Moving the Yardarm

We were going to head over to Tortola on Tuesday, May 13, but I had to go ashore first to visit a shrine, handily located on White Beach.

The Soggy Dollar Bar is so named because of all the cruisers who have, at one time or another, leapt from their boats and swum ashore for a drink, producing soggy dollars from soggy pockets. It is also the home of the Painkiller, a smooth and sweet concoction of dark rum, pineapple and orange juices, coconut milk, and Grenadian nutmeg.

We took Boffo in and hauled her up the beach, WW saying that the tide was ebbing (that's going out, for those that don't know).

The Soggy Dollar Bar

We wandered down the beach and into the SDB, where I shopped for and purchased some memorabilia. Then I informed WW we had to have a drink.

Now, both of us were raised with a clear understanding that you don't take alcohol until the sun is past the yardarm. In other words: the midpoint of it's travel across the heavens. In other words: noon. It was 10:30 a.m. WW stared at me. "No," was all he said.

I said, "Well, I'm having one. You can't come to the SDB and not have a drink."

In the end, he ordered a Bloody Mary. They didn't do a Blood Caesar, so I ordered a Painkiller. WW likes things spicy; he puts hotsauce where it was never meant to go. His drink just about had smoke pouring out of his ears. Mine was delicious and very very smooooth. After he'd finished his, he had a few sips of mine...to kill the pain.

WW at the Soggy Dollar Bar bar

We left the bar and went back along the beach. Suddenly WW broke into a sprint. That ebb tide was, in fact, a rising tide. Boffo was off again. She really does like to make her own way about. WW caught her, I told her she was naughty, we hopped aboard and were soon back on Django. With Boffo back on her davits and, thus, unlikely to make another dash for freedom, we dropped our mooring and set off for Road Town, Tortola.

Jost, White Beach, and Gertrude's

We had to motor in towards St. Thomas, around Inner Brass Island, in order to have the wind in a quarter that would allow us to sail into Great Harbour on JVD. We arrived at midafternoon.

Reed's is a series of information books for cruisers. It's 2008 Caribbean volume says the anchorage at Great Harbour is not very good, being largely rock. We learned this to be true. We tried to set the anchor five times. It finally held...sort of. WW hastened ashore to clear customs and immigration, leaving me with a radio in case Django dragged. When he returned, he announced we'd be moving. He said he wouldn't get a wink of sleep if we tried to stay there.

I thought he meant we'd sail over to Tortola and wasn't too happy. I really wanted to visit JVD. WW then clarified: he just wanted to sail to a bay we'd seen on our way in. White Beach, just west of Great Harbour, is beautiful. It's protected by reefs, but a clearly marked channel takes you in. Best of all, it has moorings. Half an hour later, we were settled in at a nice, reliable mooring and working on our RPs.

WW went ashore to explore a bit and returned saying we'd better go to dinner at once since things were set to close in a couple of hours. We went to Gertrude's. That's where I realized we'd arrived in the West Indies. Gone the Spanish, gone the Latino look; here were sing-song English and Caribbean black in all their glory.

Gertrude turned out to be a large, formidable woman. She sat behind the bar and took our orders. First we wanted prices.

"Everything is $25," she said. "The lobster is $45 or $50. Wine is $30 for a bottle."

A simple price list if, I thought, rather inflated. WW ordered grilled mahi mahi and I ordered a shrimp roti. I went to the bar for a bottle of white wine. Gertrude handed it over with the corkscrew. I said, "If I do a good job, will you hire me?" She gave me a look, then said, "Sure."

The food was delicious. We were both blown away by it. After we'd eaten, I went back to Gertrude. "You know," I said, "When you told me your prices, I thought you were nuts. But now I've tasted the food, I take it all back."

She almost smiled.

Grief and Forgiveness

Monday, May 12, was not a great day.

We sailed from Dewey at about 6 a.m., headed for the British Virgin Islands. We had decided to give St. Thomas a pass as even cruisers didn't have much to say for it. It's reported to be great if you need to shop, but very commercial. I thought the main city's name, Charlotte Amalie, was rather beautiful, but got over it when I heard a cruiser on the radio pronounce it like Charlotte O'Malley. So, we decided our next stop would be Jost Van Dyke where we'd clear customs and immigration into the BVI.

We had a fair wind and, as usual, a beautiful sunny day. I think the last time we'd had any real rain was back in the DR. The wind was blowing 18 to 20 kts, but only just allowed us to steer the course toward St. Thomas and, beyond it, Jost. We were making 7 kts which is what WW requires to fish, so over went our lure and a length of 65-lb test.

In this area, all the islands are so close you can see them from each other. We sailed up the east side of Culebra, past the many small offshore cays where snorkelling is said to be wonderful. We could see Sail Rock off our starboard side. It looks remarkably like...a sail. It's out in the middle of nowhere. One can only wonder.

The sail was going splendidly. We were slashing along. Then a fish struck. I looked back and saw the line fly through the air. I thought, "Uhoh, it's big if it can jump that high." Then I realized what a terrible thing had happened. We'd caught a bird. A big, brown, desperate, terrified seabird who had innocently gone after our lure. I will not go into details. We cut it free, but the odds are very much against its having survived.

With apologies for the language, it's epitaph, from me, was, "O God. It's fucked."

WW gave the Amen with, "Yes."

We were shocked, horrified. I can't describe the guilt, shame, and pain I felt. I banned fishing and WW agreed (for a time). The day remained light and bright, but I couldn't stop thinking about that poor bird. We didn't even know what kind it was. We'd seen laughing gulls, pelicans, brown boobies, terns, petrels...it was none of those.

We sailed on, the wind rising to over 20 kts as we started between Dutchman's Cap and Cockroach Cay. Suddenly, we were joined by about 10 birds, flying in our lee, getting a bit of respite from the blow. We looked at each other in something between horror and joy. They were the same type of bird as the one we had caught. Red-footed boobies in their brown phase (they also have a white phase). They soared around us, dove feet-first into our wake after whatever we'd churned up, zipped and zinged around our mast, tucked themselves in by the jib for a glide. My indispensable bird book says they are "abundant near remote roosting and nesting islands", of which Dutchman's Cap and Cockroach Cay are probably examples.They were, like those earlier swallows, almost close enough to touch. They stayed with us for several minutes, until we were too far from their roosting/nesting cays, I guess. It was really thrilling to share the wind with them for those few minutes.

I looked at WW and said, "It feels like a kind of forgiveness."

