“Let’s get our despacho so at least we’ll be ready to go,” Steve says. In order to leave the Dominican Republic, we need a despacho, a clearance paper, which we get from the comandante, the Luperón port commander. The comandante and his translator came onboard Receta to check us into the country, but we must go to his headquarters, the comandancia, to check out.
Cruising tales, we’ve discovered, always become exaggerated in the telling and retelling, and things are never quite so bad (or so good) as others make them sound. The trip to the comandancia is the exception: It’s actually far worse than the stories that preceded it, which were already heavily sprinkled with words like “awful” and “disgusting.”
The dirt path that leads to the comandancia starts behind the lavandería and leads across a stream and up a hill on the other side. It’s not until we pass the laundry-strewn bushes that we get our first look at the bridge. I try to weasel out: Surely my services as a translator won’t be required when we know the comandante has his own? “Nice try,” says Steve. “In fact, you go first—you’ve got a better sense of balance than me.”
The bridge doesn’t have very many planks between its two stringers, leaving open gaps and excellent views of the stream underneath. But this is only the start of its deficiencies: Some of its limited number of “planks” are just rough branches, and it has no handrails. Oh, yeah, and the “stream” it’s crossing is actually a smelly conduit for raw sewage. This ribbon of sludge, which runs through Luperón and down to the harbor, is the reason we don’t swim in the anchorage. Falling off this so-called bridge into this so-called stream would be truly horrifying. Besides, I’m carrying our most important documents, our passports and boat registration, in my backpack. I get down on all fours and start to crab my way across.
The bridge is alive, a wizard’s balance beam. The branches roll, the planks shift. Most of them have been merely laid across the stringers, not nailed down—and if I don’t put my weight in exactly the right place, they pop up on one side like a teeter-totter. I have to test each one for its balance point before I commit. Steve, meanwhile, is taking careful note of which branches move when I do, and has no intention of starting his crawl until I reach solid ground. Coward.
But neither of us falls in, and after brushing the dirt off our hands and knees, we follow the track the rest of the way up the hill to the modest cinder-block building with the national flag flying out front. After the bridge, getting the despacho is a comparative snap. A junior official types it—in triplicate—on a manual typewriter that was probably new in the year of my birth. Every time he bangs the carriage return to start another line, the carriage flies right out of the aged machine and has to be reinstalled before the paperwork can continue. It’s a cartoon come to life, and Steve is biting his lip so hard I’m afraid it will bleed. But at least the comandante, who only arrived here a couple of weeks before we did, is doing things completely by the book. There’s no attempt to extract a little something extra from us for unofficial pockets, as there was with the previous comandante, we’ve been told, before he was hauled off to jail.
That night, over happy hour Presidentes, we warn another despacho-seeking cruiser about the bridge. Someone who’s been in Luperón much longer than we have chimes in. “The bridge is new. And it’s a big improvement over the old system.” Apparently, the old system involved pulling yourself across the stream hand over hand along a slimy rope while standing in a leaky rowboat with a few inches of sewage water in the bottom. “People used to wear plastic bags on their hands and feet when they went for their despacho.” I don’t think he’s exaggerating one bit.
An unfortunate little fact: The word “nausea” comes via Latin from the Greek nausia, which comes from naus, which means ship.
A few hours earlier, we had ghosted out of Escondido Bay, with the barest breath of wind in the sails, in the company of two other straggler sailboats. We had left Luperón together the previous day, after finally getting Herb’s go-ahead, and had reached this lovely fjordlike bay after an easy overnight sail east along the north coast—so calm we motored partway. But we only stayed long enough to get a few hours’ sleep, pour fuel from the jerry cans on deck into our tank, and make a fresh Thermos of coffee before getting underway again, heading for the Mona Passage.
Despite the very light wind, we keep the engine off, to make it easier to hear Herb. “Be sure to ask him specifically about thunderstorms,” Steve says. “I see some dark clouds ahead.” Herb, looking at his computer screens 1,800 miles away, says he sees no “organized convection activity,” the forecast euphemism for “big-time pissing and blowing, accompanied by shitloads of lightning and thunder.”
