An Embarrassment of Mangoes (13 page)

“Steer 145 degrees!” Steve bellows the new heading out at me and I emerge from my confusion and get us on the new course. But as we come out from under the center of the squall and the wind lessens, we need to quickly get a sail back up to steady us in the waves. “Keep the boat pointed into the wind,” Steve calls from the mast, where he’s now trying to raise the mainsail. “I’m trying—but I can’t,” I shout back. “It’s too rough.” Every time the boat slews sideways on a wave, the wind catches the flogging sail and prevents Steve from raising it any higher. With the sky total blackness, I can’t see the waves to anticipate when or how they’ll hit us. Steve’s tethered to the boat with his safety harness, but with each wave I’m afraid he’ll be thrown to the deck as the boat pitches. Eventually, we just give up, sentencing ourselves to a rough, uncomfortable night of motoring. And we’re not even in the Mona Passage proper yet.

By daybreak, when we are, Steve’s entry in the log is short and to the point: “Nasty waves.” They seem to come at us from all directions, causing the surface to slosh and churn. At least in daylight we can get the sails back up, which helps our movement a little. The squalls are gone, the wind is a modest 10–14 knots—we are crossing the Mona in almost perfect conditions. And still it feels like we’re traveling in a soup bowl being carried by a marathon runner. My seasickness drugs are no match for the Mona, and I begin to feed the fishes. Unfortunately, I can’t do what the British admiral Horatio Lord Nelson suggested as the remedy: If you’re seasick, he said, sit under a tree. We’re still a full day (and night) from our landfall. Now I know why it’s called the Thorny Path, and I wish I were anywhere but on it.

I subsist for the next twenty-four hours on water and sourdough pretzels—they’re the only thing my stomach will tolerate, and they don’t require me to expend any effort other than reaching a hand into a bag—and remain lashed to the boat with my safety harness until we arrive in Boquerón, Puerto Rico. I don’t miss a single one of my watches, day or night, though, and I’m very proud of it.

H
ere, this is for you.” Robert, off the sailboat
Jake
, hands me a paperback in Boquerón.
Jake
had crossed the Mona just a day ahead of us. The book looks like a trashy thriller, and the cover says, in lurid letters, “Can death be the only way out?” For a few hours, I felt like it was.

The paperback is entitled
Incident in the Mona Passage
. Like its namesake, it’s
awful
.

Luperón Papaya Salsa

There is no such thing as a small papaya in Luperón. I created this salsa to take advantage of the half we regularly had left after breakfast. Serve it alongside grilled chicken or fish—or with cream cheese on crackers, as a happy hour snack.

1⁄2 large ripe papaya, diced (about 2 cups)

1⁄2 cucumber, peeled, seeded, and diced

1⁄2 small red onion, thinly sliced and separated into rings, and rings cut in half

3 tablespoons finely chopped fresh cilantro

1⁄2–1 small hot red or green pepper, seeded and finely chopped (or to taste)

1 lime, juiced

3 tablespoons fruity olive oil

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

1. Combine the papaya, cucumber, onion, cilantro, and hot pepper. Set aside.

2. Whisk together the oil and half the lime juice, and season to taste with salt and pepper. Toss with papaya mixture.

3. Taste before serving and adjust flavor with additional lime juice.

Serves 4

Tips

• This salsa works equally well with ripe mango, or a combination of mango and papaya.

• The red onion adds color, but you can use a mild-flavored yellow or white onion instead.

Cheesy Chicken with Avocado and Tomato Salsa

Avocados were in season when we arrived in the Dominican Republic, and we said fat and calories be damned and devoured them regularly. This recipe showcases them—and the delicious Dominican cheeses—beautifully.

1⁄3 cup cornmeal

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

1⁄4 teaspoon hot red pepper flakes

4 boneless chicken breasts

3 tablespoons olive oil

1 clove garlic, halved

1⁄2 lime

1⁄2 cup fresh or store-bought tomato salsa

1 avocado, peeled, pitted, and thickly sliced

4 slices mild melting cheese (such as Monterey Jack, mild cheddar, or
queso de freir
)

Fresh cilantro, chopped

1. Combine cornmeal, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. Dredge the chicken breasts in the mixture.

2. Heat olive oil in a large frying pan with a lid and gently sauté the garlic for a minute or so. Add the chicken breasts, and sauté until a golden-brown crust has formed on both sides and the breasts are almost done, about 5–7 minutes per side. Squeeze the lime over the chicken.