He agreed.

Addenda

Before we leave the Spanish Virgin Islands, I need to mention a couple of things I forgot in my original posts.

First, when we came back to Django after our walk at Punta Arenas on Vieques, we found the boat had been enthusiastically squatted by about a half dozen bank swallows. They seemed quite astonished when we came paddling up. They swooped and dove around us. When we were out of the boat, a few flew off, but two or three remained. WW stood on the afterdeck, holding out is hand. I swear, it looked several times as though one of them would land on it. It was amazing. WW said he'd never been so close to a wild bird. They were mere inches away; it was quite wonderful.

The other thing I should mention, before we leave Culebra, Dewey, and the Dinghy Dock Restaurant is the tarpons. These are great huge muscular fish, apparently great fighting fish for fisherfolk, but not much for the fine dining group. Our table was right beside the water, with Boffo tied nearby. At least a dozen tarpons hang out there every night, waiting for the fish slops from the kitchen and, of course, from the restaurants patrons. They are rather finicky. They want fish--none of this hamburger, fries, or steak crap--it's got to be fish. So other, smaller fish hang out and wait for the stuff the tarpons don't want. However, none of them are too keen on fries. But that's OK, because the bats will take those; they dart in and grab them from the water's surface. It's better than...well, TV anyway.

In Grenada

This is just to let you all know that we are alive and well and anchored in The Lagoon at gorgeous St. George's in Grenada. Which means I'm all uncaught up again. Bah.

More later.

Culebra

We left early the next morning and sailed back along the south coast of Vieques to the western tip, Punta Arenas. We kayaked in and went for a walk, hoping the find the boardwalk around the Kiani Lagoon, but I think we went the wrong way.

It was very hot. We saw a Puerto Rican woodpecker high in a coconut palm. Later, at the side of the lagoon, we saw a stilt and maybe an American oystercatcher. It was big, black-and-white, had the right sort of voice, but was gone before I could nail it down. I’m reasonably sure it wasn’t another stilt because of its call. We also saw a kingbird building her nest, tucking a long bit of dry grass into the structure.

We gave up on finding the boardwalk and went back to the kayaks, thence to Django. We dropped our mooring and set on the three-hour crossing to Culebra. We anchored in Ensenada Honda (Deep Cove) by the only town: Dewey. Culebra is much like Vieques. The bar culture is alive and well, it’s a cruiser stop, the people are almost comatose they are so laid back. Shop times are not to be trusted because a shop keeper may not feel like it today.

We took Boffo in to the dinghy dock, which was very high, and wandered the streets. We found a supermarket, a bank with an ATM, the ferry dock, and an ice cream shop. The woman showed us the laminated sheet with photos of her wares. I asked for three that she said she didn’t have, then finally settled for a coconut ice. And delicious it was.

We sat on a pier and watched pelicans. We were joined by a fellow who talked amiably with WW before asking to borrow a cell phone to call his mother for Mother’s Day next day.

We bought our provisions and went back to Django. That evening, we dined at the Dinghy Dock Restaurant. So sensible. Just pull up in your dinghy, tie her to a cleat, get out, and eat.

The next morning, we saw that Calypso had arrived. After lunch, we went over and were about to pull away as she was so quiet, when we heard MaryAnne calling, “I seeeeee you!”

We had wanted to go ashore for dinner with them that evening, but they had caught a 10-lb black-tailed tuna and were going the sashimi route. So we joined them at Mamacita’s, another resto on a dinghy dock, and had a glass of wine while they ate. The waitress took a photo which I’ll post when I can get the camera to talk to the computer.

That evening, we went to Mamacita’s for dinner, but a big, smelly, noisy motor cruiser was blocking the view and the breeze. Despite a 10-foot maximum rule, apparently some boats are more equal than others. We ended up heading back to the Dinghy Dock Restaurant.

Sing Along

We were back at our Esperanza mooring on Friday morning. We spent a lazy day doing nothing much of anything. WW determined that the propane leak was in the gauge. He now turns the propane on only when we need it.

We snorkelled around the shore side of the little island, watching corals doing their thing and fish darting about; swimming through clouds of little glittering golden fishies. WW saw a grouper and a turtle. Hawksbill turtles come to Vieques to breed and lay their eggs (their protection is another VCHT mission). I saw a grunt catch a small crab and bash it to death on the rocks and coral.

That evening, we headed in to Esperanza for a burger at Bananas before our night of song. At the dinghy dock, we were met by Davy and a man he introduced as “my brother Keith”. We talked with Keith, a very nice guy originally from Michigan, as we made our way along the strip. He headed off to sit at the stall where he and his girlfriend Consuela sell candles covered in Vieques beach glass. We went across the street for our dinner.

A truck arrived with a drum set. Davy said one of the cymbals was worth a thousand dollars. The owner of the drum set Martín drove away. Davy attempted to put the set together. Later, Martín returned and corrected the set up. A kid played on Keith’s guitar. Then he played the drums. Things were slow starting. Davy went down the street to get another guitar for WW. We had another beer. Consuela and I chatted; she told me about her plans to make beach glass and shell jewelry. WW played a small, skin-covered wooden drum along with the kid drumming. Various people came and played the drums with more or less aptitude. One skinny little fellow who looked about 12 (he is, in fact, 21) was outstanding. An assortment of items to be rattled, shaken, beaten, or thumped appeared. WW and Keith got guitars. The one Davy brought was pretty terrible. We played and sang some Dylan, The Band, folk songs, Trailer for Sale or Rent, whatever…then it was back to drumming. Martín, rather the worse for drink, was enticed to play his drums. An electric bass guitar and amplifier had put in an appearance. Then there was no electricity because the woman with the extension cord was leaving. So Davy borrowed it from her before she could get away. Consuela was looking put out because Davy was making her and Keith drive the drum set home, “…and they won’t stop till after midnight,” she said. Consuela told me Martín is a very good jazz drummer but has a wee problem with the drink and loses his touch when under the influence. He played very briefly and very well, then left. Soon after, I pried WW off his current drum and we set off for Django. It had been a great deal of fun.

Night Lights

We went in to Esperanza for dinner and met Davy again. He seems to be a waterfront fixture. His introduction includes a great deal about having been in the navy, being a master diver, something about the CIA, stuff about being in Panama for the Noriega period, etc. Rather a ramble, really. He put in his moorings himself and says they are screwed 7 feet into the ocean bed. He does a lot of free diving too, and he fishes. He generally defines the sort of water rat character: hard-drinking, easy-going, and reliable if you get him when he’s not too pissed (say 9 a.m.).

