Fuel Polishing

After returning to Django, I prepared the evening RPs and WW prepared to “polish the fuel”. When our fuel woes had been described to the cruisers, they all said, “Polish your fuel.”

WW had found a hand pump that would get the fuel from one tank to the other. He set up the funnel and lined it with paper towel. Then he started to pump about eight gallons of fuel from the port tank into the starboard tank. He was unable to do it alone. We mopped up the spilled diesel, I pumped, he aimed the outflow. That worked.

It seemed endless. And there was no guck. Very disappointing. Until we got to the very bottom. Ewwwww.

He pronounced it to be rust picked up, no doubt at all, in Rum Cay. I was having none of it. I love Rum Cay and won’t have it talked of that way. It was dissolved mouse. In fact, it was neither. It was squishy and made up of bacteria and/or algae.

On Sunday morning, it was time to filter all the fuel in the starboard tank (about 18 gallons) into the port tank. This time, things went more quickly since WW had been able to fit a larger hose onto the pump. But it wasn’t long enough, so about half way through the task, we had to switch to a smaller bore hose. We did the last 10 gallons this way and it was a drag. The hose was so long that it required a lot of effort to pump. The handle was poorly designed for heavy work. We switched hands and switched jobs frequently. Then the goo started to arrive (remember, this was the tank that had had the initial and more serious fuel-flow problem). WW was on the pump at the time and it completely renewed his energy. What we had seen the evening before was as nothing to this revolting sludge which poured out in quantity. We had to change our paper towel filter several times.

When all had been filtered and the mountain of diesel-soiled paper towels (used for filters, mopping up spills, and hand wiping) had been bagged for disposal, WW took the bags in Boffo to the Boquerón garbage cans and bought a couple of jerry cans more of fuel. On his return, he filtered that into the tanks. Then he changed all the fuel filters (each engine has two). Then engines have been behaving beautifully ever since.

With our fuel polished to a blinding gleam, we were ready to continue our voyages.

Raul and a Diesel Evening

The conversation of cruisers deals almost exclusively with what’s gone wrong with the boat, what catastrophes one has faced, how one has dealt with…stuff.

It naturally arose that we were having difficulties with the cleanliness of our fuel and that what we really needed was a pump to let us remove the fuel from one tank and filter it into another. Bill said he had a pump he didn’t want and would be happy to sell.

On Saturday morning, we hopped into Boffo to head over to Unchained to examine the pump. WW taught me to drive. I am now a dinghy-enabled not-yet-last-mate. My training continues.

On Unchained, it was immediately clear that a pump managing six gallons a minute would overload a paper towel-lined fuel-polishing funnel in seconds and leave our decks awash in diesel. WW declined the purchase. That dealt with, Sue took me below to show me their home while WW and Bill stayed on deck exchanging war stories.

Unchained is a monohull of 40-something feet. Her chief drawback is a lack of storage, but Sue had done a great job in overcoming this as much as possible. Below decks, the boat is cozy. Sue and Bill, in their 60s, sold everything and bought her for their retirement. They set out, with very little experience, from Tennesee, and are making their way to Trinidad to be “out of the box” when hurricane season arrives in June.

Tern on a stick! Off Boqueron

After our visit, we headed in to shore, trying to raise Raul on the radio. We found Irene on the dock with a mountain of clean laundry, swearing at Ray in her glorious Lancastrian for having abandoned her. WW gave her a ride out to C Drifters while I stayed and watched the terns acting like weather vanes on a cluster of big poles near the dinghy dock. WW had Ray call Raul and he arranged to meet us a bit later to take us to a supermarket for provisions. We headed off to the local Internet café. WW booked our flights to Montreal on April 21 and back to San Juan on April 30.

Raul was a great source of information. He pointed at the fields as he drove and said that they all used to be covered in sugar cane. Now, virtually no cane is grown on PR because no one wants to cut it. It’s hard, dangerous, manual labour. He said machines were introduced at the very end of production, but apparently too late to save the industry. I said that must be hard on the rum producers and he said the sugar is all imported now. When we said we’d seen lots of sugar in the DR, he said, “Sure. You know who cuts it? The Haitians. They are brought in for the harvest, then shipped out again.”

We did a big provisioning run, then met Raul outside. He was playing some wonderful music which he said was Johnny Albino. He said it was old dance music. “Us old guys [he must be 50] like romantic stuff like that,” he said. He told us how his grandfather used to run a dance hall and how he’d danced there to this music as a youth. I asked him what CDs we should get for the best of PR music. “Johnny Albino,” he said, “and Hector Lavoe for salsa.” Then he played us some Hector Lavoe which shut us all up till we were back at Boquéron.