3. Top each breast with some salsa, a couple of slices of avocado, and a slice of cheese. Lower heat, cover, and cook a minute or two longer until the cheese has melted. Garnish with the cilantro and serve with rice and more sliced avocado and tomato on the side.

Serves 4

Tip

• This recipe can be easily adapted for the barbecue: Marinate the chicken briefly in a mixture of lime juice, olive oil, chopped cilantro, red pepper flakes (or chopped hot pepper), chopped garlic, and salt and pepper. Grill over medium-high heat until the chicken is almost done, about 5 minutes per side. Top each breast with salsa, a couple of slices of avocado, and a slice of cheese. Cover the grill and cook a minute or two longer until the cheese has melted.

Not Quite Seasoned,
But
Very Well Salted

November Mike November gave me the good weather news
Told me I was going on an easy downwind cruise
Well I guess he got it wrong and that’s hard to excuse
’Cause I’m tossing up my cookies, my body’s one big bruise
I got the three days out forty-five knot wind blues . . .

FROM THE SONG “THREE DAYS OUT FORTY-FIVE KNOT WIND
BLUES” BY CANADIAN SINGER/SONGWRITER AND CRUISER EILEEN QUINN, FROM HER CD
NO SIGNIFICANT FEATURES

Oh, the irony. We left home to escape deadlines and here we are being driven by a deadline: I’m
convinced
we absolutely have to be south of the hurricane box by July 1, as if the weather gods use a Day-Timer and have scheduled a hurricane for the very next day.

After the Mona Passage, we scurry along the south coast of Puerto Rico. “Take at least 11 days,” the gospel guidebook says; but the weather holds and we cover it in four. Then we boogie through the Virgin Islands—“don’t worry, we’ll spend more time here on our way north,” Steve says—then jump to St. Martin across the Anegada Passage, another choppy, current-wracked stretch of water, unaffectionately nicknamed the Oh-My-God-A Passage. Anchor, sleep, sail. Anchor, sail. Sail, sail, sail. We move every day—and sometimes night—the weather lets us, mostly motorsailing now because we’re heading east and almost directly into the trade winds. (A boat under sail can’t point directly into the wind.) This “beating to windward” is brutal—exhausting and uncomfortable as we slam into wave after wave, the bow sometimes burying in the steep seas, our muscles tensed and our bodies braced for hours on end. It’s even harder on poor
Receta
.

“More leaks,” I report dejectedly when I return to the cockpit after one of my infrequent daylight trips below during the nineteen hours we’re underway to St. Martin. Given our direction, the ocean is simply too lumpy to make spending time in the cabin enjoyable unless I’m lying down to sleep.

Steve has already rebedded one of our lovely deck prisms, the one over the chart table, to stop water from streaming in whenever a wave washes over the bow and down the sidedecks (which is frequently). But now the deck prism in the galley has started leaking—the one over the dry locker, meant for storing nonperishable food and now an utter oxymoron. “The forward hatch is leaking, too,” I inform him, on the verge of tears. Some of my clothes bags are sitting on the wet cushions directly under the leak, having bounced off the shelves when we hit a wave. We store our navigation charts under the cushions, and they’re now the filling in a nice soggy, salty sandwich. The collar at the mast isn’t totally watertight anymore either, and seawater has entered there, too, splashing the floor of the main cabin. It’s hardly noticeable, though, since there’s already a salt slick all over the floor from when our salty selves have slid below off-watch, peeling off soaking foul-weather gear to instantly fall asleep on the cushions in the main cabin.

“Nothing goes to windward like a 747,” is the oft-used saying when someone decides to meet a boat at its destination rather than go along for the (bouncy) ride. I can see their point. “I am really
really
ready for this beating to windward to end,” I announce.

To make it end more quickly—especially since the days are ticking down to July 1—I agree to do the next stretch, from St. Martin to St. Lucia, without stopping: 292 miles, 52 hours. Straight.