Somehow music came up and, when he heard that WW plays guitar, he got all keen to set up a pick-up session with the brilliant musicians he knows. We said it sounded like fun but that WW’s guitar wasn’t going to be able to participate since it has nylon strings. He said he’d get a guitar for him too. When he came to pick up the propane tank the next morning, he’d forgotten all about it, but it came back to him quickly. He said he’d get on it. At about noon, we met him at the dinghy dock on his way to deliver the filled tank, and said the hootenanny wheels had been set in motion. The get-together would be on The Strip, the next evening, starting at about 8.

We, meantime, went to visit the tiny museum run by the Vieques Conservation and Historical Trust (VCHT). Very good, for such a small enterprise. And the smallest aquarium in the world…a half dozen tanks with local sea critters that are returned to the sea after a spell of high visibility.

We had used one night of our mooring and planned to spend the second at it on Friday. For Thursday, we had another place to go. We motored a mile or two east along the south coast and found moorings at the entrance to Mosquito Bay. An arm of the sea, about a quarter of a mile long, extends inland and opens out into a huge oval bay of about a mile by a mile and a half. Our mooring was between breakers on a coral reef and breakers on a rocky coast. Django rocked and rolled. We got Lady and Tramp ready to go. Actually, *I* got them ready, launching them single-handedly. It was, I believe, at this point that I was promoted to next-to-last mate.

After supper, we took our paddles and made our way up towards the bay. The shores were lined with mangroves and sea grass grew in the water along the edges. At one point, I was alarmed by and alarmed a ray snoozing in the shallow water. It flapped away, churning up lots of bottom and angst, then got entangled in the sea grass. I finally realized its only way out was toward me, so I moved and it shot away.

We paddled around Mosquito Bay for a long time, watching the sunset, watching the light die from the sky. Listening to the bird song peter out as they tucked themselves in. White-crowned pigeons flapped slowly away. Crabs clanked in the mangroves. Then it was dark. The mangroves were faint outlines against the sky. We dipped our paddles into fire. Light flared as fish jumped. Light flashed as water dripped from our paddles. Our wakes were made of fire. Fire shone through the kayaks’ drainage holes. Fish looked like meteors as the darted through the water.

Mosquito Bay has the highest concentration of dinoflagellates—the miniscule creatures that create bioluminescence—anywhere in the world. They appear only after full dark, and start as a sort of floury sprinkling that intensifies until it becomes almost blindingly brilliant. We spent some time paddling about, revelling in the light. It is protection of the bioluminescent bays and coral reefs that are driving goals of the VCHT.

Then we headed back to Django, the light diminishing as we moved down to the sea, until we put on the Ginny headlamps, and made our way to our vessel, where we pitched about till morning.

Monkeyshines and Davy

We raised our genny then our mainsail. The wind was only about 8 knots, but picked up to 15 or so later. We were sailing! We switched off both engines and flew up the coast of PR, making as much as 6.5 to 7 knots in some of the gusts. It was no time before we spotted Cayo Santiago.

Cayo Santiago is a pretty little island lying a mile off the eastern coast of PR. At first sight, there’s nothing to distinguish it from the hundreds of other pretty little islands. However, back in 1938, the Smithsonian and Columbia University turned it into a top-notch research laboratory. Aside from a few buildings, the principal new introduction to the island was 500 Rhesus monkeys. They have been living free on the island’s 39 acres ever since and now number some 1,200 monkeys.

We sailed as close as we could and ogled at monkeys through binoculars. There is an anchorage, but we wanted to be on our way. Had we stopped and dropped Boffo, we might have got much closer. The island is closed to the public as the monkeys can be quite aggressive. I have a photo of a brown dot on a beach, and of a brown dot walking along the beach. So, ultimately, not a particularly noteworthy experience, but one still worth having. Especially given the lovely sail that took us there.

Here be monkeys.

After we’d ogled for a bit, we set course for Vieques, about 18 miles away. Vieques and Culebra are the Spanish Virgin Islands, the next step on our explorations. Our readings told us they had attracted a lot of ex-pat Americans of the most laid-back variety. Don’t be in a rush for anything. It sounded delightful.

We had to motor part of the way across, but angled ourselves so we got a nice sail into Esperanza, the settlement on the south side of Vieques. It consists of a row of shops and stalls along the waterfront—The Strip—and some homes and the odd shop on the few streets inland. The main town of Vieques is Isabella Segunda, on the north shore. One woman we spoke to called going there, “going to town”, so Esperanza is considered a suburb, I suppose.

Vieques hit the news big time back in 1999. The residents had been trying for years to get the U.S. Navy to stop using the east end of the island, part of Camp Garcia, for target practice. Then, in 1999, a viequense civilian guard, David Sanes Rodriguez, was killed when two big bombs went astray. Locals say the fellow in charge of the test had left the room for a smoke. The outrage was nothing to what had gone before and a huge media campaign drew international attention. In 2003, the U.S. Navy withdrew from Vieques. Now the only personnel are those working to remove all the “unexploded ordnance”. The job is expected to be finished in 2013.

We arrived in the Puerto Real bay off Esperanza at about 2 p.m. We were delighted to see moorings. We picked up one across the bay from The Strip, near a tiny island. We had a post-crossing swim, where WW introduced me to my first barracuda (I kept the hand with the bracelet behind my back). Later, when we were mucking about onboard, we heard the sound of a small outboard…a dinghy was approaching. The skinny, long-haired, blond, 50-something guy driving introduced himself as Davy. It was a mooring he had put in. He wanted $20 for two nights. He was also willing to schlep water to us in 6.5 (US)-gallon jugs. And he undertook to take our propane tank and get it filled. All for a sum, of course, but we were pleased to be getting any water or propane at all.

The Coast of PR

We were up at 5:30 and cast off about a half hour later. We motored the 20 miles to Salinas, reputed to be a great cruisers’ hangout.

We arrived about noon. The large protected bay was a sea of masts. We found a mooring. My first attempt at catching a mooring was not a thing of beauty. For one thing, I hadn’t worn gloves. Mooring balls generally have a second float that you snag with your boathook, then pull up to get to the bit that attaches to the real mooring. All the lines live in the water and are, in consequence, coated with slime, seaweed, shells, and (nastiest of all) barnacles. Barnacles hurt…they give you multiple tiny paper cuts. Just add salt water… At any rate, we got the deed done on our third attempt and found ourselves nestled between a monohull moored to port and a pair of royal terns in full breeding finery to starboard. They spent a great deal of time there, preening and nattering. I hope they don’t plan to try it as a nesting site.