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.

The Mona Passage

Between the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico lies the Mona Passage. It’s about 80 miles wide. It represents a huge mass of water moving between the Atlantic and the Caribbean. In a very short distance, its depth goes from 5,000 metres at the Mona Canyon to 100 metres in the Horseshoe Shoal, which extends about 20 miles out from the eastern Dominican coast. As a result, a lot of water piles up in the Shoal, creating an area of severe rips, unpredictable currents, and overfalls. It’s a no-sail zone. A lot of shipping moves through the navigable part of the Passage. Like the Gulf Stream, the Mona Passage is to be treated with respect. And, preferably, with all engines functioning well.

So, OK, the engine thing wasn’t working for us. Fortunately, the weather was excellent, the winds not too strong, the seas benign. We were making about 3.5 knots with the port engine at full function and the starboard wheezing. Then the starboard engine died again.

I kept watch while WW hung head down some more. This time, he used multiple containers, drained nasty diesel into them, covered himself with it, and blew hard into the fuel line. He cleared it. We had our second engine back at full function. Our pace picked up to 5 knots and more. We knew it was a temporary reprieve. Whatever was in there would probably find its way back to the mouth of the fuel line.

Toward the end of my watch, sure enough, Little Miss Starboard started to die again. WW now knew the drill and had her running again almost immediately. His watch was uneventful. I think the blockage realized he’d got its number and the game was no fun anymore. Then, during one of my watches, the port engine started to miss. WW came on deck (he is awakened by these things) and worried, but there wasn’t much to be done. At least the engine kept going.

I had the dawn watch – my favourite. WW had retired, completely exhausted. I believe he was asleep in under a minute. I was enjoying the sight of the tiny but very tall Isla Desecheo rising from the sea. Then the feel of the port engine changed. When I stood on the starboard side, my feet could feel the purr of the engine there. On the port side, I felt a rhythmic clunking. I hated to do it, but I woke WW. He agreed there was something, checked all inboard things and said it might be the propeller. There was nothing to be done in that case until we reached an anchorage. He went back to sleep; the sound seemed to lessen.

A ship appeared on the horizon and I eyed her through the binoculars, trying to figure out what direction she was headed. I finally decided she was headed toward me, so I altered course to pass astern of her. After a few more minutes, I was better able to make out her form and realized I’d altered course to collide with her. I rectified the matter.

Soon after, the coast of Puerto Rico appeared on the horizon. WW raised sail and we had two good hours of beautiful sailing. We made almost 7 knots some of the time. By 3:30 we were on our way in to Boquerón.

Farewell to Republica Dominicana

The weather on Monday was still bad. Winds of 20 knots or more and a big surge. Chris Parker, the weather guy, said it should improve dramatically by Tuesday.

Tuesday morning at 5 a.m., we prepared for departure. A representative of the Dominican navy appeared on the dock with our departure documents and a request for $20 US. With the sun still below the horizon, but giving enough light for WW to see the way out, we left our dock and headed toward the Atlantic. At precisely the same moment, three other boats headed out. We slipped out of the marina, avoided the heavy breakers at its entrance, and were once again on the Atlantic. Chris Parker is usually very accurate. For reasons he himself (a day later) was unable to explain, the wind continued to blow at 20 to 25 knots, and the seas continued at 8 to 10 feet until that evening. We were headed straight into all of it. It made for a bit of a bouncy passage. We were managing about 4 knots, until we arrived at Cabo Frances Viejo in the late afternoon. A strong current was running against us and we slowed to about 2.5 knots.

We took watches of two hours on, two hours off, starting at 7 p.m. I had first watch. There was virtually no shipping and the seas had settled quite a bit. WW had one unpleasant moment when he saw a small yacht that appeared to be passing on our starboard side. Then the red lights became green and he realized it was going to cross our bows. He had to alter course some 20 points to avoid a collision. We can only assume there was no one keeping watch on the other boat. WW had the dawn watch and the pleasure of seeing the mountains of Cabo Samaná. Very beautiful, I am told.

We sailed from Bahía Samaná east, with the coast of the DR beside us all day. We were doing about 5 knots straight into a 10- to 15-knot wind, and feeling rather pleased that the comfort had increased so markedly over our first day. Then the starboard engine stopped. Dead.

