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.