We decided to go in for dinner and took Boffo in to the marina’s dinghy dock. The adjacent hotel had an outdoor bar where we (foolishly) ordered possibly the worst wine of our entire voyage. That’s really saying something; ask my sister. A rather drunk woman came up to the bar and introduced herself as Lynn. She invited us to sit at a table with her and her friends. We joined them after switching to rum. “O God, no!” she said, “Never stray from rum in these parts.”

We met Kathy and Ron from the good ship At Last, Lynn and Dennis from the yellow ketch (whose name I failed to catch), and Phil (wife Marianne absent) from the 42 Manta cat Calypso. Very nice people. We had a good chat then decided my oxtail stew probably trumped anything we could find in the village, and headed back to Django.

We raised anchor the next day (Tuesday, May 6) at 5:30 and sailed up protected water between a line of cays and the coast. Following us was Calypso. Eventually, the cays went away and we had to get out into the great wide sea. We turned to starboard and went through the Boca del Infierno. I choose to translate that as the Jaws of Hell. Reefs to the right of us, reefs to the left of us, reefs all around us volleyed and thundered. Actually, it was a bit of a nonevent. Light airs and an ebb tide. But I’ve been through the Jaws of Hell. Not everyone gets to do that.

Our next stop was Punta Patillas, about 20 miles from Salinas. Once again, we were there at about noon, but then fussed trying to find a good anchorage. Finally, after having our anchor alarm go off repeatedly (it let’s us know when we’ve moved more than 0.1 nm), WW dove down and set the anchor manually. Then he came up to discover all our propane had leaked out of our tank. We decided to barbecue.

Calypso was anchored upwind of us and we saw she was out of Prout’s Neck. When they passed by later to say hi, we learned they know the Smiths (Andrea, Tassy, Bobby/Howard, and Gordie). They couldn’t stay to chat as they were dining aboard another boat anchored with us. Their cruising plan was much like ours for the next bit, so we expect to see them from time to time.

The next morning, they had the drop on us and raised anchor at about 5:45; we were 30 minutes behind. The other boat, a monohull, left some time after us, but made far better time than we as we continued to bash into the Trade Winds and seas. At the southeast corner of PR, both the other boats headed down to Vieques. I had an island I wanted to see first and WW wanted to sail, so we left our convoy to head up the east coast of

Leaving Ponce

Before we had left for Montreal, I had put a small amount of bleach (less than ¼ cup) into each of our 40-gallon water tanks. WW swore up and down there was nothing wrong with the water; I swore up and down it was revolting, vile, and undrinkable. The chlorine did a great job and didn’t leave any taste after and hour or two. I ran the bleachy water through both our sink taps, to make sure the lines were all cleared out. From pong to pure! It was lovely. WW grumped on board saying he could smell the bleach halfway down the dock.

In preparation for our departure from Ponce, WW cleaned the water filter at the kitchen sink (a special hand pump provides drinking water), then decided my bleach treatment had worked so well, he’d repeat it. His notion was that, if a little worked, a lot would be better. The taps ran pure bleach for a while, then I filled the tanks with fresh water, hoping the bleach would be diluted sufficiently that my drinking water wouldn’t make me think “swimming pool.” Let’s just say, it helped, but it wasn’t a full cure.

Then I did laundry, swabbed inside, and hosed down the decks. In our absence, birds had clearly decided our boat was the perch of choice. WW had done a thorough job, but they’d been back.

I checked on the oxtail stew I was making. I had bought an entire jointed oxtail for $13 US at the warehouse. The beef here is tough as old nails, but very tasty. I had had this stew going for two days, off and on. In a nod to our location, it contained chunks of yautía (taro), cassava, chayote (also chocho or christophene), and West Indian pumpkin. It was amazing, and fed us several more dinners. For a special treat, I made WW dessert: bananas sautéed in butter, brown sugar, lime juice, and rum. He had the leftovers on his oatmeal two days running.

Well fed, we retired, ready to raise anchor bright and early, and head east along the south coast of PR

Water Water Everywhere

Preamble

It is rather hard to find wifi connections out here in the wilderness. Thus, I dump a load of bloggage whenever I find same. That’s my explanation and I’m sticking to it.


***********************

In reviewing my last few posts, I realize I was pretty peremptory about our water woes. I will enlarge.

On arrival in Ponce, after two weeks away from Django, we discovered the head (both room and throne) full of water. Before leaving, WW had switched off the sea cock to the head (the throne), then switched off the shower/bilge pump. Unfortunately, he hadn’t realized that the handle had stopped when it bumped into the floor and needed to be taken off, reattached, and pushed further. The shower/bilge pump sits in a box into which the shower water drains. The whole head (room) is the shower stall, with a drain in the floor (or sole, as we nautical types call them). The box had, of course, filled up and overflowed into the bilge. All sorts of interesting things got soaked. Which was fine since it was mostly stuff that had come with Django and that WW hadn’t had time to sort through. Much of it was rubbish and the bilge is now a less crowded, not to mention drier place.

Immediately after repairing that minor mess, WW discovered our water pump had packed it in. Perhaps I should explain how water on a boat works. We have a couple of big steel tanks in the bow that we fill with fresh water. We also have a water maker, but it isn’t hooked up. There is a little foot-operated pump at the kitchen sink that brings in sea water, but we’ve switched that off. Salt water is horrible stuff to have inside, corrodes everything, and many cruisers refuse to have it aboard. We’ve joined that philosophical set. The water pump brings water from whichever tank has been selected. This water goes to the kitchen, the head (sink and shower) and the outside shower (for rinsing off after swims and kayaks and so on). This pump was failing to work.

Of course, repairing it would involve hanging head down in a small storage area. That goes without saying. This was, however, in a particularly obnoxious location. Underneath the seats in the salon are little cubicles. Beneath the long bench, running the width of the salon behind the salon table, are two such spaces, separated by a partition. The port one contains our four batteries and their maintenance materials—a red plastic box holding a plastic water cup and distilled water. The starboard one contains our water pump and the doodad for switching between water tanks. So WW had to remove all the cushions, crawl under the table, and contort himself up, over, and down. I helped by bringing him stuff so he didn’t have to insert and extract himself too often.

