Sure it was just another spit of white sand, but we could not have too many of those. After two days (the last three with empty water tanks—we were drinking what was in the freezer), we needed to get moving again. Ooooookaaaaaay.
Although we could have done the upcoming sail during the day, our guidebooks warned us of tricky, gusty trade winds after 8 a.m., so another night sail it would be. We planned to leave Big Sand Cay around 5 p.m.
Before we left, we discovered that a couple of navigation lights on the top of the mast weren’t working, so it was back up the mast for Michael.
The anchor windlass switch also needed to be replaced. We had a spare for that!
On our sail to East Caicos, the barbecue grill fell off the stern cockpit rail and floated out to sea.
One of the engine’s water pumps sprang a leak.
17
The Dominican Republic—Island A+, Anchorage F−
Dominican Republic here we come! Time to haul anchor and get ready for another overnighter.
Once the sun disappeared and darkness fell, we were entertained by bioluminescent creatures that sparkled in our wake, making it look as though we were emitting sparks behind us. We were also kept awake by schizophrenic winds and lightning that surrounded us all night long. We would be going 8 knots and then 4 knots and then back up to 8 knots and then motoring and then back to sailing. That wasn’t much fun.
We knew that overnight passages required a watchkeeping schedule of some kind. One of the rules of the road requires that all vessels maintain a safe lookout at all times. We tended to take four-hour shifts: Michael 8 p.m. to midnight, me midnight to between 4 and 5 a.m., and then Michael again. The night watch consisted of the person on duty sitting at the helm watching the radar and adjusting the autohelm (autopilot) whenever necessary to follow the path plotted on the chartplotter. We hadn’t had any night-sail trimming yet, but it was part of the job. To help stay awake, we also read or listened to our favorite mp3 tunes. Every 15 minutes the on-watch person got up and walked to both sides of the cockpit to look on either side of the sails and make sure that no ship or any other surprise had popped up. If we saw lights (or a blip on the radar), we kept an eye on the vessel(s) to make sure it didn’t get too close to collide with us.
LESSON 65: THE 15-MINUTE RULE Watches should be whatever fits your attention span. Many people take two- to three-hour watches, which are fine during the day, but at night we found this was not enough time for anyone to get some sleep. I was more likely to stay awake after midnight; Michael’s turn came at sunup. It worked for us. The 15-minute rule is a sure bet. Every 15 minutes you get up and check for boats on either side of the sail. You’d be amazed how many times we seemed to be alone and then a freighter or a cruise ship would cross our path, seemingly appearing from nowhere. The radar was a great backup at night (it helped detect storms developing in the darkness as well).
Here come some fireworks, and July 4 is long gone. During Michael’s 8 p.m.-to-midnight shift, I went below to my bunk with the hatch cracked open. I needed the air, and no water was getting in, so no problem. We agreed that if Michael had to go forward on deck for any reason, he would wake me for backup. Then he would attach himself to the boat before heading forward. (He would use a homemade harness consisting of rope, shackles, and clips connecting him to the boat by means of lifelines, which are horizontal lines running fore and aft on the boat, joined via stanchions to the hull. Jacklines, which are stronger, lower on the boat, and uninterrupted by stanchions, are a smarter alternative. Wearing a life jacket is smart, too, but it wasn’t something we practiced regularly.) We would reverse this routine when I was on watch and Michael was asleep below.
It was a nonnegotiable rule and one that allowed me to go below, confident that when I came back up, Michael would still be where I left him. You have to hear/read only one story about someone waking up to find his or her partner long gone to know you don’t want this to happen to you.
But guess what Mikey did? At one point I noticed his feet over my head and watched him latch my hatch, which was located at the bow of the boat. He had already broken rule number one by not telling me he was going forward (because he didn’t want to wake me up obviously), but was he at least attached to the boat? I snuck up to see, and what I saw (or didn’t see) resulted in one of the biggest blowups we ever had on our trip (more from fear of what could have happened than anger over him disobeying a cardinal rule). The, um, discussion that entailed afterward is not printable in a publication such as this, but I will say that he never did that again. Ever. But I never did trust him again. Lest you think I was too tough on him, it was windy and stormy out there. If Michael had gone overboard, I wouldn’t have heard him and never would have found him, dead or alive. You can’t overreact when considering such a nightmare. Bad boy!