“Organized” is the operative word. The storm cells created along this coast as the land cools at night are localized—not part of the overall weather picture. And soon all hell is breaking loose around us as we motorsail southeast close to the coastline. “You’re going to be passing through a big squall,” Ken on the boat ahead radios back. “Get ready for it.” We scramble to put on full rain gear—pants, jackets, boots, caps, and hoods—and then Steve takes down the sails while I steer. Soon blinding forks of lightning are sizzling down from the night sky and stabbing the surface of the sea around us. I count the seconds between the flashes and the thunder—far too few, given that Receta’s mast is the tallest object for miles around. Rain beating on my face, I wrestle with the wheel, attempting to stay on course while the wind howls and the boat plunges up and down in the suddenly steep waves.
The flashes and thunder become simultaneous. Steve has gone below to consult the radar, where the squall shows up as a dense splotch of black dots, and plot a new course that will, I desperately hope, take us out from under it. But in the meantime, I am alone on deck—and, despite the compass, I momentarily lose my bearings and am unsure which direction is toward shore and danger. For the first time this trip, I am honestly frightened. The glorious serenity of my first night sails—even of last night’s sail—vanishes. I know with absolute certainty that I was right to dread night passages.
“Steer 145 degrees!” Steve bellows the new heading out at me and I emerge from my confusion and get us on the new course. But as we come out from under the center of the squall and the wind lessens, we need to quickly get a sail back up to steady us in the waves. “Keep the boat pointed into the wind,” Steve calls from the mast, where he’s now trying to raise the mainsail. “I’m trying—but I can’t,” I shout back. “It’s too rough.” Every time the boat slews sideways on a wave, the wind catches the flogging sail and prevents Steve from raising it any higher. With the sky total blackness, I can’t see the waves to anticipate when or how they’ll hit us. Steve’s tethered to the boat with his safety harness, but with each wave I’m afraid he’ll be thrown to the deck as the boat pitches. Eventually, we just give up, sentencing ourselves to a rough, uncomfortable night of motoring. And we’re not even in the Mona Passage proper yet.
By daybreak, when we are, Steve’s entry in the log is short and to the point: “Nasty waves.” They seem to come at us from all directions, causing the surface to slosh and churn. At least in daylight we can get the sails back up, which helps our movement a little. The squalls are gone, the wind is a modest 10–14 knots—we are crossing the Mona in almost perfect conditions. And still it feels like we’re traveling in a soup bowl being carried by a marathon runner. My seasickness drugs are no match for the Mona, and I begin to feed the fishes. Unfortunately, I can’t do what the British admiral Horatio Lord Nelson suggested as the remedy: If you’re seasick, he said, sit under a tree. We’re still a full day (and night) from our landfall. Now I know why it’s called the Thorny Path, and I wish I were anywhere but on it.
I subsist for the next twenty-four hours on water and sourdough pretzels—they’re the only thing my stomach will tolerate, and they don’t require me to expend any effort other than reaching a hand into a bag—and remain lashed to the boat with my safety harness until we arrive in Boquerón, Puert
o Rico. I don’t miss a single one of my watches, day or night, though, and I’m very proud of it.
Here, this is for you.” Robert, off the sailboat Jake, hands me a paperback in Boquerón. Jake had crossed the Mona just a day ahead of us. The book looks like a trashy thriller, and the cover says, in lurid letters, “Can death be the only way out?” For a few hours, I felt like it was.
The paperback is entitled Incident in the Mona Passage. Like its namesake, it’s awful.
Luperón Papaya Salsa
There is no such thing as a small papaya in Luperón. I created this salsa to take advantage of the half we regularly had left after breakfast. Serve it alongside grilled chicken or fish—or with cream cheese on crackers, as a happy hour snack.
1⁄2 large ripe papaya, diced (about 2 cups)
1⁄2 cucumber, peeled, seeded, and diced
1⁄2 small red onion, thinly sliced and separated into rings, and rings cut in half
3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh cilantro
1⁄2–1 small hot red or green pepper, seeded and finely chopped (or to taste)
1 lime, juiced
3 tablespoons fruity olive oil
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1. Combine the papaya, cucumber, onion, cilantro, and hot pepper. Set aside.