The joys of DIY pump repairs

I will not go into too much detail. The pump is affixed to a bracket which is affixed to the partition. Unable to remove the pump from the bracket, the next plan was to remove the bracket from the mitoyen wall. This meant going into the battery area and removing the nuts from the bracket’s bolts. This meant removing the (well-jammed-in) red box and contents, and shifting the batteries the small distance they would move away from the wall. It also meant discovering WW’s hands were too big.

Enter the last mate! (Did I mention I was promoted?) I too inserted myself under the table. With instructions like “don’t drop the nuts…we’ll never get them back”, it was a tension-filled few minutes for me. Plink, plank, plunk, out came all three. I was congratulated. While WW detached the bracket and removed it and the pump to the cockpit, I established for myself that I could, in fact, reach the bottom of the compartment behind the batteries, should the need ever arise.

Next we cleaned all the bits of the pump, WW put it back together and reinstalled it. This involved my putting on the nuts on the battery side of things. It wasn’t easy, but we got the dratted thing in and…it ran! And ran and ran. WW thought maybe the wee pressure tank wasn’t holding pressure. Eventually, however, the pump pulled itself together and stopped running. Regardless, we weren’t too happy with the result and decided to see if we could find a replacement.

Amazingly, at the chandlery not far from our dock, WW located a new pump. I was shopping in the Puerto Rican equivalent of Costco; stocked up on canned milk and mayo and other necessities. WW found the wine and rum in the back. Looked like we could sail straight to Panama by the time we were done.

To install the new pump, we did all the same things described above with a few small exceptions. The red box didn’t have to come out. My delicate little hands were of infinite use (especially when the TCM dropped the only 8 mm spanner behind the batteries). The new pump worked lovely. And, after we’d put back all the cushions and pillows, I remembered that the table was adjustable and could have been raised several feet up.

Next time.

Back to Boating

We left Robin and his Family Cabins with regret. We had a map he had given us and we followed it up to a road clearly marked (in Spanish) “Danger. No entry” and words to that effect. Robin said it was bollocks. A drunk Norwegian had fallen from a dam and died, and the hydro company was worried about lawsuits. Right beside all these dire warnings and the large obstructing gate was a sign, “Bienvenido al parque nationale El Yunque.” We decided to believe that one.

We had a lovely wander along a road lined with bamboo, palm, water trickling down rocks, and, somewhere below us invisible in the undergrowth, the splash and chatter of a small river. WW hunted orchids, but bromeliads prevailed. The flowering season for endemic orchids is December to February, but an African interloper—a ground orchid—was flowering away. It was a lovely, if brief, ramble.

We had been given instructions on how to find some petroglyphs, but they relied on a fellow being at home to charge us for parking and show us his path. He wasn’t home, so we had to forgo that pleasure. It was back to the car and off to Ponce with us.

We pulled in shortly after noon, loaded ourselves and our belongings onto Django, and discovered a head full of water…the shower/bilge pump needed attention. That dealt with, WW learned the water pump was hors combat. While you’re breathing, your boat is breaking.

We are almost ready to leave. We have provisioned. The two of us have removed and replaced the water pump twice. The first time, it worked but not perfectly; the second time, it was a brand new water pump. WW has swabbed the decks. And I? I have caught up!

Coquí Means Loud

El Yunque is a tropical rainforest of some 28,000 acres, lying in the Luquillo mountains. WW was very keen to visit the area, since about 14 endemic species of orchid grow there, as well as some introduced species.

We had booked a cabin with Phillips Family Cabins and wended our way to the southern side of the rainforest, then headed into it. A tiny, steep, curved drive led up to the Phillips Family House. A sign said, “Bang Gong for Service.” The gong was a large, rusty, circular saw blade which WW duly banged.

WW following written instructions

A slender man appeared and introduced himself as Robin. He provided bedding and two electric lights. He said the cabin had a bed, some cups, a couple of knives, and a toilet. At this last, I felt much relieved. The guidebook says: “…there aren’t any amenities to speak of (other than fresh air, great views and absolute silence, save for rainforest noises).”

Robin told us the cabin was about a quarter mile away and 300 feet up. Then he led us to the trail head and marched up ahead of us, providing a running commentary on the flora and bird life. Originally from Massachusetts, he had always wanted to grow tropical fruit. He’d tried in Florida, but frost was a problem, so he moved to PR about 25 years ago. He pointed out his starfruit, breadfruit, mangos, bananas, plantains, and something called (I think) custard fruit that tastes like pumpkin cheesecake. We browsed on a clump of delicious local raspberries, with much finer seed segments than our big fat guys. We heard a loud squawking and Robin said it was a Puerto Rican lizard cuckoo which feeds by stabbing anole lizards with its long and pointy bill.

Roughing it in the Phillips Family Cabin in El Yunque

The cabin (and where the name Cabins comes from, I dunno) was a plywood room with a plywood porch mounted on a concrete base which housed a 2,000-gallon tank for collecting rainwater. This was connected to the outdoor tap and the outdoor toilet, which flushed down into a septic field. The toilet could only be flushed about once an hour as it took that long for its cistern to refill. Robin told us, if we found a frog in the loo, we were to flush it…it would be fine. It would just emerge from the septic field, none the worse for its experience.

The view from the balcony...our outdoor facilities.
Sans frog in this photo.

Robin made the bed and told us about the coquí. The bright green tree frog is much beloved on PR. It is a vociferous little bugger, with an output of 90 decibels. These were to be our neighbours overnight. “…absolute silence, save for rain forest noises…” Hah. And we aren’t talking two or three. If not hundreds, then many dozens. We ate our sandwiches, nibbled some cheese, drank a spot of vino, and headed to our frog-loud bed. It was incredible. I awoke from time to time, and would be almost instantly lulled to sleep by the splendid frog opera being sung a cappella all around. Occasionally, a moist “plop” would rouse me, and a soloist would lift his voice from our porch. As dawn came, the frogs dropped out of the chorus one by one, and feral roosters took up the theme, accompanied by a rich variety of bird song. Little anole lizards darted about. A green-throated carib hummingbird came to inspect us.

Old San Juan

We spent the night at a little inn on Isla Verde, east of Old San Juan. In the morning, we drove in and parked in a huge indoor lot just up from the ferry and cruise ship piers; the most trafficked port in the Caribbean. Then the Cruise Director marched us smartly through the “must-see” bits. (This was because we had booked a cabin in El Yunque and the cabin owner had said we couldn’t really get to it easily after dark—about which, more later.)

