A Sail of Two Idiots (25 page)

One of our favorite restaurants in town was Captain Steve's Place. He had a number of vegetarian dishes with plates so big and loaded with so much food that Michael and I could split one order for dinner—all for about $5US. It was usually cheaper and much less work to eat out. So we did!

Prescriptions weren't needed in the Dominican Republic. We told them what we needed, and if they had an equivalent, no problem. They even carried Shaka's pills!

To keep our sanity, we took lots of breaks from that stinky harbor: rum tours, horseback riding, hiking to the top of waterfalls and jumping down them, even a weeklong motorcycle trip with Hans and Kristen. We traveled along the northeast coast all the way to the Samana Peninsula, which juts out easterward from the island and provides views of the Atlantic Ocean to the north and the Bahia de Samana to the south. Staying northerly kept us out of the rain forests (although not always out of the rain) and north of the traffic from Santo Domingo.

The road trip was a blast, but not being fluent in Spanish was an issue here and there. Kristen had previously lived in the Dominican Republic for six months and knew enough Spanish to get us by. I had just enough to get myself in trouble. Bargaining was a must. Wherever cruise-ship passengers went, there was price gouging.

Fun towns included Cabarete, Las Galeras (lots of Germans there, and techno music), and Las Terrenas (hip stores and beach restaurants—a must-see). We heard that Santo Domingo (the capital and large city on the south coast of the island) was a great place to go, but we didn't make it there ourselves. Hidden beaches abounded. Places we
least
liked included Samana; the Limon waterfall tourist trap; and the little island of Cayo Levantado in the Bahia de Samana, which was the equivalent of a land-based cruise ship.

We searched for beaches and waterfalls that no one else knew about. We met locals who shared their food with us. Our tour of an isolated waterfall was conducted by a bubbly little girl whose mom let us sample the wide variety of foods grown around the area—from coffee to chocolate to bananas to things we couldn't identify. The Dominicans appreciated that we were seeing the island the way they traveled it (most have motorcycles, not cars). When we were caught in a rainstorm and took shelter, we were offered oranges to eat while we waited for the sky to clear.

One day during our road trip we were on what we thought was an isolated beach when, out of nowhere, a local approached us (how do they do that?). I inwardly groaned, thinking we were going to be asked for money. As it turned out, he just wanted to let us know that farther down the beach were some food stands with fish and freshly made coconut bread if we were interested, and also a river
(freshwater) to rinse off the ocean salt when we were done playing. How nice of him, and how snarky of me.

I highly recommend a road trip, via car or motorcycle, but wear a handkerchief or a scarf over your face. We were filthy from the road grime, exhaust, and dust by the end of a jaunt. We'd take off our sunglasses and have two white circles on an otherwise gray face. Eew.

Another caveat is that the roads are insane. Be vigilant. Many roads have lots of lanes, unlike the narrow two-lane streets on most islands, and they are clogged with animals, have deep potholes, and are filled with kamikaze drivers lining up five to a lane. We'd see a family of six, including infants, smooshed together on a motorbike. Even more amazing would be motorcyclists carrying huge propane tanks, mattresses, live pigs—you name it. It became a contest as to who saw the most or weirdest stuff on the back of a motorcycle.

Just when things were getting dull, around mid-August, Hurricane Dean (a storm extending 550 miles across) came within a couple hundred miles of the island. All boaters were monitoring their favorite weather sites, and we all tried not to panic when a hurricane warning was issued for the Dominican Republic. We had about a week to prepare and did so by having our propellers cleaned, gathering our valuables in a ditch bag, getting cash from the ATM machine, and fueling. Some boaters did nothing. We waited until the last minute to decide whether we needed to take more drastic measures, such as removing our sails and trampolines and tying off to mangroves. When it looked as though the worst of the storm would pass 220 miles to the north of us, we decided that the preparations we had made were good enough.

At around midday (about two hours before my favorite hurricane website, StormCarib, predicted the storm to be at its closest point to us—still over 200 miles away), a boater with a huge radar dish gave everyone a 10-second countdown to a storm cell he was watching on his monitor. Almost at the count of one, 55-knot winds swept through the harbor, setting about a third of the boats on the move, including ours. We had two anchors off our bow (the 44-pound Bulwagga and
the 37-pound CQR on one chain separated by about 35 feet plus another 100 feet of heavy chain on the harbor floor) plus a 40-pound metal “kellet.” (A kellet is a weight, aka “anchor buddy,” attached halfway down the anchor rode to lower the angle of pull, taking pressure off the anchor itself.) Even with all our anchor gear, we still slid through that muck. Thankfully, ours was a slow drag.

Despite our 10-second warning, our cockpit cushions went flying; the wind generators went ballistic, sounding like jet engines; people were screaming at one another on the VHF; and we were scrambling to toss a third anchor out to the side to stop our slide. That worked, to the relief of the boaters behind us. We also decided to tie ourselves off to the mangroves (with deep roots) to ensure against any further anchor dragging. If three anchors are good, four are better, right? Did I mention it was also raining, and the pelting rain hurt? Ow!