I took watch while WW hung head down in various small compartments in the starboard after berth. He determined the problem. It was not good. The fuel line was clogged. Now, this is normally not a big deal. It clogs at the filters. Diesel fuel in the islands is notoriously dirty, but multiple filters usually solve the problem. It’s just a question of replacing the filters. In our case, however, the blockage was in the fuel tank. It seemed weird, but WW had read that a bit of water condensation can lead to bacterial or algal growth in the fuel. The bacteria and/or algae cling to the sides of the fuel tank, unless they are torn off by a rough passage (e.g., our first day out of Ocean World), at which point they can clog the line. Another possibility was rust in the fuel. WW was suspicious of the diesel we’d purchased in Rum Cay. I thought it was a dead mouse.

We were able to get the engine to run at greatly reduced rpm, so a trickle of fuel was getting to where it needed to be, but it wasn’t really satisfactory.

We pondered our choices. We could head into Punta Cana and work on repairs, or we could try to get to Puerto Rico on one engine. The biggest problem with that choice was that we might run out of fuel. The starboard engine’s fuel tank was almost full, but we had no way to transfer it for use by the port engine. Punta Cana seemed a good idea until we realized we’d have to go half way to Puerto Rico to clear an area of very bad rips, then sail back in to the DR to make landfall. We finally decided to press on.

During his early evening watch, WW had another near miss with a small ship crossing our bows. Mind you, this time he realized we didn’t have our running lights on and were effectively invisible. He switched them on.

We saw the last of the Dominican coastline, brightly lit, as it vanished below the horizon sometime toward midnight.

Family Day 2

Frank drove us into Puerto Plata as we had a stack of postcards we wanted to drop in a mailbox. The post office was closed. That’s when we learned there is no such thing as a mailbox in the Dominican Republic. It’s your post office or nuthin’. We asked later whether the marina could mail them for us. Nope, but they were happy to arrange to have them sent by courier, at $30US per card. Folks, you’ll have to wait till we can mail them in Puerto Rico.

Then we headed up towards the mountains that stand behind Puerto Plata. Carla and WW shared a fascination with real estate, so there was a lot of house pricing that went on. When you buy property in the DR, you pay a percentage tax on the purchase price. If the property (including house) is worth less than 5 million RD, you pay no annual property tax. Carla is building a second storey on her house, so the value will rise to over that limit and she’ll have to pay tax. However, she intends to rent the second floor (something many Dominicans do) and that will more than cover her associated expenses. Dominicans build a house and leave steel construction rods sticking out of the roof in the happy expectation they will, one day, be able to afford that second floor.

Front porch

The house was lovely and cool, and very minimalist. There was the requisite front porch area with the requisite four rocking chairs. Poochie, their typical Dominican perra -- complete with lengthy dugs from three litters, all of which had died – greeted us. Carla said dogs and cats are owned, they just like to wander about. Someone, somewhere, takes a modicum of responsibility for them. This family was besotted with their lovely bitch, who lives exclusively on table scraps, including large numbers of chicken bones.

Inside the house is a living room, family room with television and many books, two small bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a master bedroom. The kitchen has a cooking area separated from a washing area.

Dining room from the outdoor walkway

The dining room has sliding doors on two sides, one set leading to a walkway beside the house and parking area, the other to the small back garden complete with mango tree, avocado tree, lime tree, orange tree, Surinam cherry tree, banana tree, papaya tree, tomato plants, and a chicken who provides the family with eggs and has long discussions with Carla.

Despite our already having eaten, Carla insisted we have a typical Dominican lunch with them. Her new cook/maid failed to make a salad, to Carla’s horror and shame.

Shucking Luperon oysters

The son (alas, I never got the boys’ names, except the youngest who was called ChiChi) who had gathered the oysters, opened them with a stone in the back yard. WW and I were graced with one each. They were very sweet and delicious. Carla served us fried chicken (I was terrified I’d be offered one of the feet as a special treat; fortunately, Frank fell on them with gusto), rice, and red beans. These are the staples. Everyone eats them all the time.

Frank and Carla and the fabulous feast.
(apologies for the focus issue)

After lunch, Carla showed me, with enormous pride, her various degrees and photos from her graduations. The boys sprawled in the family room with the television blaring. WW and Frank rocked on the front porch. Carla and I joined them there where she served us “the joy of my day”, fresh, strong, black Dominican coffee.

Dominican coffee is, indeed, a joy. Its flavour is superb. The natives drink it in small cups with at least one teaspoonful of sugar. Carla asked how much sugar we took. WW took one and I took one (though I normally don’t sweeten my coffee, but I had read it would be rude to decline). We asked Carla how much she took. “Five,” she said. We were stunned. “Will it fit?” I asked. Carla laughed and pointedly took one and a half. Milk or cream weren’t even offered. It was fabulous.

Everyone piled back into the van for the ride to Ocean World. Actually, one son was left behind, but he called on the cellphone and we swung back to get him after a tour of the local mansions, some worth more than 20 million RD.