We went into La Casita to pick up a map, then past the gorgeous, ornate, and very pink La Aduana (customs house), and along the road beneath the walls of the old city. We passed La Princesa, formerly a prison, and took a long look at the Raíces fountain, supposedly commemorating the Indian, African, and Spanish heritage of the island. We couldn’t distinguish the groups…perhaps blending had already taken place.

We walked through the Puerta de San Juan, the only remaining gate through the city walls. As we entered, I noticed a sign saying it is absolutely forbidden to abandon or feed cats inside La Muralla. We saw why. Dozens of cats, all over the place, and feeders set out by anonymous hands. Apparently this is the PR version of the SPCA.

Old San Juan city walls

We headed for El Morro, at the western tip of the peninsula occupied by Old San Juan. In front of it is the broad green expanse of the Campo del Morro, and clearly a favourite spot for kite flying. The kites are commercial, not like the homemade wonders we saw in the Dominican Republic; and they don’t fly as high or as far.

Almost designed for kite flying...the vast expanse in front of El Morro.

The fort El Morro is very beautiful in a belligerent sort of way. Its walls, built in 1539, are 140 feet high and up to 15 feet thick. The fort itself took 200 years to build. It held off any number of serious onslaughts by the Dutch and English, and one can see how. We wandered about its six levels for a long time, enjoying the views and the history.

The view from El Morro

After El Morro, we had one stop we very much wanted to make: Museo de Casals. Pablo Casals was born in Barcelona, but his mother was a Puerto Rican from Mayagüez. He spent the last 17 years of his life in his mother’s house and considered himself a puertorriqueño. In the tiny museum, Casals music is played continuously. There were two displays at the time we visited. The ground floor held various citations, honours, awards, medals, commendations the great cellist had received. Beyond them was a room that normally houses his piano, chair, desk, and cello. The last was off being restored as it had suffered from humidity changes. Upstairs was a photo display from Casal’s performance for JFK in the White House in 1961, when he pleaded for help in ridding Spain of the Franco regime he so detested. He played a Catalán liberation song as a finale.

The young man who had collected our $0.54 US each as admission told us the architecture students at the neighbouring Escuela des Artes Plásticas had been given the museum as a project. They were going to redesign the interior (making sure the cello gets a special enclosure with its very own climate controls), as well as planning the building’s expansion. Señora Calas has many more items she is waiting to donate. All that’s needed is space.

We headed back toward the car, stopping for lunch on the way. I think tourists expect Mexican food, since that’s all we could find. Then we took the ferry, planning to visit the Bacardi factory. We crossed the bay, only to learn the factory was closed for two days. Darn.

We returned to the car and set off for El Yunque.

San Juan and Home

The drive to San Juan through the mountains was beautiful but tortuous. High in the rain forest, we found a restaurant perched on a peak with stunning views. We ate lunch, then wound our way down the northern slopes.

We needed to return the car and were trying to decided exactly how to manage everything. Our initial idea was to book a room in a nearby budget hotel, get up at 4 a.m., return the car, then catch the plane. I then suggested that we return the car, stay in the airport hotel, and have a slightly more leisurely morning (if more expensive night). WW agreed. So, we had to return the car.

Easier said than done. We followed the 4-years-out-of-date map Leaseway had given us. We found ourselves mired in darkest San Juanurbia. We asked directions. Things got worse. We asked more directions. Finally, WW took matters into his own hands and just drove where he thought it would be. He has an admirable sense of whereness. He is constantly doing things like this. I am staring at a map that clearly says “go right” and he opts for left and gets there. Very irritating. Needless to say, he found it minutes later. And a lucky thing too. When he told them he’d thought of returning the car next morning, they said they weren’t open at 4 a.m. Phew.

A nice Leaseway man drove us back to the airport where we booked in for the night. The next day we had a reasonably early (6:30 a.m.) start, but it wasn’t any 4 a.m. Thanks be.

Our plane arrived a little bit early in Newark and we saw an earlier flight to Montreal had been delayed. We ran over to the gate and managed to get on. Instead of arriving home at 6 p.m., we were off the plane at 12:30 p.m.

We stayed home until April 30, when we flew back to San Juan.

Tibes, a Stop on the Road

The drive to San Juan from Ponce—really, from just about anywhere to just about anywhere in PR—is a couple of hours. I had very much wanted to visit the Centro Ceremonial Indígena de Tibes. This archeological site is one of the few in the Caribbean which contains evidence of Taíno, Igneris, and other pre-Taíno cultures. We decided to go there, then drive through the central mountains to San Juan.

Nothing in PR seems to be on the beaten track. It was not easy finding Tibes, but when we did, it was immensely worth it. A wonderful small museum, complete with one of the 168 skeletons found buried on the site, and the only one removed. Curled into a fetal position (apparently in expectation of rebirth) and still embedded in the soil, it made a startling and sad exhibit. When we had toured the museum, we were taken to watch a film about the dig. Then we waited for our guide.

Unaccompanied entry into the site is strictly prohibited. Our guide Salvatore Mas eventually appeared; on his shaven head he wore a leather yarmulke. I was dying to ask how he kept it on…but I never had the guts.

We were joined by a young man who spoke fluent Spanish but chose to be in the less crowded inglese group. We later learned he was a Mayan archaeologist, originally from Mexico, studying at Waterloo. Led by Sal, we crossed over a gated bridge and he began the tour by introducing us to a number of native trees that provide all manner of food and useful by-products. One particularly fascinating tree sprouts round gourds out the side of its branches. These the Indians would cut in half, clean out and dry, to make sturdy, lightweight bowls.

A gourd tree at Tibes

In the midst of this botanical exegesis, a horde of puertorriqueños came pouring over the bridge and started wandering about, with no guide at all. Sal became very agitated. “Someone’s going to get in trouble,” he said. He trotted back to the main building to find the group an escort. They didn’t seem to understand why he wasn’t good enough. We visited a replica village of the palm frond huts of the Indians, followed by this horde. Sal looked on the verge of explosion. Shortly after, however, we linked up with a small Spanish tour, and Sal dumped his unwanted party on that guide.

Palm frond hut

Then we proceeded to the bateyes or ball courts where a ceremonial ball game had been played and beneath which, the dead were buried. In the largest bateye, in the exact centre, was a stone. It marked the burial place of the chief’s son.

One of the bateyes

Carved into some of the stones around the edges of these ball courts were petroglyphs, including one of a bat, the messenger of death.

