I was brought home by the police!     Monday, 30/05/2022

Last Tuesday night, my last night in the marina, I walked along the path to the centre of the town of Boca Chica. It’s a 12 minute or so walk, about 1,100 metres, lots of dodgy people around – fine in the day time but not great in the dark. Having eaten, I was heading back and by now it was dark. I was wondering whether to chance it or get a taxi, when I saw a few police on the side of the road. So making use of Google Translate, I went up to them and asked “Es seguro caminar hasta el puerto deportivo y Zarpar?” – is it safe to walk to Marina Zarpar? The first policeman said “No!” And then he motioned me to their double cab van and opened the back door. I climbed in the back seat, he got in after me, and off we went, me and three policemen, with their blue light flashing… You should have seen the faces of the three guys at the marina entry gate when I got out! So I had to explain to them with my Google Spanish what happened. Much laughter! Great country this! Being transported by the police is so much better than the hassle of getting and paying for a taxi…

And so life goes on… I had a great long weekend up in the mountains, which culminated in a 50km drive north to the Dominican Republic’s second city, the wonderfully named Santiago De Los Cabelleros (St James of the Knights). This city of 1.1 million people is almost as old as Santo Domingo. Nothing particularly fascinating. There is a historic area of the city but the many old buildings are largely spoilt by being sandwiched between hideous modern buildings (1960s and 70s concrete), or they are defaced by huge boards proclaiming the name of the business that operates from them. But interesting enough for a couple of hours’ walk. Got something to eat and then headed back to the coast, a 3-hour drive (although only about 190km). It poured with rain twice when I was driving, so badly that it was almost impossible to see the road. Real tropical rain. But survived that and got back ok, stopping at a hypermarket a few miles before the marina. Really handy to have a car – I bought four 5-litre bottles of water, 6 litres of UHT milk, beer… things that are heavy to carry, as well as food. You just can’t shop like this when you are on foot. All I had to do was carry the stuff from the hire car along the jetty to the boat – and the night watchman very kindly helped me. So that was a good end to my three-day jaunt.

Then on Tuesday I made preparations for departure on Wednesday morning. Filled up the fuel tank too. This turned out interesting, because a large US boat – a converted deep sea trawler – was fuelling as well. It was called Mercy’s Vessel and I wondered why? So got into a couple of long conversations with the American captain… They do medical assistance in poor countries – doctors and other medical people fly out from the US and stay for perhaps a week, treating local people on board. He was also leaving in the morning, headed east to Puerto Rico, where a new team will fly in. I asked if it was a religious organisation; no, but most of the medical people are members of church congregations sent by their church. What a great thing – real Christianity in action, I must say. What a nice guy the captain was. He was interested in Manuka and how she is equipped, because he and his wife have a smaller sailboat back home on the Gulf of Mexico. He even came out with charts showing me the position of San Andres Island, which is about 150 miles off the coast of Nicaragua, but belongs to Colombia – saying it’s a superb place to visit. Again, interesting the people you meet. (Oh, incidentally, I asked him how much fuel he was taking on. Answer: 6,000 US gallons – about 23,000 litres! Cost: about 15,000 US dollars!).

Had a long sail from Boca Chica westwards to Punta Salinas last Wednesday, and because the navy was so slow giving me my despacho I only left just before 8am. So I came in at 10pm in the pitch dark, the first time that I have done so – I always try to come into new anchorages in daylight because there are frequently obstacles that you will battle to see at night. But I had no choice: there simply wasn’t anywhere I could stop en route. Took it slowly, crawling in at 3 knots, and fortunately didn’t collide with anything.

Which was a relief, because I had already succeeded in injuring myself during the trip. Late afternoon I was sitting comfortably in the cockpit reading. I finished, closed the book and decided that it was time to change course somewhat. Basically I was going across the wind, shifting it from the port to the starboard quarter, meaning that the mainsail would come across from starboard to port. I reached out and pressed the autopilot a few times to execute this, expecting the boom to swing across fairly slowly. Instead it suddenly whipped over – there must have been a sudden stronger gust of wind. Not a great problem – except that I had shifted my position and was sitting directly in the path of the two lines which come from the end of the boom and drop vertically to the traveller in front of the helm. Whack! In that instant I didn’t know what had hit me! Then I realised it was one of these ropes, which are about 8mm thick and very taut, bearing the full force of the boom. I had been hit across the face… I wiped it with my hand, suspecting blood, and yes, there was. So I shot below to look in the mirror. I was bleeding from my forehead, the bridge of my nose (caused by my glasses transferring the blow), my top and bottom lip were cut and so was my chin. My big fear was that the cuts might be serious. But no, not that much blood. Got some kitchen towel and pressed that on my face. Then I went to the stern, ducked down and stuck my hand into the sea and repeatedly washed the cuts with sea water, then dried them with paper. 

So I was very lucky. Felt a bit dizzy for 20 minutes, but then fine. A bit of a headache, but even that went away within an hour – breathing fresh sea air deeply seemed to help. All-in-all a silly mistake on my part. The cause? Human nature I realised. A year ago, I was very careful in everything I did on board. But over time one becomes complacent and lax, simply due to familiarity. You do things casually without focusing properly on the task at hand and – surprise, surprise – an accident happens. I’ve got to try harder to focus properly! Easier said than done, but there are so many things on a boat that can hurt you…

Anyway, apart from looking like I’ve been in a fistfight (real old sea dog me), the days since have been uneventful. On Saturday I sailed the relatively short 36 miles across the bay to the small city of Barahona. It has a wonderfully protected arm of the harbour, separated from the sea by a spit of land with mangrove trees on it. I’m anchored in 8 metres of pretty dark water which is as still as a lake. There was a large LPG ship moored about a hundred metres from me, but that departed. It’s a twenty minute walk around the commercial port facilities into the town. Nothing special: the town is a normal commercial place, not geared for tourism in any way. It’s a bit messy, although it has all kinds of shops and services. A few upmarket looking shops, but most are downmarket, a lot of Importadoras stacked to the rafters with cheap clothes and household stuff and a lot of wooden shacks selling very low quality things as well as basic foods and fruit. Noisy and polluted, but that’s pretty typical of the Dominican Republic. The town seems safe, certainly in the daytime, and the bigger roads look like they’d be fine at night. There aren’t lots of dodgy people hanging around (like in Boca Chica) – people whether poor or comfortable-looking are just going about their business. I haven’t seen any people who look like foreign tourists. There are hotels sprinkled along the coast to the south, by the best beaches, and I bet none of the residents come into Barahona. In fact the town probably represents the “real” Dominican Republic perfectly. After starting in a luxury marina, my quest was to find the real country. And this is it. In a wonderful location, backed by mountains, the highest about 1,600 metres.

And my wounds have even healed… After five days I have little more than a couple of scabs on my forehead. Very quick: sea water is wonderful for drying out cuts.

On Wednesday June 1st I will sail due south, crossing the Caribbean to Curacao, which is only 40 miles off the Venezuelan coast. It’ll be a longish trip: it’s 400 nautical miles, so will probably take somewhere between 67 and 72 hours, depending of course on the strength of the wind. Hopefully I will arrive early Saturday morning – and then I will be back in the Kingdom of Holland!