After a quickly-passed week on the beautiful Haitian Island of Ile A Vache a favorable weather window has us pulling hook and exiting the harbor with the last remaining light of the day. We use a gusty north wind throughout the night and next day to push ourselves east eventually crossing boarders into the Dominican Republic. Although we’d love to take our time gunk-holing the south coast, our dinghy engine is now officially out of commission and in need of new parts–which means we need an address. So we rent a slip in Boca Chica and get the order in place before leaving the boat to spend the days of Carnival in the capitol Santo Domingo—coincidentally the oldest city in the New World.
We spend several nights in a backpacker’s hostel, conjuring up all sorts of youthful flashbacks, and sleep on land for the first time in half a year. Carnival unfolds with far less debauchery than expected, we don’t even wake up with headaches. The following day is DR Independence and we are astonished by the massive display of military prowess in an unending parade down the city’s most picturesque boulevard. Despite all of the fancy costumes and uniformed officers, Clare and I agree that the most fascinating part of the whole weekend is simply the local people watching. Dominicans are loud and proud in all manners of fashion, and their unapologetic boldness and vibrancy keep us rudely staring and helplessly mesmerized throughout. We do manage one delicious night of salsa merengue dancing even if our steps are far from suave. Mostly though, we wander around the old city taking in the cobblestoned streets and beautiful decaying architecture, oh, and eat Chinese, twice.
But our parts need a week to arrive so we catch a bus and cross the country up to the north shore to the cruising-headquarters of Luperon, where some of our favorite boat-bound friends have recently arrived. Bill and Mara gladly give us a cabin aboard Puddlejumper and with Ted and Andre we explore some of the local coastline via motorcycles. The rest of the gang have only been in the country for two weeks but they all already own their own bikes, so I play it cool as I hand over the $10 equivalent in pesos for a motorcycle rental.
“Just lemme get my bearings back,” I plead and CJ willingly obliges by hopping on the back of Andre’s much shiner 250cc dirt kicker. Little does the group (or my wife for that matter) know, but this is actually my first time ever operating a proper motorcycle, something with a clutch and wheels bigger than those found on a children’s play-wagon. No worries, I think to myself, just like riding a bike. So there’s a bit of stutter and slam and a few stall-outs, but to my credit I’m learning on the criss-crossed, lane-free, pot-marked urban streets of a third-world town while dodging donkeys, fish-fryers, and chicken-buses alike. Fortunately the bartender (also the bike-renter) has a couple of helmets, even if he does roll his eyes having to rummage for them—my mom would be proud.
So we get out of town, the roads straighten, and the vistas open up. Wow. My long-held but silent dreams of cross-country bike riding exceed expectations. I twist the throttle open a bit more and click into the highest gear. The verdant countryside rises and falls with the highway and views of the nearby sea licking the shoreline open and close with each bend. The thick salty air feels balmy and sweet at higher revs and the sweeping curves only require a slight shifting of weight to round. The road, a hard-won swath of blacktop carved from the tropical foliage, continually unfurls itself before my devouring wheels, hungry for more asphalt. Ahhhh, this is why people own motorcycles.
We eventually come down from the hillside and park our bikes outside a small hut on the beach hawking ice-cream sundaes. We sit in the shade licking our treats and swapping stories. Life on our boat seems light-years away. A gust of wind blows through and my bike alone topples over, breaking off one of the mirrors. Not only do I need to learn how to ride, but apparently I need to learn how to park. But no worries, nothing that 100 pesos back in town won’t make right again, but first it’s time for CJ to navigate the return journey. She actually has history with motorbikes so her practice rounds are in earnest a reacquaintance. Nevertheless, the local kids (none of whom are over 10 years) are eager to help show her how to feather the clutch…geez these youngsters could the run the bike backwards if we let them. I hold on tight and Clare winds us back to Luperon without a hitch.
Tracking shows the package out for local delivery, so we keep our visit short and catch a bus the next day for an 8-hour return trip to the boat. Naturally, something gets screwed up, the package is never received and tomorrow is the weekend. Ah well, such is life. We take the extra time and free access to fresh water to thoroughly clean the boat in an attempt to rid her of an awful weevil infestation. I fill the water tanks before realizing that the “fresh” water is really brackish and even after several passes through our Berkey water filter the taste remains intolerable. So we drain the tanks and buy 16 water-cooler jugs of purified water as replacement, and then have to hustle to successfully siphon all 80 gallons aboard because the supplier is unwilling to depart without his containers promptly returned.
Clare stocks the boat with fresh provisions, and I tag along with some newly made friends (one Cuban and one Brazilian) to visit a colorful Dutch schooner that we all notice tied-up at the commercial dock, taking on massive sacks of coffee beans. Turns out that the ship—which has no engine—is an integral part of Fairtransport, a company that specializes in emission-free trading by literally sailing cargo back and forth across the Atlantic. Tres Hombres doubles as a lurching classroom where those willing to pay for a crew position can learn the age-old arts of seamanship required of such a vessel.
“Actually,” the first mate informs me during our visit, “student tuition is really what funds the voyages, and in a good year, our trade-goods will eek us out just enough profit to further progress on our up-and-coming sister ship.” He points to his T-shirt which displays a line-drawing of what will be the second in hopefully a full fleet of emission-free trading vessels.
The crew hail from all over (though most are European) and look like crunchy hippies doing laborious tasks in filthy underwear. But if you want to learn the dying arts of splicing and greasing galvanized rigging, hand-carving hardwood chocks, or setting the yard-arms of square-rigged top-sails then it appears you’d be in good company.
On our planned departure day we notice a great billowing of canvas in the distance. Tres Hombres has left harbor as well and with a good head start. We finish up our preparations and begin to motor out. As we round the final headland we can’t help but notice a handful of local surfers–I kid you not–riding the incoming break on either side of the main channel. Well this is a first. Nose dead to the wind, we punch the throttle and painstakingly eek our way from the harbor before finally gaining enough sea-room to set sail (albeit not much) and make way. How a massive engine-less schooner managed such an exit is beyond me, but if I’m not mistaken they do receive friendly tows from time to time.
The wind is blowing a steady 25-30 knots and we’re pinched as tight as can be. Champagne is thrashing and bashing all over the place as we aim her ever further offshore in hopes of mitigating any unfavorable land-effects, and do our best to hold on tight. More time goes by, the sun goes down, and we’ve totally forgotten about Tres Hombres until she shows up on our chartplotter not far off. Perhaps we can point a bit higher, but they certainly carry far more sail and with plenty of hands to use them–regardless, we’ve somehow caught up with her. I get them on the radio for a friendly chat (certainly not to brag or anything), but I should mention after so much recent time spent on land, I seem to have misplaced my sea-legs and I’ve been feeling a bit queasy. So here I’m having a good chat with the with the old salts on the old ship, trying to hold my own and all, until I spew into the kitchen sink mid sentence…but hey, at least I let go of the microphone button.
Long story short, despite Champagne‘s ability to point higher, Tres Hombres can carry far more sail managed by far more hands. We wish them well on their Atlantic crossing as they leave us in their wake. Fortunately for me, conditions settle a bit closer to the coast allowing Champagne to find her stride and giving me a fighting chance to regain my sea-legs and nurse my pride…not so easy with Clare chuckling in the background throughout.
To having your hair held back…even when you don’t want to admit needing it.