Day 3: Saturday, November 15, 1997
Jeff writes:
Friday turns to Saturday with the same calming light from the moon and the shore.
The following wind is a bit too far back, but the seas are mild and the steering easy.
Tony and I take turns at the helm until morning.
First light has us most of the way along the southern coast of Puerto Rico.
At
Cabo Rojo, we are to turn north for a short jog into the resort town of Boqueron.
Cabo Rojo seems just ahead, but visual distances at sea can be deceiving,
and it won't be until noon that we round the bend.
With the sun solidly up but still low, it's time to bathe.
Even at just a few knots, the force of being towed behind a sailboat is powerful.
The pressure of the water seems to scrub away the sweat and sunscreen of the previous day.
Salt water makes for a lousy cleansing, though.
Nautical wisdom has it that the dishwashing detergent Joy contains wonderous ingredients that
manage to cut through the salt to reach the skin.
Joy may be the best solution, but it's only a fair solution.
So, once out of the water, a fresh water rinse is in order.
Although we will end the trip with plenty to spare, our longest crossing is still ahead of us,
so we meter the fresh rinsing water from the tanks with care.
Bathing utensils and other appendages are stowed, so it's time for breakfast.
Chef John throws together a tortilla and egg concoction that, on paper, sounds like it might
be found at any McDonald's drive-thru before 11:00.
Ah, but this concoction transcends not just fast food but any food anywhere.
Warm food on a boat is delicious--delicious warm food on a boat is heavenly, even for this agnostic.
None of us ends up recalling the exact ingredients or order of preparation,
so the experience--but not the memory--is lost to the past forever.
With breakfast behind us, we spot Cabo Rojo ahead of us,
the thought of solid ground in Boqueron driving us forward.
Once finally round the tip of Cabo Rojo, we see for real what the charts had been telling us--shallow water.
The entrance to Boqueron is clearly marked farther ahead,
but we use the tried and true technique of a man standing on the bow pulpit and calling back to the helmsman,
"Starboard ... a bit more ... that's good ... now back to Port a bit."
Nothing tests the belief in a depth sounder like a field of rocks in clear water.
After a few false starts, we find a clear path and make our way toward the harbor entry.
A sunny noon turns to a cloudy early afternoon.
Like a bad dream, the channel markers seem to slowly recede as we make our way towards them.
By the time we make the harbor itself, the sky is gray and threatening a downpour.
The mooring area is full of boats, leaving us two options: away, where the water is deep and the anchor hold
precarious, or close in, where the power boats mock us with their shallow drafts.
We choose close in.
The power boats have the last laugh.
Thud.
We run aground, but in mud and grass, not rock.
No damage, but we'd like to get the boat put away and dinghy in to the dock before the skies open.
There are several tricks for freeing a grounded sailboat.
First, we stay the boom out to one side and have two of us hang from it.
No luck.
Next, we put the anchor in the dinghy, take it out away from the boat, drop it overboard, and attempt
to "kedge" our way free.
Again, no luck.
Finally, John walks (!) the main halyard out a few boat lengths from the hull.
Putting his tortilla-and-egg enhanced weight on the line, he manages enough heel to free us.
Another fifteen minutes, and we are at anchor with water below the keel.
With perfect timing, the downpour begins.
Taking full advantage of the fresh water pressure, we bathe.
Great, we think, this will get us most of the way to the Dominican Republic in relatively good hygeine.
Fate, and foolishness, has another plan for us.
Knowing that the dinghy ride is likely to generate a bit of splash, we pack a waterproof bag with clean clothes
and cheeseburger money.
I climb in, followed by Tony.
Now, as the alert reader may have noticed from a previous photograph,
the IBIS tender is hardly a spacious vessel.
In fact, quite the contrary.
So, to make room for Tony's amidships boarding, I (holding the heavy bag) move aft.
The result could have been written by any rookie sitcom writer: tip, splash, profanity, splash, laughter.
Tony and I provide the splashes, John the laughter.
Somehow, I manage to keep the bag above water, but my freshwater cleanliness (and Tony's) is gone.
Hoping that no one on a neighboring boat has seen this Keystone example of seamanship, we sheepishly row ashore.
We have several missions to accomplish in Boqueron: dining, phoning, and clearing (customs).
The first two we manage with ease.
Our hunger and our wives are satisfied.
Clearing customs, we have been told, can be done by phone.
The alternative is to head many hours out of our way (by sea or car) to Mayaguez where we might clear in person.
Only two things stand in our way: coins of the correct denomination, and a phone.
A few overpriced purchases later, we have the coins, but only failed attempts at getting through
on the few phones that we find in Boqueron proper.
At least, we think the attempts have failed.
John's Spanish is the best of the group, but not much to write home about.
We think that we manage to get Mayaquez customs on the phone,
and we think that we may have conveyed the proper information--names, passport numbers, boat and registration, etc.
Still, for exercise and to make a better attempt, we walk toward the outskirts of town, try a few more phones,
seem to get reasonable traction, and finally give up having made the old college try.
A final note on Boqueron.
Our guidebook assures us that we are in fact in a resort town.
Perhaps I have been spoiled by a honeymoon at the Bitter End in the British Virgin Islands, but,
"I know resort towns, and Boqueron, you are no resort town."
Exercised and fed, we make our way back to the boat uneventfully and call it a night.
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