A Sail of Two Idiots (24 page)

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.

D
ominican 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.

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!

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
grande
s. 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.

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.