John Porter & Jenny: The Windward Passage

Part III

Part III

Looking at the Tall Ship fleet moored in Santa Barbara de Samana, one can't help but see an era hundreds of years ago when this was one of the busiest New World ports in the Spanish Empire, the last stop before crossing the Atlantic with their millions in stolen gold and silver. Kevin and I would be positively desperate for a pirate flag if several ships had not already beaten us to it.

Most of the fleet, including us, are moored out beyond the harbor itself. A concrete walking bridge that joins a small island in the middle of the bay to the mainland separating us from the smaller draft vessels who can sail into the shallow harbor. Behind the plaza and the open air beach front clubs, restaurants, and shops of the tourist strip, the town rises into the lush green hills, becoming another world entirely. The cheap stucco or wood houses stacked on each other with fetid streams whose content you do not want to know running down the hill between the narrow cracked asphalt or dirt streets filled with roaming kids, dogs, chickens. But those cheap houses sit on land families have owned for generations, where a respect, an open hand, and a smile are extended to visitors who greet them with the same. Behind that are low mountains of tall trees, long rains, short streams, and scattered small farms.

Once the immigration officials have come out to the ship and checked the crew in, John takes the zodiac to go pick up the needed part to fix the desalinization system. Dr Randall drives anyone within reach on deck and hover over us as we make the ship as presentable as possible. At sea you can get away with the deck being a little slovenly for convenience's sake, but in port a boat is supposed to look her best, which means no loosely lumped up sails on deck and no laundry hanging from the safety lines along the rail. Sails precisely furled, gear squared away, brass gleaming.

Eventually, the Captain resigns himself to the fact he is working with a bunch of hopeless civilians and takes the boat ashore for dinner with other captains in the fleet. I won't speculate on how much rum was consumed, but he was not seen the following morning before we left for shore leave.

Kevin has agreed to lead those interested in a hike up into the hills to a waterfall, including a scattering of people from all the watches and some old shipmates currently crewing other ships. John is coming too, "Just to stretch my legs a bit". But while we wait for the group to assemble for our ride out of town, Alex jumps ship to join a group of kids her own age from The Spirit of Concord kayaking through the mangrove swamp in the National Park on the other side of the bay, leaving John silently radiating resigned disappointment the entire truck-ride up into the hills.

Once we hit the trail John sets murderous pace through the trees that everyone else in the group gives up on with comments about death marches. I grew up around men John's size, learning to stretch my stride and walk fast, so I can keep up with him. And even if after a couple hours I can't, I wasn't about to let him know that. Still he takes pity on me and calls a halt at a bend in the trail where the tree line opens to overlook a green valley, the thick forest broken up by small gazing fields with scatterings of black cows.

We quietly munch on our apples and drink water as we enjoy the view and the gentle waft of what is left of the sea breeze after making it this far inland, only the sounds of birds breaking the silence. John hucks his core an impressive distance into the trees below us. I throw like a girl.

"Did I offend you?" I ask.

"What?"

"What I said the other day. That was kind of crass."

I can't see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but the corner of his mouth tilts up, "Well, you did warn me that you were competitive. No, I don't think any man would have been offended by that, love." He tips his head back slightly as he looks down his nose at me almost suspiciously. "Just trying to figure you out."