During the past week, my friend Tom King (TK) sailed with me from Bonaire to Aruba. In between whining about how early the sun rises in the Caribbean and complaining about how much salt is in the water, TK managed to find time to prepare this week’s journal entry. Tom has since returned to his cushy life in Washington, D.C., where he makes commercials about the mating habits of monkeys, chimpanzees, and apes for Animal Planet.
Ahoy! I am Tom King, schoolmate of Aaron’s and your guest blogger this week at the website. After several months of incessant prodding by M. Cook, I found an opportunity to escape Washington, DC, and decided to throw off the yoke of civilization and responsibility and join him here in The Dutch Antilles for a few days. I have been looking forward to this voyage for many weeks. Part of the reason was to hang out with my comrade; part of the reason was to simply hang out. I also hoped to learn more about sailing and, in doing so, come to understand the allure of a solo around-the-world-trip and why this notion held sway over Aaron. Secretly I also intended to appraise Aaron’s skills, and if I determined he didn’t pass muster, dissuade him from his journey and convince him to return the States. As for the hanging out? My imagination had me relaxing on the beach, sipping boat drinks and speaking French to the Dutch people. I was very wrong. But it turned out to be a great time nonetheless.
FROM W,DC TO THE ABC
My great time began with an alarm clock buzz at 5:30 AM. I made my way to Dulles for a 9:50 flight, and then had my first layover in Newark-Liberty Airport. If Newark-Liberty was around at the time of the American Revolution, the English would’ve left without a fight. I couldn’t even find a Starbucks there! Ah, but the best part of Newark is the leaving, and I arrived in Aruba at six o’clock. Hopping on a night flight and touching down at 10:30, I arrived in Bonaire. Good Air indeed! a warm gust hit me as I happily but tiredly bounded off the propeller plane. Island life – a short break from the everyday. M. Cook was waiting to greet me through the exit. A tiny airport, he wasn’t hard to find. I just followed the smell (he smells of Pantene and decadence.) He looked healthy – a little thinner than the last time I had seen him, but at least he had shaved in the past week. It was great to see my friend, and I wondered how he felt having been somewhat alone these past few months. We took a cab down to what I like to call Little Aruba, the trendiest neighborhood in Bonaire, and we shoved off for the boat. At last I was in the water! After boarding (“Ahoy, permission to come aboard!”) Aaron and I sat and sipped a Venezuelan beer and talked about many wonderful things, including soccer, politics, our friends back home and both of our plans (he, likely sailing around the world; me, going to an office Christmas party.)
The next morning we went ashore in Bonaire and bought groceries. Most of the grocery store was given over to pickles. Apparently most people in Bonaire subsist on pickles. But we managed to find plenty of other treats to enjoy. As I wandered the aisles, as I fumbled in my pocket for Dutch Guilders, as I placed nectarines in front of the grocery clerk only to discover that you had to pay for those WITHOUT weighing them, and you had to WEIGH the bananas, I remembered that being a tourist affords you so much leeway…and God knows there is no tourist like an American tourist. When you’re born in the US they give you a fanny-pack, a pair of shorts and a souvenir tee-shirt. You get your passport and they stamp it “Life” and they say “Make sure you get some good pictures!” So here I am (minus the tee-shirt and the fannypack.) It’s been a while since I’ve left The States, and Bonaire was no red-tape-addled France. But I fit comfortably into my role as one who doesn’t truly belong…mildly embarrassed but more relieved at the sight of myself, I decided to not try to go local. I would let my very American lack of local knowledge and my very American optimistic conviction shine like a very American smile, and when a situation came up in which I needed to accept my place as the non-native fool, I would accept with the grace and the dignity of The Clueless.
Bonaire is actually quite a charming little island, despite its lack of a quality Starucks. Mostly underdeveloped, there is a lot of relaxed nightlife along the harbor where the boat was tied to a mooring post. This does not mean clubs and high-rises; rather low-slung homes and a host of nice, calm bars and bistros clustered around the dock. A truly wonderful place, I wish I’d had more time to explore the island with Captain Cook in the previous week. The people are great, too: a warm “Bon Dia” greets you nearly everywhere you go, even in the dens of government functionaries. A policeman gives the thumbs up sign and a genuine smile when you ask him for directions. An American who owns a breakfast place (The Lost Penguin) shows you the kind courtesy of a friendly, weary diner waitress, or, for that matter a friendly, weary homeowner.