LESSON 66: GET A BEEPER Personal locator beacons (PLBs) can be carried or attached to someone or something and will send a GPS signal to search and rescue authorities when the beacon gets wet (much like your boat’s EPIRB), indicating where a person is now floating (and wondering why they didn’t listen to their captain). It might not hurt to invest in one for times when your crew members (or you) just can’t help themselves and stupidity reigns. Accidents happen too.
Neither of us slept that night, but at least near the end of the passage the winds were coming from right where we wanted them. We had a nice wee-hours-of-the-morning sail, arrived at our destination too early, and floated around outside the Luperon entrance until we could see well enough to navigate the channel into the harbor. You’ll note that the Dominican Republic shares the island of Hispaniola with Haiti, to the west. Luperon is located almost in the middle of the island, on the north coast.
While we bided our time, it occurred to us that we had now traveled almost 1,000 miles from where we had started, in Miami, Florida, almost 10 months prior. Wow! Not too shabby for a couple of inexperienced city kids.
At what we considered a civilized hour, we tried radioing our pals, but we didn’t realize that everyone in the harbor listened to Channel 68, not Channel 16. They had in the Bahamas, too, but I thought that preference was particular to the Bahamas. In anchorages with large populations, folks typically set their VHF to Channel 68. When sailing, you’re required to be on Channel 16.
We had a lot of good information from boater friends who had already done this trip, so we knew that the waypoint used to enter the Luperon anchorage would be on land. We also knew about the mud shoals in various locations inside the harbor, so we came in confidently. We were once again greeted by Astrid, our Horizons trawler buddy, who was out in her dinghy with one of her dogs.
We anchored near the harbor entrance and hoped the waters would be a little cleaner there. This meant long dinghy rides, so we moved, but the holding was terrible due to all the sludge, so we moved a lot more trying to find a better grip. We moved so much we became known as “those people who move every day.” There are worse things to be called.
Checking into the Dominican Republic was quite a process, including the agricultural dude who came to our boat to look at our food and approve Shaka (we actually had to go get the officer and dinghy him out). I was glad to know some Spanish because most of the officials we had to deal with didn’t speak English. We also got to grease the palm of the naval commandant, supposedly for his protection, despite the fact that he didn’t own even a small boat. Add immigration and the port authority and it got a little pricey.
This was made up for, however, when we went ashore and ordered two of the biggest beers we had ever seen, Presidente and Bohemia grandes. As it turned out, they weren’t even the biggest ones. We could have had jumbos—which were wine bottle size! Two of these huge beers totaled just under $4US. With 32 pesos to the dollar, the Dominican Republic was going to be one cheap place to stay. What a nice change. The next day we had Maria at the nearby marina wash and fold all our laundry for $10, and we filled up with free water (via jerry jugs). (We needed 185 gallons to fill our
tanks again.) No wonder so many people headed there.
We ran into lots of folks we had met in the Bahamas, most of whom had already been in Luperon for two to three months. The water was rank; some people dinghied around with masks over their mouths. Boats were dragging on the soft bottom just about every day, which kept things interesting. Everyone seemed to be in everyone else’s business, so I wasn’t sure how long we’d last.
Life on Luperon and Beyond
People ask us all the time what island was our favorite. It depends! The Dominican Republic was first-rate in terms of the people, the prices, the beauty of the country itself. There were cool (literally) mountains, windy beaches that allowed for kite and windsurfing, a beautiful capital, huge stores, trendy little beach towns, villages with mud huts and palm-frond roofs, and a peninsula with a Trump Tower and casinos. The country was huge and had just about every terrain and money level you could imagine. The people helped you speak Spanish, tried to speak English, and smiled all the time. Even Dominicans we met off-island had that everything-is-good vibe about them. These people were poorer than those on most of the other islands we visited, but they seemed happier and pleased to have us there.
