Part 3 - Salty John

A Modest Odyssey - Part 3
Dominican Republic
After the low, scrub-covered atolls of the Bahamas, the island of Hispaniola
seemed impossibly high and lush with towering peaks of thick vegetation. I
checked the chart for the tenth time since dawn and still had trouble accepting
that we were eight miles offshore and not about to hit the beach. With the
growing light my perception returned and anxiety gave way to the delicious
anticipation of landfall.
The lights I had been homing in on were the resort hotel on the western edge
of the entrance to the tiny town of Luperon in Dominican Republic. We skirted
the reef that guards the inlet and ran on into the fjord-like anchorage. It was
still early but already warm and not a breath of air ruffled the water in the
totally protected lagoon. Fishermen in rustic canoes waved a welcome as they
passed on their way to the reef and a fellow cruiser popped his head out of a
hatch to call a soft greeting.
Luperon had recently become a port of entry for Dominican Republic and we
chose it for our landfall on Hispaniola over the hustle and bustle of Puerto
Plata to the east and the civil strife of that tragic place Haiti, to the west.
The overnight trip from South Caicos had been uneventful with the wind far
enough off the bow to give us a comfortable ride with the sheets slightly
eased. This was in welcome contrast to the head-banging slog to windward
that characterised the journey from George Town, through the Bahamian OutIslands and the Turks and Caicos group.
Carol helped me to launch the dinghy, stow the sails and tidy the lines while
an official delegation approached from the direction of the concrete pier
against which the Navy gunboat lay. The commandante, in full uniform, and a
young civilian sat at opposite ends of a small inflatable rowed by a uniformed
midshipman.
Crammed into Adriana's tiny saloon our visitors sipped
cold Cokes. The commandante thumbed through our
papers while Carlos, the civilian, explained in painful
English the clearing-in procedure. The midshipman wrote
it all down, laboriously, on a small scrap of paper with a
small scrap of pencil. We handed over the required fees,
including ten dollars to purchase the compulsory courtesy
flag, and were free to enjoy the delights of the D.R. for an
apparently indefinite period.
The official formalities dispensed with, it was time to get down to business:
Carlos was an agent and could, it seemed, obtain anything we might require
in the way of provisions and haul them out to the boat. The prices were very
reasonable and the happy little band left with our passports, for stamping in
Santo Domingo, and our diesel and propane tanks for replenishment. I was
convinced this was the last we'd see of the lot but Carol, possessing a greater
faith in her fellow man, assured me this was an admirable arrangement that
would spare me considerable frustration and backache, and of course she
was right.
I would be astonished if anything more than a token amount from the clearingin fees were to actually reach the Government coffers but we were grateful
that the procedure was completed without fuss or tedious paperwork, and at
no time did we feel in any way coerced. We met cruisers who expressed
indignation at the apparent corruption of the
system, and at what they felt was the
obligatory use of an agent to further line the
commandante's pockets, but the sums
involved are so small and the procedure so
user-friendly, we preferred it to the
bureaucratic rigmarole one must endure in
so-called civilised countries.
The town of Luperon is an architectural potpourri, a mixture of thatched hovels built from
sugar cane, pastel-painted huts of cinder
block and plaster with corrugated iron roofs,
and, occasionally, a more substantial building
such as the local hotel. The unpaved streets
had recently been dug up to accommodate a
new water reticulation system which might
one day enrich the lives of Luperon's inhabitants but, in the meantime, added
great mounds of earth and mud-filled trenches to the already shambolic
streets. Scrawny chickens darted hither and thither, little herds of goats
grazed in dusty backyards and plump piglets, tethered outside their owner’s
houses with long pieces of string, snuffled away at the excavated soilmountains.
As we wandered through the town people smiled and
called "hola" or, now and again, a shy "hello", and we
felt safe and welcome. A little girl in a dazzling purple
dress hung laundry on a barbed wire fence and grinned
broadly for the camera. Outside the thatch-andsugarcane bar plump Haitian prostitutes, in ludicrously
tight-fitting tank tops and imitation-leather mini-skirts,
smoked roll-your-owns and eyed me speculatively.