Some boats went sailing through the harbor at 3 to 4 knots—yep, even with anchors “set” and no sails hoisted—before anyone could stop them. Engines weren't starting after sitting so long, and propellers were frozen because no one could clean anything in that cruddy water (well, no one except a couple of local entrepreneurs who were more than willing to make some extra cash and were happy to clean ours and those of others who had thought ahead). Cruisers jumped into dinghies in the choppy harbor to push boats out of the way and stop others. Incredibly, not one boat hit another one.

That insanity lasted about 10 minutes, and then the winds died as suddenly as they had started. There was lots of activity as everyone reset themselves, which was a good thing since we still had to endure the second part of the storm. That occurred at midnight. Of course. The second time around was much like the first, except that all the boats stayed where they belonged. A Coast Guard ship had come into the harbor and considerately shined its spotlight around all night to make sure everyone was okay. But that was it. Dean was gone.

The next morning we immediately untied ourselves from the mangroves so rats couldn't scurry aboard. We didn't need
that
! We also pulled in the second anchor of three (there were two on the main line); the water was too filthy to add one more thing we'd have to clean. Even after just one day, the anchor rode looked disgusting. Once again, I would owe Michael for doing the dirty work.

We also decided to do some investigating. If there was another hurricane, we thought the risk would not be from the winds but from too many boats in iffy holding. We'd rather get out and be tied off by ourselves. So we dinghied over (with our portable depth sounder) to a nearby, shallower harbor to see what it had to offer (it was still considered Luperon but was empty because of its shallows). The water was sooo much cleaner out there. No smells; we could clean the boat bottom; we could see the ocean. Who needed to wait for another hurricane? We'd move the boat just for a break. We were so sick of being on top of everybody else and wanted a change.
Whisper
came out too.

Not having to listen to the constant buzzing of dinghies was a plus. We did have a nice few days out there. Right until the part where we were robbed.

One night we were up on a hill enjoying a bonfire with friends when someone claiming to be with the navy asked us about our boats. His line of questioning made us nervous, and the fact that he kept waving around a gun didn't help either. There was almost an international incident when he aimed the weapon at a friend's nervous dog. The man didn't threaten us, but he did eventually learn that our boat was down below, isolated, and that no one was home. Feeling uneasy and worried about Shaka, who had not been well, we decided to head back to the boat not long after the man left.

Ah, the ol' trust your instincts (LESSON 23). Upon arrival, we found puddles of water tinged with rust (most likely from a crowbar) in the cockpit, our little VHF speaker hanging by a wire outside the main door, and the door itself wide open.

Shaka was still there but had the jitters. The salon and starboard-side cabins, where we spent the most time, had been ransacked. The thieves had known right where to go and found our stash of U.S. dollars even though it had been hidden in a cabinet under some exercise stuff. They also grabbed my jewelry. It was all junk, but it was one-of-a-kind stuff and all I had, so it was disappointing. Sigh.

Where we caught a break was that the intruder had swum to the boat and therefore couldn't take our electronics. Had someone stolen our laptop and maybe our cameras, we would have been much more upset.

Well, that certainly gave the anchorage something to buzz about. Many boaters had been jealous that we were enjoying ourselves out there and were gloating about our comeuppance. I didn't care. I still didn't want to go back in. We did report the theft to the commandant and even described the pink motif on the goon's motorcycle, but all he said was that the guy was not a naval officer and told us to move back into the main harbor.
Whisper
did, but we didn't want to.

A couple of days later, the commandant managed to procure a boat, motored out, and asked us to move in with the others. He couldn't protect us out there. Well, he couldn't protect us in the main harbor either (dinghy gas cans were being stolen, a chartplotter was damaged, a solar panel was missing), so what was the point? We didn't want to move back in, and he couldn't make us, so he shrugged and motored off.

I changed my mind, though, when I saw someone snorkeling near us. The waters weren't clear enough for snorkeling—hmmm. I took his picture and let him see that I had taken it and he swam off, but we were back in the main harbor by the end of the day. The two locals who serviced the harbor (and cleaned our props) gave us a thumbs-up. Guess it was the right decision. I was still grumpy about it though.

Do you have your tissues handy? The worst was yet to come. At the end of August, Shaka, a lively 16 year old, had a urinary infection. We went to a local pharmacy and asked for antibiotics and hoped that would work. After a couple of weeks, it was obvious that Shaka needed something else.

We had quite the trip to a vet's office in Puerto Plata and were given medicine to be injected. We later found out from a friend, who was a nurse, that the prescribed amount was an overdose. A really large overdose. That became obvious over time.

This is graphic (although not as bad as what actually happened), but I include it because it's an incredibly important point if you're going to travel with a pet. If a four-legged boat mate is not in your future and you don't need the heartbreak, skip this section.

Over the next few weeks the overdose caused Shaka's already old kidneys to start shutting down. This, of course, led to the next nightmare. We would have to put Shaka down. We couldn't find any drugs to do this either. We didn't want him to suffer and we went online and asked people what to try. Dominican pharmacists told Michael to use rat poison, so you can see what we were up against.