In Bonaire, we went for a swim. If you haven’t been in the ocean in some time, the water’s saltiness is a shock; but if you haven’t been to Bonaire, the water’s clarity is an even greater surprise. It was beautiful, even around where the boats were moored. We also hopped in the dinghy and snorkeled near Klein Bonaire, which is a tiny island near Bonaire itself. The subsurface fauna was interesting; both Aaron and I prefer our fish in a nice roll, or perhaps on a bed of rice in a chirashi, but it was fun to swim amongst the angelfish, the groupers and even a barracuda. Of course we had to improvise: to get Aaron’s second snorkel working properly, we plugged the lower end of the tube with a wine cork. It had delightful aromas of oak and black cherry, and more importantly it kept water out of my mouth. ONWARD The following day we set off for our night sail. Aaron had sold me on the night sail weeks before our departure. “It is really nice,” he had written. “Very peaceful, and you can see the stars.”
The night sail was actually nice, but peaceful it was not entirely. We set off around 1pm. The trip is one-hundred miles, and it began slowly, but the wind picked up as time went on. We ate rice, broccoli and fish with chopsticks and listened to All Things Considered on the SSB as the water poured east behind Audentes. I looked around and still saw land, despite being far out from Boniare. Aaron told me that his longest leg in The Pacific would be to Marquesas and it would take approximately thirty days. Thirty days with no sign of land, I wondered aloud? I don’t think I could do this. If you’re lost in the woods in a hug National Park…hell, if you’re trapped in a hotel along the Green Line in Beirut…you’ve got a shot to walk out if you keep your wits about you. But out on the ocean there is no walking out. Did Aaron have the know-how to handle such a thing? Was I wrong to have at least a modicum of concern for my friend?
After watching him in action, I am sold. The concern my friends and I share is warranted, but Aaron has a strong handle on this thing. Watching him scamble around the deck like a sea monkey I believe he can do this around-the-world trip. Not to jinx him (I’m knocking wood right now) but it looks good. I, however, am no sailor. Were sardines a good idea before the wind picked up in the middle of the night? Probably not. I kept ’em down, but I had to shut myself down for about two hours while Cook woke every fifteen minutes to ensure our safe passage. Never having been even remotely seasick before, the experience was mildly defeating. Aaron says it happens to everybody, which makes me feel a little better. Speaking of that line, Melville would’ve scoffed at me. Heck, Crockett and Tubbs would’ve laughed, too. I am no super sailor; often I asked Aaron “Can I help?”, and often he responded “No.” I think his “no” translates to “Keep reading your book, you land-lubbing baby,” but that’s okay, because I don’t know exactly what “lubbing” is.
And I read some good books on the boat, finishing Tom Miller’s Panama Hat Trail, re-reading Don DeLillo’s The Names, and discovering Simon Kuper’s compelling Football Against The Enemy and the David Sedaris’ Dress Your Family In Denim and Cordorouy. On a boat I may have limited abilities, but I’m good at cocktail parties. I admit: the voyage was somewhat peaceful and the ocean’s beauty transcends queasiness. I think that traveling the world by 40-ft. sailboat is not for me. One night, or maybe a few nights, would be enough for me. Perhaps if I were the Skipper and I was the one taking on the challenge it would be different. But I imagine myself alone in a 200 sq.ft. apartment building, unable to go anywhere for a month, and I know: I would go crazy. But that’s a false parallel. Although I am not cut out for this, my personal challenges and my opportunities for zen lie elsewhere… my wanderlove is of the land. But I can see why Aaron wants to do this, quite clearly, and I can understand.
VAN DER WHO?
When we arrived in Aruba twenty-one hours later, things began to get weird. We waited an hour to get the boat through Customs and Immigration (side note to The Contessa of Aruba, or whoever is running this place: you don’t need seven people to do the job of one.) They told us we had to go to immigration before I departed to acquire a letter that would allow me to leave. Then Aaron determined that the best place to drop anchor would be a lagoon a few miles south. This lagoon proved too shallow for Audentes, so we motored a few miles farther south to a lagoon that was situated between a smoldering landfill and a smoke-belching factory. Here, let me repeat that, con italics, for those who cannot believe what they just read: In Aruba, an island paradise, we endeavored to spend our first afternoon and night in a lagoon that was between a smoldering landfill and a smoke-belching factory. This is four hours after we first pulled into the harbor in Aruba. I’ll bet this never happens in Kokomo. But that’s okay. It was kind of strange to wake in the middle of the night to find Aaron working to move the boat; the anchor had come loose in the night, and was dragging. Audentes was drifting. Aaron got it secure, and he only had to wake every hour to make sure it was okay. The boy sleeps like a Balkan sentry.