We had craved fresh and interesting food since leaving
George Town. We'd resisted the temptation to re-stock
in Provo, Turks & Caicos, where prices were
extortionately high, in order to enjoy the bargain
basement prices our cruising guide assured us prevailed in Luperon.
Rucksacks and string bags at the ready we headed for the supermacardo, (a
monstrous over-statement), to revel in an orgy of provisioning. A few
emaciated chickens, several drums of cooking oil, a bewildering array of soil-
encrusted root vegetables and what appeared to be the western world’s entire
supply of tomato puree, in dusty tins, left our dream in tatters. We were
shattered. Where was the cheese, the fresh bread, the crisp lettuce, the
succulent fruit, the juicy steaks? Were we condemned to a diet of curried corn
beef and cornflakes forever?
As we left the shop we bumped into Len Daniels, a South African cruiser on
his way to England, and over a couple of El Presidente's in the ramshackle
bar of the ramshackle hotel he advised us to go by bus to Puerto Plata to do
our shopping. He assured us that we'd find reasonable quality at good prices
and, thus mollified, we agreed to meet up that
evening for a bought meal and a few drinks. And
so it was that, over a few glasses of rum and a
piece of cooked meat of indeterminate origin, Len
told his story:
He'd built his junk rigged GRP schooner in
Durban and intended to sail her to England by
way of the Red Sea and the Mediterranean. Just
as he was about to leave, Saddam Hussein had
invaded Kuwait and rendered the Red Sea route
inadvisable. Not to be deterred, Len set off in the
opposite direction, heading from Cape Town to
Venezuela, where he survived a knife attack, and
then on to the Lesser Antilles, losing his foremast
on the way. The journey to Luperon had been
made with the remaining mast, for despite
plunging into the stormy water, Len had failed to recover the broken spar that
had started life as a fibreglass lamppost in Johannesburg.
Len's boat was a monument to minimalism, although not originally by design.
It had, for instance, started life with a diesel engine that, in turn, supplied
electricity for a range of home comforts. It was the demise of the engine
somewhere en-route that had bred in Len the purist ethos. He was a bornagain minimalist who took to the new philosophy with the fervour of his
Christian counterpart.
We were invited to eat aboard Tsai Chen one evening, a concoction of
Venezuelan beef, onions and tomato puree washed down with blue Curacao.
The following day Carol was quite ill and I wasn't feeling too hot myself. Len
said he thought the beef might have been a bit off because his refrigeration
had died with the diesel, although I suspect the blue Curacao might also have
had something to do with our condition.
Len continued his voyage and eventually reached Britain, but not without a
struggle, as the following article from the Johannesburg Star of 26 November
1992 records (with some poetic license, no doubt):
"Disaster-prone sailor back on dry land - Lone sailor Len Daniels has arrived
in Britain, two years after setting off from South Africa and five months after
leaving the Caribbean-on a voyage that should have lasted only four weeks.
"Dogged by a series of disasters on his 14m yacht, Daniels had to rig up a
makeshift mast using a saucepan and a sail the size of a blanket for most of
the 3000km last leg of his marathon voyage.
"To add to his problems, the steering wheel snapped and the engine broke
down in mid Atlantic, restricting him to a speed of just 1 knot.
"Daniels was down to his last two biscuits and a tin of stew. He eked out his
provisions by catching fish and drinking rainwater.
"Coast guards became aware of his ordeal when he fired distress flares after
a makeshift tiller snapped two miles off Barry, South Wales.
"They towed him in to port and were amazed at how long he had been at
sea."
Disaster-prone he may have been, but I couldn't help admiring Len's
adventurous spirit and sheer grit.
The Gua-Gua From Hell
It was March 19 and we got up at the crack of dawn to make our way to the
bus stop where the gua-gua to Puerto Plata is boarded. Sitting on the back
seat of the Mitsubishi mini-van we waited patiently as fellow passengers
joined us and before long the capacity of the bus, as contemplated by its
creators, was impressively exceeded. In fact, fourteen passengers and a
driver were aboard the eight-seater as the journey began. And then, on the
outskirts of Luperon, we stopped to pick up a policeman and his wife, a youth
with his broken arm in plaster, a woman with her small child and a cock-fight
enthusiast with his prize bantam held aloft, lest errant elbows and bums
should threaten a promising fighting career.