Petroglyph

On the farthest part of the site was an enormous compass, with stones laid into the soil to form triangles indicating the cardinal points and 30-degree intervals. Pretty sophisticated stuff.

Ancient compass

At this point, Sal bade us adíos and said with a grin, “Listen to the Jew. Hang on to your money.”

Exploring Ponce

The Ponce Yacht and Fishing Club is located on a spit of land to the southeast of the city centre. Just in from the Club is La Guancha, a boardwalk that features lots of local artisans, snack bars, tourist crap, and incredibly loud salsa particularly on Friday and Saturday nights. It is a draw for tourists and locals alike. We had visited it on our first night in Ponce. It fairly vibrated with life.

Next on the agenda (WW has a very demanding Cruise Director) was a visit to the old town and a search for fuel filters, our supply being low. At a chandlery, we finally got a PR courtesy flag. I really wasn’t happy about flying the U.S. flag, although it is, strictly, correct. Our search for fuel filters, though lengthy, was not so successful. In the end, WW ordered some in Canada to be delivered, along with charts and courtesy flags, to the yacht club.

We had noticed the Museo de la Música Puertorriqueña across the street from our restaurant. WW was very keen to visit it, so it was our first stop. It was, alas, closed. So we visited the excellent Museo de la Historia de Ponce, then headed for the central Plaza des Delicias. On the way, we stopped in at a music store where WW informed himself about the cuatro, a 10-stringed instrument like a miniguitar, but plucked like a mandolin, never strummed. The cuatros were priced at $120 US. The salesman explained that they are mass-produced. A really good cuatro will start at about $500 but they can’t be sent back to North America because they crack without the high humidity.

We wandered around the central plaza looking for a place to have lunch. It is here that Ponce’s extraordinary old Parque de Bombas (fire hall) is to be found. Constructed in the Arabian style and painted in vivid red and black stripes, it was built in 1882 as part of an agricultural exhibit and operated as a fire house till 1990. It is now a museum dedicated to Ponce’s many fires and firefighters.

After lunch on the square, we went to the Nueva Plaza del Mercado, full of fresh produce that had my mouth watering. However, since we were leaving for San Juan the next day, we bought none. I have been having a slight back problem and WW was determined to find a curandero to prescribe a charm that would realign my astral energies. My natural reticence restrained him.

On our way back to the car, WW popped into the music shop again. He and the salesman sat and noodled on cuatros. There was a cuatro in a bag on his back when we left the store.

On our return to the boat, we met Sharon and Gary from Gabridash. They had sad news: Bill (of Bill and Sue on Unchained) was in the hospital. His amoebic dysentery had not responded to treatment and they suspected it might be something else. On top of which, he needed his gallbladder removed. That surgery was not to happen until they had determined the source of his intestinal complaint.

Bath Time

WW had spent a few minutes every day going to the yacht club office to see if a rental car was available. He finally gave up on getting the special deal through the Yacht Club and took a taxi to Leaseway to pick one up. While he was gone, I bundled up the laundry.

We needed the car for a number of reasons, not least being to carry us to San Juan and our flight home in two days’ time. Also, in my readings I had told WW about Coamo. Aside from being the principal chicken-processing centre of PR, it also boast baños (baths) fed by thermal springs. For those of you unaware, WW has a complete thing about hot springs. We had to go to Ax-les-thermes in France; we had to go to Coamo in PR.

We dropped the laundry off at a place that does everything except the part where you put it into the washer with detergent. We had to pick up our three washersful before 5 p.m. We took off to Coamo.

The baths proved a bit difficult to find. We had expected a sign screaming out an announcement of their whereabouts. Well, there was a sign. I think it was about 4x6 inches. Anyway, after a deal of backing and forthing, we arrived at a parking area. A tree by its edge was responsible for a regular cacophony of screeches and squawks. Closer investigation revealed a nesting colony of cattle egret with ridiculous fuzzy babies dotted about the branches.

A tree full of baby egrets

We followed a road down and along below a small inn with a swimming pool, where children were having a great and boisterous time. Then we followed a little rise and, behold! Three levels of thermal bath, the topmost and hottest featuring water at 110F. We went hunting for a place to change and finally tucked ourselves into some bushes above and back from the baths. Later we would learn that there was a changing room, disguised as a shed connected to a locked cement structure.

WW in the middle bath

Your blogger in the hottest bath...feeling faintly lobsterish

The bathing was lovely. Recommendations say no more than 15 minutes, then a breather. It’s not as though you have much choice; we’re talking hot water. Various people, young and old, were making use of the baths. One elderly fellow seemed to be giving himself a cure. He hobbled from one end to the other of the deepest pool, making determined circuits and looking pained. We chatted with a few of the people, then, after soaking up all those tiny ppms of hydrochloric acid and sulphuric acid and carbonic acid (it’s a wonder we had any skin left), we headed back to Ponce, our laundry, and Django.

That evening, WW decided we should go to an upscale restaurant for dinner. He wanted a steak. So we settled on Rincón Argentino. I had read that parking would be tough in the old town, so we parked on the extreme outskirts. After walking many blocks in the dying daylight and seeing miles of parking spots, we returned to the car. The blocks we had walked were not ones we would happily do late at night. We parked a block from the restaurant.

The steaks were amazing. WW ordered rib steak and I ordered a small filet, for about $22 US, including two side dishes. My steak was just about a perfect 3-inch square, done to rare perfection. The one thing it wasn’t was small. There was live music performed by a man singing at a bandoneon (kinda like an accordion), who later accompanied himself on guitar; he was also very good. He played some Piazzolla, one of WW’s favourite composers. A perfect end to a sulphurous day.

Ponce

The next day, we headed off to Ponce (pronounced PON-say), named for the Spanish explorer and conquistador Ponce de Leon. There are a lot of lions in Ponce…statues, banners, decorative details. The ponceños are inordinately proud of their city, which they call La Perla del Sur (the pearl of the south).

Our passage there was uneventful. WW and I stood on deck and watched the sea. Flying fish are always good for a laugh. I can’t help chuckling whenever I seem them panic through the air. Outside Ponce, at one of the cans marking the shipping channel, a group of large porpoises came to check us out. We weren’t big enough, I think; they wanted real ships.

We made our way into the Ponce Yacht and Fishing Club basin where we fuelled up, bought ice, and WW went to sign us in. Our reservation was for the next day, but the space was available. We were delighted to see Unchained, Gabridash, and Marie-Galante 2 had all arrived safely and were docked here too.