The anchorage was the problem. The only safe anchorage in a hurricane is Luperon. If you wanted to take a day trip to another anchorage, you had to check out of Luperon—greasing palms again—check in to the next anchorage, and then go through the whole process again when you came back (you’d be smart to bring lots of small bills, rum, and cigarettes).
There was a lot of thievery if you weren’t surrounded by other boaters (and sometimes even if you were), with dinghy motors being the number one stolen item, siphoned fuel the next. The harbor smelled like sewage, looked like sewage, and was sewage. People with watermakers couldn’t use them, so it was a good thing that free water was available.
There was a nice marina called Ocean World a few miles away, but in a hurricane you’d have to move to Luperon. Which would be full. Luperon was where we’d have to stay put. We would just have to live with it.
Once you accepted the harbor conditions, it wasn’t hard to appreciate the benefits of staying there. The sheer number of cruisers in the harbor allowed the town to have a few decent restaurants and a lot of gua gua’s (buses), taxis, or motoconchos (motorbikes with drivers who would give you a lift). Transportation was cheap, and even cheaper when we’d rent a taxi with other boaters to take part in tours or go to huge grocery and hardware stores in nearby Puerto Plata or Santiago.
Boaters and local tourism folks would organize outings all the time. There were softball games played between the gringos and the Dominicans (guess who won? Losers would buy drinks at El Pichichi). Poker games, pool, movie nights, karaoke—you name it. There was a swap meet on Sundays, and the twice-weekly VHF-net was always a hoot to listen to. The Whisper crew, Hans and Kristen, even made and delivered doughnuts.
If you wanted to socialize, it was there for you. If not, that was fine too (they’d just talk behind your back). There was even a place to make phone calls to the States (the Internet signal wasn’t strong enough to make Skype calls) that cost $4 for 10 minutes.
One of our favorite restaurants in town was Captain Steve’s Place. He had a number of vegetarian dishes with plates so big and loaded with so much food that Michael and I could split one order for dinner—all for about $5US. It was usually cheaper and much less work to eat out. So we did!
Prescriptions weren’t needed in the Dominican Republic. We told them what we needed, and if they had an equivalent, no problem. They even carried Shaka’s pills!
Road Trip!
To keep our sanity, we took lots of breaks from that stinky harbor: rum tours, horseback riding, hiking to the top of waterfalls and jumping down them, even a weeklong motorcycle trip with Hans and Kristen. We traveled along the northeast coast all the way to the Samana Peninsula, which juts out easterward from the island and provides views of the Atlantic Ocean to the north and the Bahia de Samana to the south. Staying northerly kept us out of the rain forests (although not always out of the rain) and north of the traffic from Santo Domingo.
The road trip was a blast, but not being fluent in Spanish was an issue here and there. Kristen had previously lived in the Dominican Republic for six months and knew enough Spanish to get us by. I had just enough to get myself in trouble. Bargaining was a must. Wherever cruise-ship passengers went, there was price gouging.
Fun towns included Cabarete, Las Galeras (lots of Germans there, and techno music), and Las Terrenas (hip stores and beach restaurants—a must-see). We heard that Santo Domingo (the capital and large city on the south coast of the island) was a great place to go, but we didn’t make it there ourselves. Hidden beaches abounded. Places we least liked included Samana; the Limon waterfall tourist trap; and the little island of Cayo Levantado in the Bahia de Samana, which was the equivalent of a land-based cruise ship.
We searched for beaches and waterfalls that no one else knew about. We met locals who shared their food with us. Our tour of an isolated waterfall was conducted by a bubbly little girl whose mom let us sample the wide variety of foods grown around the area—from coffee to chocolate to bananas to things we couldn’t identify. The Dominicans appreciated that we were seeing the island the way they traveled it (most have motorcycles, not cars). When we were caught in a rainstorm and took shelter, we were offered oranges to eat while we waited for the sky to clear.