With a mind-boggling twenty-one souls, (not counting the chicken), squashed
within, the gua-gua bounced on its way, over hill and dale, weaving an erratic
course around pot-holes and ruts, toward Puerto Plata. Julio Inglasias at
50watts per channel tried vainly to drown out the happy chattering of this
compressed humanity.
Puerto Plata is a bit of everything; a bustling port, industrial centre and major
tourist destination. Before Luperon had opened up it was the logical port of
entry for those beating their way along the thorny path to the Caribbean. We
checked out the harbour and found it filthy and rolly and were glad we'd
chosen the primitive Luperon.
This town does have a certain charm and we enjoyed a pleasant breakfast on
the terrace of the Central Hotel to recover from our sardine-like journey. We
revelled in the variety of shops and Carol bought local larimar jewellery at
super prices and we stocked up on post cards, only to find the post office had
run out of stamps!
To reach the bus depot for the gua-gua ride back to Luperon we took a motoconcho. Clutching our provisions Carol and I straddled the pillion of the 60cc
Suzuki trail bike and hung on for dear life as the driver weaved through the
traffic. We felt every bump and pothole through the bottomed-out suspension
and flattened rear tyre and on several occasions I was certain we would be
flung into the road to perish under the wheels of oncoming traffic.
The journey home to Luperon started inauspiciously as the passengers had to
push-start the gua-gua, but then it was the relative roominess of a mere
eighteen passengers and we happily dozed away the miles.
We stayed in Luperon another few days, enjoying this quaint if rather primitive
little town and the company of fellow cruisers. We had cheap, and rather
mediocre, meals at Lucas' bar and at Annie’s, and we drank copious
quantities of cheap, and rather good, rum at the hotel and the cane-and-thatch
bar, where we watched the prostitutes lolling around and had our hearing
permanently impaired by meringue music played at ludicrous sound levels.
It would have been easy to linger longer in Luperon but the lure of the islands
is strong and on the evening of March 27,1992, Adriana crept out of the
sheltered lagoon into a boisterous sea and headed east.
Next Time We'll Go By 'Plane
The journey east along the north coast of Hispaniola is more easily
accomplished by ocean liner or aeroplane. Beggars can't be choosers,
however, and as night fell we were beating to windward against six-foot
waves, trying to convince ourselves that the rocky coastline was only
marginally a lee shore and that the night would bring a katabatic, offshore
wind to modify the relentless trades.
Ever optimistic, we had cleared out of Luperon giving our destination as
Puerto Rico in case a rare westerly should spring up. In fact there seemed
little doubt that we would be clearing back into D.R. again at Samaná, the next
official port of entry, 120 miles to windward. Standing between Samaná and
our present position were two significant capes - Cabo Macoris and Cabo
Frances Viejo - around which the trades howl. To minimise the cape-effect we
intended to round them at night, but this meant an illegal stopover at Sosua to
wait out the daylight hours and to lick our wounds after this little jaunt.
Astern I could make out the lights of three American boats that had left
Luperon an hour behind us. We had them on VHF for a while but everyone
was feeling a bit under the weather and it was all quite depressing; one boat
reported that the wind was gusting to 30 knots and another that the forecast
was for more of the same. Yippee. Adriana buried her bow and water poured
down the side-deck, slopping over the coaming into the cockpit and shortingout the engine instrument warning buzzer. There was a moment of panic as I
checked the dials, but it went quiet and Adriana continued to plug along at
four knots. I taped a plastic bag over the engine control panel and swore I'd
move the Perspex instrument panel cover to the top of the projects list.
We were motor sailing under reefed main, sheeted flat, and Adriana hobbyhorsed her way forward, the price we pay for those beautiful overhangs and a
ton of ground tackle stowed too far forward. Carol was in the quarter berth, the
first time for a year she had succumbed to seasickness. Norton, the autohelm, was steering and I huddled miserably under the dodger, harness
clipped to the binnacle.
At last we came into the lee of the headland at Sosua and things calmed
down a bit. Our three companion boats had caught and passed us in the night
and we followed their lights into the anchorage, dropping the anchor safely
clear of the reef that occupies the centre of the cove. It was 04h00 by the time
we were settled and I could crawl into my bunk, wondering as I drifted off how
long it would be before an irate commandante came hammering on the hatch
demanding the meaning of this invasion.
