town we managed to blast off a couple quick emails to family just in case things got worse.  The situation was both a bit scary and a bit comical. And there was no telling how far it would go. Had we survived the trials at sea only to end up under house arrest in a backwater banana republic? Meanwhile back in Nevada, unbeknownst to us, Kavour’s proactive girlfriend was phoning the US embassy.

Not So Skookum: A Sailing Adventure (Part Three)

 As we absorbed the situation at hand, thoughts turned to the boat on the horizon. Looking at its light configuration we realized to our amazement that it had changed course. The only other vessel we'd seen in 20 hours on the sea was headed right for us! Radio contact was made and a tense negotiation ensued in Spanish. It was a Dominican fishing boat, returning to harbor after some mechanical difficulties of their own. They were tight on diesel, but would see what they could do. As they approached our relief and gratitude was tinged with anxiety. We were sitting ducks out there, floating helplessly as a mystery boat rolled up in the darkness. Should we bring the gun? Like many cruisers we had a loaded .357 magnum at the ready in case of pirates. Ben asked me if I would shove it in the waistband of my pants. "Ummm.. no," I would not. "OK, I will" he said. We quickly talked it through. All  of us were a bit nervous, but we had called them. If anyone should have weapons at the ready it should be those guys, right? In the end, Kavour stayed onboard with the sidearm and Ben and I took off in the dinghy with a gift bottle of wine to greet our saviors/captors. As we pulled up alongside the old boat what we found was a dozen fishermen standing on the deck, smiling warmly in the moonlight. They had filled a water jug with five gallons of diesel— all they could spare— and refused to take any of the cash we'd brought along. The camaraderie of the sea is strong. "Gracias amigos! Muy amable!"
Underway again, we noticed two black birds circling Skookum. They must have been traveling with the fishing boat and decided for some reason to hitch a ride with Skookum instead. Silly birds.  As they circled the boat, flashes appeared in the moonlight in front of the boat. The dolphins were back! Fifteen or more this time, surfing the bow as if to pilot our wounded vessel to safety.  Already we had a thriving ecosystem aboard Skookum. Thousands of ants had gained a hold while the boat was tied up at dock. A gecko, dubbed "Sir Lyndon O. Pindling," had stowed away at some point in Florida as well. Sightings of this brave traveller were rare and exciting. But it was the cockroaches who ruled the roost. There were thousands of them. A flashlight pointed at any dark place in the cabin at night would send dozens or hundreds scurrying. Any food left out would have big holes bored in it by morning. One night I grabbed my toothbrush and discovered three of them crawling around the base of the bristles. Our menagerie (now with dolphins and birds!) chugged along in the darkness.

 The gifted fuel provided five hours of headway before the engine sputtered and quit again. For awhile after that we floated and slept. I awoke at dawn and climbed up on deck to an eerie and beautiful scene. The GPS showed us slowly drifting away from Hispaniola, now 30 miles to the south. The bird visitors were perched on the bow, a tern variety known as a brown noddy. The sea was perfect glass without a breath of wind. We were becalmed. I sat on the bow and read Shackleton.  The trials those men suffered 80 years ago really put our problems in perspective. We  were in a fix, but for the moment perfectly content. Ben woke up and readied the mainsail just in case. Where was the northerly blow we were expecting? Maybe, like many fronts this time of year it had simply petered out somewhere to the north of us. We made coffee and breakfast and scanned the horizon for boats. Nothing, and no one answering our radio calls. The terns, probably realizing their error in judgement, finally flew off. We were floating alone, again.