We had arrived at a place where water was free…a pleasant change from $0.50 or more per gallon. I scrubbed the deck and did some laundry. Richard dropped by and invited us to Marie-Galante for drinks that evening. I said I’d bring the fixings for RP. We snoozed and pottered until then.

On Marie-Galante, we learned it was Lucie’s birthday. We toasted her with RPs that were very well received. Then Richard pulled out the Bacardi 151 he’d picked up on their visit to the factory. Yep, that’s 151 proof. It requires water. It requires lying down and avoiding. We were pretty chipper by the time we left them to their fondue birthday dinner.

We made an early night of it, which was just as well, since we awoke to discover that, while we were sleeping, Django was breaking. The fridge had expired. I threw away lots of food while WW pondered. Then he dove headfirst into the Disaster Hole…that’s the doorless locker to starboard just inside the hatchway to the salon. Here we throw flares, bosun’s chair, rum, shoes, life jackets, come-along, binoculars…the bric-a-brac of boating life. Behind its back panel lay access to…the fridge.

WW got things loosened up and wires figured out. I supported the fridge while he used his little multimeter to test things. It took a while, so I balanced a book on top of the fridge and read while he metered and muttered. When so instructed, I helped him reinsert the fridge. Eureka! A miracle cure…and one for which WW had spent almost no time head down!

Once WW fixes something, he’s on a roll. He goes on to deal with other minor annoyances. He made the solar fan in our berth work properly…by opening it. He also found the manual for the fans and learned the batteries can be replaced. So industrious.

Into the Caribbean Sea

Because the wind grows steadily stronger over the course of the day, we try to get our sailing/motoring into it done early. On Tuesday, April 15, we set off at 6:30 a.m. for an anchorage that was to be one of the finest both in terms of bottom (made WW so happy) and what we found there. We also, finally, entered the Caribbean Sea.

The bay at Gilligan’s Island (don’t ask me) is a regular stop for cruisers travelling along the south coast of Puerto Rico. The island itself is a red hot weekend spot for puertorriqueños. The whole area is surrounded by mangroves which keep the water green and fertile and are, as we are informed repeatedly, the nurseries of the sea. They are also flat-out, no question about it, totally impenetrable to persons without implements of hackage and hewage.

It’s all part of the Bosque Estatal de Guánica or Guánica Biosphere Reserve: 9,500 acres of preserved land with 36 miles of trails and 10 miles of undeveloped coastline. Most important, a significant chunk is subtropical dry forest. Just 1% of the world’s dry forests remain, making this an exceptional bit of land. The central cordillera captures all the moisture, putting this region in a serious rain shadow. Temperatures remain between 80F and 100F all year, and about 35 inches of rain per year (which WW thinks is a guidebook error…seems too much to him)—compare that to Puerto Rico’s El Yunque rain forest, which gets one inch a day. The park is a haven for 700 plant varieties, 40 bird species, toads, crabs, turtles, and more. Sadly, mongooses, introduced to control rats, have found turtle eggs much to their liking and the turtle population is in severe decline.

We launched Boffo and followed a mangrove-lined channel between one of the islands and the mainland until we reached a beach near the sea. WW scanned the mangrove roots hopefully (and in vain) for oysters, while I scanned the birds…great egrets, black-necked stilts, magnificent frigate birds, black vultures, bridled terns, and the charming brown pelicans.

Stilts among the mangroves of Bosque Estatal de Guánica

We followed a path that took us from the sodden mangrove swamp, past brackish pools, to dry coastal growth of tough grasses, coconut palms, and a variety of plants and shrubs clearly adapted to receiving little water. In one of the ponds, a gaggle of stilts muttered imprecations as I photographed them. Kingbirds nagged each other. The clear liquid notes of yellow warblers trailed after them as they flashed like gold between shrubs. Then we arrived at the dry forest. The mangroves and low coastal growth gave way almost instantly to thorn trees and cacti. Bright orange land crabs scuttled into their burrows as we passed. Alas, it was getting late and we had to turn back if we were to make it to the boat before sundown. It is a fascinating place I most definitely want to visit again.

We didn’t go straight back to the boat. Instead, we set foot briefly on Gilligan’s Island. Why? Silly not to.

Anchors Aweigh!

As a preamble, let me apologise for having been somewhat remiss in keeping this blog up to date. Once I have caught up (hah!), perhaps you will find it in your hearts to forgive me…assuming anyone is still reading.

When last we met, WW and I were in Boquerón. At about 8:30 a.m. on Monday, April 14, we raised anchors. Yes, plural. When raising anchor, my job is to stand at the bow, manage the winch, and gesticulate wildly so WW knows which way to aim the boat. I felt the winch was behaving oddly. Perhaps it, like me, is not a morning person. Metre after metre of chain rolled slowly into the (warning: technical term) chain locker, a.k.a. the place where the anchor chain goes when it’s not out. Then the reason for the winch’s sluggishness was revealed. Our anchor chain had become well and truly fouled in another, much larger anchor. Ours is about 40 lbs, this one WW guesstimates was about 75 lbs. With a lot of boat hook action, muscle strain, a good deal of grunting, and (of course) hanging head down, WW managed to free the anchor and it’s resident crab. Both plunged back to the seabed to await the next unwary anchor chain.

Once the anchor was aboard, I completed my post-anchor-raising task, that of binding Tramp firmly to the tramp. In some of the seas we’ve been seeing, she’d be a gone kayak if she weren’t tied down hard. And Lady would get lonely. While I was busy tying multiple little tight knots, WW was steering us through the small opening in the reef and out to the open seas.

We cruised down the coast towards Cabo Rojo, which is unjustifiably confusing, since it is the name of both the cape and the region. To add to the confusion, the cape is also called Punta Jagüey. It was only a few hours run, and we tucked ourselves into Bahía Salinas, on the west side of the punta/cabo. This took considerable tucking since the bottom was bad and our hook wouldn’t hook. On the bay’s edge lay a wrecked yacht, just to keep us on our toes. It took us about half a dozen tries before WW was satisfied that we might not drift into the rocky shore. Still, he was out of the berth about six times that night, making sure we were where we thought we were.

Lighthouse at Cabo Rojo

Once we had a chance to look around, we found ourselves with a wonderful view of the Faro de Cabo Rojo, a lighthouse built in 1881, warning ships as they enter and leave the Mona Passage.

Although we had now been on two Caribbean islands, we still weren’t in the Caribbean. It lay just around the corner.