John Porter & Jenny: The Windward Passage

Part IV

Part IV

In a group of twenty-seven people crammed into 135 feet, I'm not interested in being "the couple who were found in each other's bunks", though I think John might be amenable to the idea if one of the twenty-seven people wasn't his child. So after stealing another delicious kiss by the anchor windlass by the light of the moon and the town ("Thank Christ I kissed you first on land. I'd hate to try to do this for the first time while underway."), we adjourn to our separate sleeping arrangements.

The following day John heads up into the hills again with a few other guys from the fleet for a more challenging hike. I decide to stick to my original plan of joining Rene and some of the others for some scuba diving in the morning and then soaking up some of the local color.

And by local, I don't mean the tourist traps in town. After catching a small fleet of motorcycle taxis for a hair-raising ride over the hills to what looks like a collection of trucks and cars surrounding a small dirt access road, we walk down to find a glorious stretch of white sand crowded with makeshift bars, food vendors, and families. The older folks sit back watching their grandkids play in the low gentle waves as the younger adults wander up and down the sand socializing.

And did I mention the music? Either a band or a DJ every two hundred yards or so pumping out the merengue or more popular tunes. Ah.

A lot of the fleet has been to the D.R. before, so we find plenty of familiar faces. Including Alex and her new cohorts of the Spirit whom we pass with just wave as they are clearly busy basking in sun and the admiration of a number of lads, both local and imported. Later as I sit in the shade of one of the makeshift bars, Alex comes and plunks herself down at my cheap plastic table with a rum and coke.

"Watch it with those. They keep the strong stuff in country."

She shrugs, sitting back in the chair in her fashionably colorful one piece and sarong. "I figured that out yesterday when I got pissed from two daiquiris with dinner."

"…Escaping?"

"Yeah, one of the guys was getting a little weird. "Oh, there is a your boat, it is sailing away without you..." she imitates a Haitian accent flawlessly before snapping back to her own, popping her eyebrows in a familiar manner. "Right, I'm going to get a drink."

I swallow the smirk at hearing John's pragmatic inflections in a feminine voice. "Creeeepyyyy. Yeah, that sounds like a good time to take a break. How were the mangroves?"

Brief descriptions of the wildlife of the grove and spelunking in a Cueva de San Gabriel which has an opening to the sea "right out of the Count of Monte Cristo" are parsed in between more lengthy narratives about kayak races and conversations with cute boys. She asks me about my hike and then after politely listening for a few minutes.

"Yeah, it sounds really cool...He was mad wasn't he?"

"...He was disappointed."

She sighs heavily. "I know, I know. He arranged this trip for "quality time" and all that rubbish, but...I'll spend time with him in Jamaica."

"Is he really that hard to spend time with?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's not like he a bastard, but he just...he just sets me off is all."

"Why?"

"He treats me like kid. Like he still has a right to after being gone all the time."

"Well, it doesn't sound like he had much choice."

"Bloody Army. How do you compete with division of the government for someone's attention? He was always away, always leaving, off to Bosnia or Africa or Iraq or wherever. When he was around he was great, but that was only 6 months or so out of the year. And that's when he was around at all when I was a kid. When Mum died, he put in a token "Good Dad" effort y'know, for all of six weeks and then he was gone again. For a fucking month. Now we're supposed to be all chummy. And then he'll be gone again. I wish he would just make up his fucking mind and either stay or go...Preferably go right now."