Day 5: Monday, November 17, 1997
We awake and prepare for our second (and longer) major crossing.
As with the first one, we will always be in sight of land (either Mona behind or DR ahead),
but the connection to terra firma seems a tenuous one.
The wind is light and accompanied by rain.
We spend a lot of time mezmerized by the GPS and its inability to lock on to a solid signal.
John's repaired compass provides a reassuring backup, serving at times as our only means of direction finding.
Somewhere along the way,
John breaks out the fishing gear and goes to work.
It's not long before there's a tug and then a jerk on the line,
and it's not one that got away--we've got pictures to prove it.
A day without authority is like a day without sunshine.
No sun, but plenty of authority, and we've got pictures to prove that as well.
Probably a different Coast Guard cutter,
and this time the elect not to board or even speak to us.
Good thing they didn't check the dinghy--its pontoons are filled with helium,
and we've been high on whippets the entire time!
We soon spot the Dominican Republic on the island of Hispaniola (motto: we're not all Haiti).
As we get closer, we again get the effect of the receding island.
Finally, we can see features on the shore enough to spot the various resorts.
We are headed for Resort Punta Cana (or something to that effect), but there is also a Club Med nearby.
When we reach the channel markers, we can almost feel the ground beneath our feet.
A few short minutes later, we are tied to the dock and no longer seafarers.
Our greeting party grows from a few dockhands to the head of the marina to a bevy of customs officials.
Apparently, there are different officials for different reasons: the boat, the human cargo, the fruits, AND the
vegetables.
By way of security, the officials are joined by several intimidating-looking men with sawed off shotguns.
It is unclear whether the security is for us or against us--if the Airforce, Navy, and Coast Guard have radioed ahead,
most likely the latter.
If it weren't happening for real, I would have bet for sure that we were watching a low budget B-movie.
We pay a number of entry fees that we are sure will be shortly headed for the capitol of Santo Domingo and the
public coffers.
Yeah, that's the ticket.
We offer our leftover provisions to the dockhands, who at first accept but then under the watchful eyes of their
"management" decline.
A few winks and nods, and we "agree" to leave the goods in a cardboard box next to the boat.
Like an appliance on a suburban curbside or a gift-wrapped package on the seat of a car in the city,
the box is gone in the blink of an eye.
Our only concern is that the influx of Dinty Moore and Ramen hasn't somehow violated the Prime Directive.
The quickness of divesting ourselves of our leftovers is matched only by the slowness of clearing customs.
More than anything, we want showers, food, and alchohol, not necessarily in that order.
Once the marina activities are in order, we get a golf cart ride to our mini villa.
John and I will be staying the night, but Tony is off on an afternoon plane.
With showers taken and Tony sent, we begin our quest for food.
Warm, and in quantity, and not without libation for company.
We find an all-you-can-eat buffet for dinner, which given our appetites is clearly a losing
proposition for the resort.
We win.
A few rum drinks later, and we turn in for the evening.
For the first night in a while, the motion of our sleeping spots is imagined and not real.
|
