Puerto Rico Arrival

As we were approaching the Puerto Rican coast, another Canadian vessel hailed us and suggested we go straight to Mayagüez, the official port of entry before heading to Boquerón. He told us we’d have to pay for a taxi to and from Mayagüez, as well as a taxi to and from Boquerón for the customs agents.

The customs office in Mayagüez is at the ferry dock. The enormous ferry, which carries 1,000 passengers and 200 cars, does several trips a week to Santo Domingo, DR. It’s an 11-hour trip each way. In consequence, the ferry dock is in no way petit. It has massive truck tires as bumpers. Poor little Django got rather battered as a west wind forced us into these hardened monsters. As we were trying to sort out our bow spring and stern line and whatnot, a uniformed official came sauntering down the dock. We were more or less organized by the time he arrived to tell us the offices closed at 4 p.m. It was 4:15.

We left dock and headed down to Boquerón. The wind was fair and we were able to sail some of the distance. Within a couple of hours were arrived and dropped anchor in the beautiful Bahía de Boquerón.

Cruisers prepare for customs clearance

In the morning (Friday, April 11), we heard Marie-Galante hailing the Boquerón Yacht Club. We had met Richard and Lucie in Georgetown and tried to contact them. We were unable to do so, but did get a call from Sue on Unchained, who had sailed much of the Luperón–Mona Passage with Marie-Galante. After much back and forth from various of their fleet, we ended up being included in a van run to Mayagüez for customs clearance. There were Ray and Irene from C Drifters (UK), Sue and Bill from Unchained (US), Gary and Sharon from Gabridash (US), Han and Catrina from Esperanza (Netherlands), Richard and Lucie from Marie-Galante (Canada), and us. We met at the dinghy dock in Boquerón, a tiny, scenic, bustling tourist town by an almost surreally tropical beach—long, blue water, waving palm trees.

I said, “Buenas dias” to our driver, Raul. “Hiya,” he said. After two minutes of his astonishing Brooklyn accent, I figured out he must be one of the “Nuyoricans” about whom I’d been reading. He had arranged his van and another car for our transport. It was about a 20-minute drive through a landscape that told us clearly how much better off the Puerto Ricans are than the Dominicans.

At the customs house, we filled in masses of paper, had our passports taken and inspected for ages, stood about, sat down, milled, grumbled. The four Americans were cleared well ahead of us, but had to wait for one more couple to make the cut. Richard and Lucie were the winners. The six losers did more milling, sitting, standing, etc. while the customs officials examined our passports as though they might explode at any moment. To entertain us while we waited, an agricultural inspector told us we must seal all our garbage and treat as hazardous waste anything not purchased in the US or Puerto Rico. Oh yes. That was going to happen. We nodded with deep sincerity.

Finally, the deed was done and we were shipped back to Boquerón. The clam and oyster tables had been set up in our absence. All along the streets, little plywood booths sport stacks of shellfish, limes and hot sauce. WW ordered us a plate each of clams and oysters, which were opened as we watched. They were wonderful. Sweet and succulent. Then we headed back to Django to drop off our important documents and prepare for dinner ashore with the cruising gang.