D
inner tonight was somewhat misguided,” I note in my journal about the first night of that passage. “Couscous topped with cold sliced grilled chicken. Delicious—but the couscous is too light for these conditions, almost 20 knots of wind. Blows all over the damn cockpit.” Pretty cavalier words from someone who, just a few weeks ago, was making passage meals out of pretzels. But I’m learning, adjusting: No couscous, and no chopped fresh herb garnishes. (Green bits everywhere.) Nothing, in fact, that requires more than a bowl and fork to eat. And nothing that can’t be prepared entirely ahead and just quickly assembled at mealtime. If the seas kick up, the last thing I (and my stomach) want is to spend time in a rolling galley. One Thermos was filled with hot coffee and another with boiling water before we started this passage; the baskets that hang close to the bottom of the companionway were piled with grab-and-go snacks (including a handful of Steve’s precious MasMas bars). A supply of seasickness pills was stashed in easy arm’s reach from the cockpit.

Unfortunately, there’s no avoiding belowdecks weather duty. At least three times each day while we’re underway—no matter how rolly it is—I have to sit at the chart table and listen to the forecast on the SSB radio, writing it down word for word, so we have it for reference. Somehow, I’ve become responsible on
Receta
not only for talking to Herb, but also for getting
all
the weather forecasts, whether we’re at anchor or on the move. The chore load is already weighted heavily toward Steve because there is so much I don’t know how to do; when we installed the radio six months ago, it seemed only fair that I should take on a job that was new to both of us. Besides, the first forecast we need to hear is at 5:30
A
.
M
—not a time of day Steve is happily awake.

That first forecast is delivered by November Mike, as he’s nicknamed, and he holds the dubious honor of making me cry from frustration more than once. He sounds (to me, at least) like Rocky and Bullwinkle’s nemesis, Boris Badenov—but on Valium. November Mike—or “Metal Mikey,” as another cruiser calls him—delivers the offshore forecasts in a dour monotone; his voice has no inflection, he jams his words together, and he pauses in all the wrong places, creating a run-on string of easily confusable numbers and compass directions. Did he say west of 68° winds east—or east of 68° winds west? Which side of 68° was going to have the slowly decreasing 8-foot seas? Or was that
in
creasing? To a newcomer unfamiliar with the format and idiosyncrasies of the offshore forecasts, he might as well be speaking Badenov’s mother tongue. After my first few teary attempts to get it all down—sometimes further handicapped by less-than-perfect radio reception—I started taping November Mike and then transcribing him, playing back the forecast over and over, phrase by painful phrase. By now, however, I’ve developed a shorthand for taking it down directly.

November Mike is the computer-generated voice of the U.S. National Weather Service. He takes his name from the call sign of the radio frequency he’s broadcast on: NMN or, in the phonetic alphabet, November Mike November. “Nosignificantfeatures,” his synthesized voice frequently drones at the top of the forecast. Early on, I thought this meant good weather. I was mistaken. Frequently, so too is November Mike.

“November Mike says winds out of the east, 20 to 25 knots, seas to 8 feet,” I read to Steve as I climb back into the cockpit on the second morning of the passage. “Misstine”—the call sign of the flesh-and-blood forecaster I tune in next (David Jones, based in the British Virgin Islands)—“says winds east to east-southeast, up to 15 knots, with the sea state decreasing to 3 to 5 feet.” This kind of forecast disagreement is par for the course. So is my postforecast angsting: Who to believe, the one promising a delightful day’s sail or the one villainously proclaiming a lumpy, brace-yourselves ride? Unfortunately, Herb won’t weigh in like Solomon until late in the day, but based on his report yesterday, I’m afraid he’d side with Metal Mikey.

In fact, the seas are kicked up most of the way to St. Lucia, with the wind staying close to 20 knots, and both sails are reefed. “It got lumpy this afternoon,” I note unhappily the second evening of the passage. “Forward hatch is still leaking like a son of a bitch. Belowdecks is looking like a slum. I’ve decided just to close my eyes to the chaos.”

At least we’re no longer heading directly into the trade winds, since we’re now pointing as much south as east. When we’re in the lee of the islands along the way—Statia, St. Kitts, Nevis, Montserrat, Guadeloupe, Dominica, and Martinique—we’re protected and even need an assist from Mr. Engine, Sir. But between islands, the wind attacks, heeling us over on a fast, wet, exciting ride. Engine on; engine off. Ease out a bit of reefed jib; crank it back in. Lights visible on the horizon, go downstairs to check the radar. Down and up, down and up—there’s a lot of commercial traffic on the route we’re traveling—to make sure we’re not on a collision course. I’m downright
busy
on watch tonight.