Four hours later a trio of officials crowded into the saloon and demanded we
leave at once because this was not a port of entry. I told them we were
sheltering from the weather and would be on our way by nightfall, but el
commandante was adamant. I heard the clatter of chain and realised the
others were on their way, but I was damned if I was going to be thrown out
into the daytime trades. I tried pleading that my wife was sick but she looked
perfectly healthy after her night’s sleep, so I had to resort to the gifts from
America routine: A Florida tee-shirt and a cold beer apiece did the trick. I love
this system! We were granted permission to stay until nightfall as long as we
didn't go ashore.
Sosua is a popular beach resort and on this sunny day it was not a tranquil
spot in which to while away the hours until sunset; by mid-morning the beach
was packed with laughing, screeching revellers in day-glo swimwear. It did
provide entertainment though, and the day slipped steadily away.
Late in the afternoon Pubikini, a Morgan 41 out of Miami, came in and
anchored. I called them on VHF to warn them about the hot-shot
commandante and learned that they had made the short hop from Puerto
Plata and were also heading to Samaná, as soon as the trades had
moderated after sundown. They had removed their engine cover and
pretended they were fixing their water pump, avoiding the need to part with
any gifts from America. Why didn't I think of that?
Night fell and the journey began. We headed offshore on starboard tack under
reefed main and working jib. The swell had been building all day and was
quite impressive now. Hours later we tacked back inshore and found the going
a lot easier, so we decided to short tack, hugging the coast. This was a good
decision, putting us way ahead of the larger Pubikini, and keeping us within
the slight lee provided by the land.
All night long we bashed our way onward with the rocky shore to starboard
and, to port, sheet-lightning illuminating towering cumulus, a worrying
development that we could have done without.
It was dawn as we rounded the second of the two capes, Cabo Frances Viejo,
and we eased the sheets for a long tack across Bahia Escocesa. The cumulus
was still building and my plan was to hole up in the tiny fjord at Escondido;
we'd be there by nightfall and I was pretty sure the shit wouldn't hit the fan
before then.
Bahia Escocesa means "bay of the Scot's woman" and legend has it that the
bay is haunted by the ghost of a Hibernian lady whose crying can be heard at
night. Now, I am the last person to have any truck with such ridiculous
notions, but I wish I could come up with an explanation for the eerie,
orchestral, sounds that both Carol and I heard in our heads as we crossed the
bay that night. It wasn't crying, but it was certainly sad and I get goose bumps
thinking about it even now.
As we approached Escondido the American trio, which had left Luperon with
us, were on their way out. By VHF they told us they had been anchored in the
fjord-like bay, recovering from their brutal daytime beat from Sosua, but had
been forced to leave because the growing swell from the north had rendered
the harbour untenable. So much for my plan; we would have to press on and
take our lumps in the open sea.
Shortly after nightfall we were rounding Cabo Cabron, the last hurdle before
we could turn south and free the sheets for the final reach down to Samaná
Bay. We had been talking to the Americans, who were determined to press on
for Puerto Rico, and they told us they were picking up major thunderstorm
activity on radar. Our own plan was to call in at Samaná so we bade them bon
voyage, and prepared to take on the approaching storm cells. We already had
our harnesses on, standard procedure for night sailing, so we added foul
weather gear and I changed down to the storm jib, in case these storms were
packing any wind - you can never tell till they're upon you.
The first storm hit, lightning crashed down around us and the rain came in
torrents. I hate lightning, it scares the shit out of me to be perfectly frank, so I
took charge of navigation below while Carol sat in the cockpit, looking like a
drowned rat and bravely claiming to be enjoying the spectacular light show.
Fortunately, there was little wind in these thunderstorms so we kept on sailing,
right into the shoal and reef infested Samaná Bay. Recommended practice is
to heave-to until daylight, but I had a superbly detailed chart of the Bay and
great confidence in our GPS. We were steering by auto-helm and I followed
the course with my pencil on the chart, moving it as the GPS updated and
calling directions to Carol at the auto-helm controller - "plus 5 degrees, plus
10 degrees, minus 5 degrees" and so on, creeping into the anchorage and
dropping the hook in 3 fathoms, dog-tired but proud of ourselves and our little
boat at the end of a tough journey. Still, next time we’ll go by 'plane!