One day during our road trip we were on what we thought was an isolated beach when, out of nowhere, a local approached us (how do they do that?). I inwardly groaned, thinking we were going to be asked for money. As it turned out, he just wanted to let us know that farther down the beach were some food stands with fish and freshly made coconut bread if we were interested, and also a river (freshwater) to rinse off the ocean salt when we were done playing. How nice of him, and how snarky of me.
LESSON 67: DON’T BE A SNOB We learned a good lesson from our pals on Whisper. When the Dominican approached Hans and Kristen, they warmly smiled as he approached, thanked him, and then enjoyed a great meal and a freshwater dip, just as he had suggested. Be open to whatever and whoever comes your way. You can always walk away, but more likely you’ll have a great experience that you wouldn’t have had by being a snob.
I highly recommend a road trip, via car or motorcycle, but wear a handkerchief or a scarf over your face. We were filthy from the road grime, exhaust, and dust by the end of a jaunt. We’d take off our sunglasses and have two white circles on an otherwise gray face. Eew.
Another caveat is that the roads are insane. Be vigilant. Many roads have lots of lanes, unlike the narrow two-lane streets on most islands, and they are clogged with animals, have deep potholes, and are filled with kamikaze drivers lining up five to a lane. We’d see a family of six, including infants, smooshed together on a motorbike. Even more amazing would be motorcyclists carrying huge propane tanks, mattresses, live pigs—you name it. It became a contest as to who saw the most or weirdest stuff on the back of a motorcycle.
Who Invited Hurricane Dean?
Just when things were getting dull, around mid-August, Hurricane Dean (a storm extending 550 miles across) came within a couple hundred miles of the island. All boaters were monitoring their favorite weather sites, and we all tried not to panic when a hurricane warning was issued for the Dominican Republic. We had about a week to prepare and did so by having our propellers cleaned, gathering our valuables in a ditch bag, getting cash from the ATM machine, and fueling. Some boaters did nothing. We waited until the last minute to decide whether we needed to take more drastic measures, such as removing our sails and trampolines and tying off to mangroves. When it looked as though the worst of the storm would pass 220 miles to the north of us, we decided that the preparations we had made were good enough.
At around midday (about two hours before my favorite hurricane website, StormCarib, predicted the storm to be at its closest point to us—still over 200 miles away), a boater with a
huge radar dish gave everyone a 10-second countdown to a storm cell he was watching on his monitor. Almost at the count of one, 55-knot winds swept through the harbor, setting about a third of the boats on the move, including ours. We had two anchors off our bow (the 44-pound Bulwagga and the 37-pound CQR on one chain separated by about 35 feet plus another 100 feet of heavy chain on the harbor floor) plus a 40-pound metal “kellet.” (A kellet is a weight, aka “anchor buddy,” attached halfway down the anchor rode to lower the angle of pull, taking pressure off the anchor itself.) Even with all our anchor gear, we still slid through that muck. Thankfully, ours was a slow drag.
Despite our 10-second warning, our cockpit cushions went flying; the wind generators went ballistic, sounding like jet engines; people were screaming at one another on the VHF; and we were scrambling to toss a third anchor out to the side to stop our slide. That worked, to the relief of the boaters behind us. We also decided to tie ourselves off to the mangroves (with deep roots) to ensure against any further anchor dragging. If three anchors are good, four are better, right? Did I mention it was also raining, and the pelting rain hurt? Ow!
Some boats went sailing through the harbor at 3 to 4 knots—yep, even with anchors “set” and no sails hoisted—before anyone could stop them. Engines weren’t starting after sitting so long, and propellers were frozen because no one could clean anything in that cruddy water (well, no one except a couple of local entrepreneurs who were more than willing to make some extra cash and were happy to clean ours and those of others who had thought ahead). Cruisers jumped into dinghies in the choppy harbor to push boats out of the way and stop others. Incredibly, not one boat hit another one.
A Sail of Two Idiots Page 16