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.
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