Samaná Days
Samaná is prosperous by Dominican Republic standards; the roads are
paved, the buildings are substantial and the waterfront bustles with activity.
Ferries and tour-boats arrive and depart in an endless procession, their crew
skilfully manoeuvring stern-first to the concrete dock, setting a bow-anchor to
hold themselves off. Brightly coloured tourists chatter in a multitude of
languages and strafe the town with camera-fire.
We made our way to the Government Office to announce our arrival and
complete the paperwork. After Luperon and Sosua I was more confident in my
dealings with the authorities, so when the commandante ordered me to bring
Adriana alongside the commercial pier to clear in I claimed the engine was
broken and offered to pay the overtime involved in dinghying them to the
anchored boat. A suitable fee was negotiated and everyone was happy - the
officials enjoyed a windfall bonus and I avoided having Adriana crushed
against the dock by ferryboat wash.
The people of Samaná treated the tall, young, commandante with
considerable respect and there was much shaking of hands and exchanging
of pleasantries as he strolled around the waterfront. His English was as limited
as my Spanish but he managed to convey the need to keep the dinghy
outboard motor on deck during the night as he was having trouble with a
spate of thefts. We had not been the victim of theft since moving onto the boat
nearly three years ago, but the possibility was always there and we took the
warning seriously. We had heard tales of motors being nicked from dinghies
left at dinghy docks, even cases where the entire transom had been cut out of
inflatables to make off with securely locked outboards, and I suppose in
countries where a decent Evinrude is worth a years pay it's to be expected.
Having said that, I hasten to point out that we never did suffer a loss during
our cruise and we were never intimidated or threatened by anyone.
I gave Miguel three pesos to look after the dinghy while Carol and I went into
town. On our first trip in to the dock, the day before, Miguel had been awarded
the contract as my personal dinghy-minder after a display of winning charm
that Dale Carnegie would have been proud of. Ignoring me he had fixed Carol
with his huge, dark eyes, taken the trash bag from her hand and helped her
onto the dock:
" What are your names?" he asked.
" Carol and John" she replied.
" Ah, welcome to Samaná, Carola and Juan" beamed seven year-old Miguel,
clinching a place in "Carola's" heart and the dinghy-minding job to boot.
This curly haired urchin, in his soccer shirt and bare feet, competed with half a
dozen other junior entrepreneurs intent on making some spending money.
Miguel led the pack with three other boats in his stable. Their fees were not
fixed, but you'd get a scowl for a peso and a big grin for five and if you didn't
pay at all you'd lose your dinghy anchor and that would serve you right.
The Dominican Republic is a poor country and, to us, the prices are very
reasonable: At Samaná Sam's, a pleasant bistro overlooking the harbour, you
can have a three-course meal and a giant rum and coke for less than four
American dollars. Samaná Sam, who is actually Tom from New Jersey,
provides an unbeatable combination of good jazz and cheap food and drink
and we partook of his hospitality on many occasions.
Two young men ambled towards us down Samana's main street. One was tall
and thin and his carrot-coloured hair was a mass of
tangled dreadlocks escaping from under a battered top
hat around which a Stars-and Stripes bandanna served
as a hatband. A pinstriped oxford shirt, frayed and faded,
bore testimony to some previous respectability while
ragged, threadbare denim shorts and yellow boxers
conspired to avoid indecent exposure. Red canvas
basketball shoes completed the ensemble.
His shorter, stockier, companion was, by comparison, the
picture of sartorial restraint in khaki shorts and blue tee
shirt, although his bare feet and pony tail helped to
maintain the pairs cavalier ambience.
I knew immediately that this was the crew off Pubikini out of Miami; we had
talked on the radio during our stopover in Sosua but had lost touch during the
battle along the north coast.
We are all brothers in the cruising fraternity and soon we were swapping
yarns over cold beers at the dockside bar. Josh, with the top hat, had bought
the Morgan 41 in Florida and was refurbishing her as he made his way
through the islands, "looking for a bar to buy". He was clearly the product of a
fine family and expensive education, his intelligence and quick wit made this
obvious even before we experienced his smoked salmon hors d'oeuvre at
cocktail hour on Pubikini. Everything Josh did was first-class, and he could no
more serve his salmon without capers and chopped onion than fly. His boat
was stocked like Harrods food hall; where the hell he kept it all I will never
know.