2. Whisk together the oil and half the lime juice, and season to taste with salt and pepper. Toss with papaya mixture.
3. Taste before serving and adjust flavor with additional lime juice.
Serves 4
Tips
• This salsa works equally well with ripe mango, or a combination of mango and papaya.
• The red onion adds color, but you can use a mild-flavored yellow or white onion instead.
Cheesy Chicken with Avocado and Tomato Salsa
Avocados were in season when we arrived in the Dominican Republic, and we said fat and calories be damned and devoured them regularly. This recipe showcases them—and the delicious Dominican cheeses—beautifully.
1⁄3 cup cornmeal
Salt and freshly ground black pepper
1⁄4 teaspoon hot red pepper flakes
4 boneless chicken breasts
3 tablespoons olive oil
1 clove garlic, halved
1⁄2 lime
1⁄2 cup fresh or store-bought tomato salsa
1 avocado, peeled, pitted, and thickly sliced
4 slices mild melting cheese (such as Monterey Jack, mild cheddar, or queso de freir)
Fresh cilantro, chopped
1. Combine cornmeal, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. Dredge the chicken breasts in the mixture.
2. Heat olive oil in a large frying pan with a lid and gently sauté the garlic for a minute or so. Add the chicken breasts, and sauté until a golden-brown crust has formed on both sides and the breasts are almost done, about 5–7 minutes per side. Squeeze the lime over the chicken.
3. Top each breast with some salsa, a couple of slices of avocado, and a slice of cheese. Lower heat, cover, and cook a minute or two longer until the cheese has melted. Garnish with the cilantro and serve with rice and more sliced avocado and tomato on the side.
Serves 4
Tip
• This recipe can be easily adapted for the barbecue: Marinate the chicken briefly in a mixture of lime juice, olive oil, chopped cilantro, red pepper flakes (or chopped hot pepper), chopped garlic, and salt and pepper. Grill over medium-high heat until the chicken is almost done, about 5 minutes per side. Top each breast with salsa, a couple of slices of avocado, and a slice of cheese. Cover the grill and cook a minute or two longer until the cheese has melted.
Not Quite Seasoned,
But
Very Well Salted
November Mike November gave me the good weather news
Told me I was going on an easy downwind cruise
Well I guess he got it wrong and that’s hard to excuse
’Cause I’m tossing up my cookies, my body’s one big bruise
I got the three days out forty-five knot wind blues . . .
FROM THE SONG “THREE DAYS OUT FORTY-FIVE KNOT WIND
BLUES” BY CANADIAN SINGER/SONGWRITER AND CRUISER EILEEN QUINN, FROM HER CD NO SIGNIFICANT FEATURES
Oh, the irony. We left home to escape deadlines and here we are being driven by a deadline: I’m convinced we absolutely have to be south of the hurricane box by July 1, as if the weather gods use a Day-Timer and have scheduled a hurricane for the very next day.
After the Mona Passage, we scurry along the south coast of Puerto Rico. “Take at least 11 days,” the gospel guidebook says; but the weather holds and we cover it in four. Then we boogie through the Virgin Islands—“don’t worry, we’ll spend more time here on our way north,” Steve says—then jump to St. Martin across the Anegada Passage, another choppy, current-wracked stretch of water, unaffectionately nicknamed the Oh-My-God-A Passage. Anchor, sleep, sail. Anchor, sail. Sail, sail, sail. We move every day—and sometimes night—the weather lets us, mostly motorsailing now because we’re heading east and almost directly into the trade winds. (A boat under sail can’t point directly into the wind.) This “beating to windward” is brutal—exhausting and uncomfortable as we slam into wave after wave, the bow sometimes burying in the steep seas, our muscles tensed and our bodies braced for hours on end. It’s even harder on poor Receta.