At Ocean World, the kids shook hands and said “Nice to meet you” – possibly one of three English phrases they know. Frank thanked God and us for the work we’d given him. He had told us the all-inclusive resorts are killing him because tourists don’t need taxis anymore. Carla and I hugged, I gave her a good Montreal two-cheek mwah-mwah, and we parted vowing to be in touch when and if we return, having exchanged cards.

Being taken into a Dominican family for a day was an exceedingly special experience. Both WW and I still smile whenever one of us brings it up. I very much hope I have a chance to renew the acquaintance in the future.

Family Day 1

Frank (Francisco) and his gorgeous wife Carlita (Carla) picked us up at precisely 10:30 for the drive to Luperón. Stuffed into the back seat of the van were not three sons, but four. “I’m their cousin,” the smallest told me with a grin.

“You speak English?” I said.

“I live in New York,” he answered.

I have to confess, I was glad. I wasn’t sure how Spanish immersion was going to work with my knowing only the present tense of about four verbs and a vast number of relatively useless nouns. (I’ve learned a lot from my Dominican cookbooks, but I didn’t think things like “cucharadas” and “aceite”, that is, “tablespoon” and “oil”, were going to support much in the conversational line.)

In the event, I needn’t have worried. Carla’s English was very good, and Frank’s was rockier but very amusing. However, I had mentioned that we wanted to practise Spanish, so “No inglese” was announced forcefully by our exuberant chauffeur. Frank was a delightful guide, pointing out sights and features. Each one was preceded by, “Lookee, lookee! Free hotel coming soon. Free for everyone!”

It was the local jail.

We were taught names of things as we travelled. Cow: vaca. Dog: perro. Girl dog: perra. At which point Frank asked if we had different names for boy and girl dogs in English. “Yes,” I said.

“Yes,” said Carla, starting to blush.

“Dog and bitch,” I said. She roared with laughter.

Carla is a remarkable woman. She is a doctor with a specialisation in family medicine. She was director of the Luperon hospital for many years. She is also a lawyer. She gets up every morning at 3 a.m. to study (I believe she is working toward a real estate licence). At 7 a.m., she gets herself and her family ready for the day. She’s down to one son now as the other two are studying medicine at a private university in Santiago – they were home for the weekend. She works in the hospital till 1 p.m., then everyone comes home for lunch, the Dominican main meal of the day. Then she works in the clinic until 5 p.m. After that, she goes to her law office and signs things her secretary has prepared. (“Law is easy,” she said, “if you have a good secretary.”) Then she heads for home and a light supper. She is in bed at 9 p.m. She also ran in the last municipal election (she was defeated narrowly by the incumbent).

She told us that doctors in hospitals work 24 hours on, 24 hours off. They are paid by the government, a princely 22,000 RD per month. That’s about $700 US. When a delegation (including Carla) went to see President Leonel in Santo Domingo to request a wage increase, they were greeted by riot police and had the fire hose turned on them. It is probably understandable that she would like another man to win the presidency next month. She likes one called Vargas. “He has lots of money,” she said. “He won’t take it from people with nothing to eat.” She does not have high hopes, however. Leonel is being very generous with what she called “our money” during the run up to the election. “Hungry people don’t see beyond today,” she said.

We arrived at Luperón and Frank drove the van out to the end of a pier. At one point, the clearance was reduced to about an inch on each side due to a parked vehicle. He slowed…a bit. “I very good driver,” he said with his fabulous grin. When we had finished looking at the countless boats anchored in the bay, and the sludge coating the mangroves lining its edges, he looked at WW. “I tired. You drive please,” he said. We all had a good laugh. Then he proceeded to back us out without any trouble at all. “You are a very good driver,” I said. I think he glowed a little.

Luperon Yacht Club

He took us over to the yacht club where we looked at boats and even Carla, who patently loathes them, was enticed onto one that was for sale.

Frank, Carla, and sons (and the guy trying to sell the boat)

WW and I then settled in for beer and lunch. The family wandered over and chatted to other folks on the small beach. One of the sons waded in among the mangroves. When we were done, we all loaded ourselves back into the van and set off to Ocean World. The wading son proudly displayed a small plastic container of about 10 oysters he’d gathered.

“Colfresi?” asked Frank. “Yes, please,” said WW. “Would you like to come and visit our boat?” I asked. Carla looked horrified. I laughed and said, “No. Carla does like boats.” She smiled and said, “No, I don’t like them. But, please, come to our house for lunch.”

WW looked slightly unsure so I piped up immediately: “We’d love to!”