Sean was a former school friend of Josh, invited to crew for a few months
before starting the disagreeable task of finding a job or starting a career. He
wanted to be a movie stunt man and assured us he was an accomplished unicyclist.
That beer and laughter filled afternoon we laid the foundation for a continuing
friendship, even if Josh did insist on addressing Carol and I as "Mom and
Pop". We did nothing so foolish as attempt to sail in company, but we did
meet up in many an anchorage and the reunion parties were always riotous
fun.
Oh, yes, that boat name - Pubikini. Well it really is what it says. Josh named
his boat after a photograph by Helmut Newton in which a woman's pubic hair,
somewhat augmented, has been trimmed to resemble a bikini bottom. A
strange young man, I'm glad he's not really ours!
Waterfalls and Pigs
The Samaná days drifted pleasantly by but soon we would have to get on the
move; hurricane season waits for no man. We wanted to visit the waterfalls
before we left so one morning Carol and I piled aboard a moto-concho and
ordered the driver to head for the hills. The Samaná moto-concho is definitely
up market; a small motorbike pulls a two-seater trailer sporting a cheerfully
coloured sun awning, a vast improvement on the hazardous pillion-ride we
had experienced in Puerto Plata.
The views were breathtaking as we wound our way uphill, the little Japanese
engine buzzing like a demented wasp. From up here the ocean looked vast
and empty and the brisk tradewind whipped the tops off the waves, sending
white horses galloping to the horizon.
The driver left us where a path led off the roadside into the jungle and mimed
that he would return for us in two hours. We set off into the bush and found
that the path followed a small stream, and here and there were signs of
human habitation: a chicken-wire fence, some planted vegetables and,
standing right in our way, an enormous pink pig. It was tethered to a tree but
had enough rope to allow it to wallow in the stream to the left of the path and
to nose hopefully at the mesh fence protecting the vegetables to the right of
the path. There was no way we could skirt the pig and I didn't like the way it
was looking at me. Carol was all for strolling by, patting the pig on the head as
we went, but I wasn't going to risk that without a character reference on this
fellow. The stalemate was broken when a young man dressed only in khaki
trousers stepped out of the jungle and announced he was Arturo, a guide. I
couldn't see why we needed a guide to walk along a clearly defined path but
he did seem to know the pig and that alone was enough to justify his modest
fee. The pig’s eyes never left me as we passed and I had the feeling it was in
cahoots with Arturo.
On we went, and soon the steep path petered out to nothing and we took to
the rocky river course, criss-crossing the fast flowing stream on boulders and
fallen logs. Arturo took Carol's hand to help her over the trickier bits and I was
glad he was along to show us the easiest route. We stopped at a small spring
to drink clear icy water and to sample a tamarind picked from a nearby tree.
We eventually emerged from the jungle onto a meadow where horses were
grazing and a few rustic shacks had been erected.
Ahead was a tall escarpment down which a
spectacular waterfall plummeted. Arturo
apologised, with elaborate hand signals, for the
fact that a recent lack of rainfall had diminished the
splendour of the scene but it looked pretty
impressive to me. We were soon frolicking in the
crystal clear pond at the foot of the falls, being
pummelled by the thundering cascade. We
couldn't complain about the pressure in this
shower, and I bet we hadn't been this salt-free for
months!
The return hike went quickly and we found the pig
standing in the stream surrounded by a group of, apparently amphibious,
chickens. This time the pig ignored me because, of course, Arturo had
collected his fee. We ate wonderfully sweet bananas, bought for a few pesos
by the roadside, while we waited for the return of the moto-concho. Then we
were on our way, the landscape a blur as we hurtled back down the hill to
Samaná, the fringe of the sun awning crackling like machine-gun fire, the
whole contraption swaying alarmingly as the driver skilfully avoided a dead
horse in the middle of the road. Chickens, goats and children scattered before
us as we rocketed into town at something approaching the world land-speed
record. A little shaken by the unaccustomed velocity we repaired without delay
to Samaná Sam's for a much-needed reviver.
Adriana at anchor.