“More leaks,” I report dejectedly when I return to the cockpit after one of my infrequent daylight trips below during the nineteen hours we’re underway to St. Martin. Given our direction, the ocean is simply too lumpy to make spending time in the cabin enjoyable unless I’m lying down to sleep.
Steve has already rebedded one of our lovely deck prisms, the one over the chart table, to stop water from streaming in whenever a wave washes over the bow and down the sidedecks (which is frequently). But now the deck prism in the galley has started leaking—the one over the dry locker, meant for storing nonperishable food and now an utter oxymoron. “The forward hatch is leaking, too,” I inform him, on the verge of tears. Some of my clothes bags are sitting on the wet cushions directly under the leak, having bounced off the shelves when we hit a wave. We store our navigation charts under the cushions, and they’re now the filling in a nice soggy, salty sandwich. The collar at the mast isn’t totally watertight anymore either, and seawater has entered there, too, splashing the floor of the main cabin. It’s hardly noticeable, though, since there’s already a salt slick all over the floor from when our salty selves have slid below off-watch, peeling off soaking foul-weather gear to instantly fall asleep on the cushions in the main cabin.
“Nothing goes to windward like a 747,” is the oft-used saying when someone decides to meet a boat at its destination rather than go along for the (bouncy) ride. I can see their point. “I am really really ready for this beating to windward to end,” I announce.
To make it end more quickly—especially since the days are ticking down to July 1—I agree to do the next stretch, from St. Martin to St. Lucia, without stopping: 292 miles, 52 hours. Straight.
Dinner tonight was somewhat misguided,” I note in my journal about the first night of that passage. “Couscous topped with cold sliced grilled chicken. Delicious—but the couscous is too light for these conditions, almost 20 knots of wind. Blows all over the damn cockpit.” Pretty cavalier words from someone who, just a few weeks ago, was making passage meals out of pretzels. But I’m learning, adjusting: No couscous, and no chopped fresh herb garnishes. (Green bits everywhere.) Nothing, in fact, that requires more than a bowl and fork to eat. And nothing that can’t be prepared entirely ahead and just quickly assembled at mealtime. If the seas kick up, the last thing I (and my stomach) want is to spend time in a rolling galley. One Thermos was filled with hot coffee and another with boiling water before we started this passage; the baskets that hang close to the bottom of the companionway were piled with grab-and-go snacks (including a handful of Steve’s precious MasMas bars). A supply of seasickness pills was stashed in easy ar
m’s reach from the cockpit.
Unfortunately, there’s no avoiding belowdecks weather duty. At least three times each day while we’re underway—no matter how rolly it is—I have to sit at the chart table and listen to the forecast on the SSB radio, writing it down word for word, so we have it for reference. Somehow, I’ve become responsible on Receta not only for talking to Herb, but also for getting all the weather forecasts, whether we’re at anchor or on the move. The chore load is already weighted heavily toward Steve because there is so much I don’t know how to do; when we installed the radio six months ago, it seemed only fair that I should take on a job that was new to both of us. Besides, the first forecast we need to hear is at 5:30 A.M—not a time of day Steve is happily awake.
That first forecast is delivered by November Mike, as he’s nicknamed, and he holds the dubious honor of making me cry from frustration more than once. He sounds (to me, at least) like Rocky and Bullwinkle’s nemesis, Boris Badenov—but on Valium. November Mike—or “Metal Mikey,” as another cruiser calls him—delivers the offshore forecasts in a dour monotone; his voice has no inflection, he jams his words together, and he pauses in all the wrong places, creating a run-on string of easily confusable numbers and compass directions. Did he say west of 68° winds east—or east of 68° winds west? Which side of 68° was going to have the slowly decreasing 8-foot seas? Or was that increasing? To a newcomer unfamiliar with the format and idiosyncrasies of the offshore forecasts, he might as well be speaking Badenov’s mother tongue. After my first few teary attempts to get it all down—sometimes further handicapped by less-than-perfect radio reception—I started taping November Mike and then transcribing him, playing back the forecast over and over, phrase by painful phrase. By now, however, I’ve developed a shorthand for taking it down directly.
An Embarrassment of Mangoes Page 11