Anyway, in the morning we woke and decided to move the boat. We made it to another lagoon up the shore; we spent three hours trying to locate an appropriate place to drop anchor in this lagoon. “It’s never been this hard,” Aaron said. Finally, we came upon a spot to settle for the morning, or what was left of it. It was now 11:45AM. To be fair to Aaron, Aruba is a destination not known for its popularity with cruisers. Later in the day, when we met a friendly Marina employee – he looked appallingly like John Denver – he told us that he didn’t understand why Aruba wasn’t a yachtie destination. Could it be the lack of good anchoring sites, I thought to myself? Or the sluggish pace of the customs and immigration officials? Could it be the ridiculous prices the marina charges? Perhaps the pastel jewelry and duty-free perfume shops that litter Oranjestaad? Oh well. We were here and we’d make the best of it. Let’s get to land.
Ouch! We lowered the dinghy into the water and used the 15hp outboard motor; but on the way in we hit upon some shallow rocks. As The Dutch say “When The Cook Errs, Foul Words Follow.” So after a tense, oath-muttered couple minutes, we were back on our way and made it to the harbor. We chatted with Marina folk. I was told I could pay a fee and get my letter of departure there, but we demurred. Aaron and I were hungry after eating only pancakes the day before, and we went out looking for a meal. We stumbled upon one café, but the tourist prices and cheesy décor led us to order only a drink. When we tried to pay with the Dutch guilders, we were greeted with a confounded “What is this?!” as if we were paying with coupons from the DC Safeway or perhaps Sea World “sand dollars.” Apparently they don’t take money that says “Netherlanden Antilles” in Aruba. Jeez, Toots, we thought Aruba was part of the Netherlanden Antilles. I guess these Arubans think they’re somethin’ special. If you’re so goddamn special, then find that sweet little dead girl from Mississippi. Sorry I had to insert that in here somewhere.
So we made our way to a busier, cheaper place. Bellies filled, we decided to find Customs to get my letter of departure. And here’s where it gets really weird. John Denver Marina Guy told us to go to The Immigration Office in Barcadero, down the island. But then Random Local Tourist Info Guy told us to go The Immigration Office in Oranjestaad. After wandering the town for a half-hour, Friendly Policeman Guy told us that the Oranjestaad immigration office was closed and we should make our way to Barcadero after all. We hopped on a bus which was leaving just then – huzzah, our luck was changing! – and we were off to Barcadero. But we got off the bus way too soon. Long story short, we wound up walking a couple hours down a dusty, cactus-filled road, being chased by dogs, watching several cars heedlessly blow by us, and strolling right by the same smoldering landfill of yesterday’s anchorage. Joy! It still stunk.
We made it to Barcadero but couldn’t find this so-called Immigration Office – did I really need this letter? – and we found a bus to take us back to Oranjestaad. We immediately returned to John Denver at the Marina office, and I paid the twenty dollar fee for the letter. But enough about these minor travails…we were having fun. We checked out the casino (no playing, afraid our luck wasn’t going to turn) and wound up having two fruity drinks at the Renaissance hotel bar downtown. I felt a little funny getting a fruity drink, but as they say in Rome, “When in Aruba…”I’ll tell you what. Mine tasted like a Starbucks frappacino, so you know I was pleased. All in all, the day was good. We hadn’t accomplished much, but I had my letter, we had some laughs, and looking out on the beautiful water, we were excited: the boat was still in its place. Huzzah indeed. Aruba’s an interesting place. It seems built for multiple groups. There is a low-lying resort area in the north of the island, a hyper-touristy, shopping-intensive area clustered around the marina (surprisingly and sadly, no Starbucks,) and the rest of the island seems built for natives, rich and poor (I imagine the poor in Aruba are by no means the poor of Trinidad or Kingston, Jamaica, but I am sure there are some people without much somewhere on this island, though they are likely far away from Oranjestaad.)
Aaron and I spent much of the day in the touristy area, but our wanderings took us into native Aruba, too. Having seen them, though, I am ready for the resort area. Two of the beaches on the north portion of the island are considered among the world’s best. What constitutes a beach worthy of this title? I don’t know…but tomorrow morning I will find out. I mean, what is a vacation in The Caribbean without visiting a beach? MY LAST DAY Um, it’s pouring rain this morning. What an ignoble ending to this week. This trip was great. Aaron’s doing well and I am confident in his abilities, understanding of his motives, and thankful for this opportunity. Next, his parents will be joining him for a jaunt over to Cartagena and Panama, and then after that, who knows? As for me, I’m walking away with a much greater appreciation of sailing, a greater respect for the Caribbean sun, and a realization that I can make it five days without Starbucks.