“Nosignificantfeatures,” Metal Mikey drones at 5:30 the next morning. Meanwhile, we almost lost our little stern-rail barbecue during the night: The stainless-steel mount gave way from the stresses on the boat, and Steve turned around on one of his watches to see it dangling precariously by one last twisted bit of welding. And when he now checks to make sure
Snack
is still tied securely on the foredeck, he fishes two flying fish out from inside it, carried onboard in waves during the night. Waves are still washing regularly over the bow and their spray is routinely nailing us in the cockpit. “Nosignificantfeatures” indeed.

“Nosignificantfeatures,” I’ve gradually realized, simply means no sign of approaching organized tropical weather: no tropical waves, tropical storms, or hurricanes. Steve says it’s simply radioese for “you may be uncomfortable as hell but you probably won’t die.”

Although the sun is shining, we keep our full foul-weather gear on to stay dry, and it’s by now coated with a thick, greasy film of salt. So is every inch of exposed skin. I long for a shower, but it would take more energy than I can muster in these conditions.

“Maybe we’ll hear from Robert and he’ll have the solution,” Steve says, attempting to jolly me out of the foul mood that threatens to descend when I feel disgusting. We had run into Robert and his partner Annette on
Jake
—the same Robert who had presented me with
Incident in the Mona Passage
—in the British Virgin Islands. Over pizza and beer one night, he had drolly informed us that he had solved the problem of not being able to take a real shower underway. “I needed something I could spritz myself with that would leave me feeling fresh and clean,” he explained, while miming himself happily spraying his pits and privates. “I think I’ve finally hit on a winner: cheap mouthwash. Very refreshing.”

When we finally arrive in Rodney Bay, St. Lucia, we splurge on a marina and its ample supply of fresh water to facilitate desalinating ourselves, our clothing, our bedding, and our boat. It takes me two soapings under the shower to get rid of the salt caking my skin, encrusting my hair, and lining my ears. I can’t imagine how much mouthwash would have been required.

Six weeks later, on my birthday, Steve presents me with a special gift: a tank T-shirt on which he’s illustrated one of November Mike’s forecasts. The background is a weather map, showing a hurricane in progress. In front, falling squarely across my chest, he’s painted November Mike’s favorite phrase in large letters. Cruisers think the shirt is hilarious; everyone else thinks my chest has No Significant Features.

S
ometimes even when you want to hurry, you can’t.

From St. Lucia, we’re only three day-hops away from Grenada—beyond the bottom of the hurricane box—where we plan to stay put for a while. But the weather gods are going to toy with me a bit longer—let the days tick past our deadline—before they let us take off. Which is why we get to see Nelson Mandela dancing.

We’d stopped in a little bookstore a short bus ride from the Rodney Bay marina to supplement the reading material we pick up at cruiser book exchanges. But everyone lined up at the cash is buying not books or magazines, but little pink tickets. I’ve got to know.

“Tonight is the closing night of CARICOM,” the sales clerk tells me, “with entertainment from all over the islands.” CARICOM—which stands for Caribbean Community—has been in the paper every day since we arrived in St. Lucia: A conference of Caribbean leaders is underway in Castries, St. Lucia’s capital. Nelson Mandela is the guest of honor.

Steve is reaching for his wallet before I can even spit out a question about where, exactly, the closing-night event is being held and if we can get there by public bus. The salesclerk assures me we won’t have any trouble.

That evening the 1A bus—the one that stops at the marina—drops us off at the bus station in Castries. I don’t have a clue which way we should head, so I ask two young women. “Follow us,” one of the pair says.

After a few blocks, they stop. “We have to wait here for a friend,” the one says. “Go with them,” and she passes us on to another set of women. Lynette and Ruth lead us right to the park, where linebacker-sized, black-suited, earphone-wearing security men in dark Ray-Bans guard the gates. It seems very un-islandlike—until they start to flirt outrageously with Lynette and Ruth. “We men in black,” says one of them with a grin. “We
black
men in black,” adds the other. And I notice the guys providing security for the leaders of the Caribbean nations are indeed wearing large buttons that officially identify them as Men in Black.

Lynette and Ruth take seats beside us in the bleachers and give us a running commentary of who’s who as the Caribbean prime ministers and presidents file onstage. When Nelson Mandela arrives, the crowd explodes—standing, yelling, and waving flags for their hero. As the band launches into a song written in his honor, he starts to dance, grabbing the other prime ministers out of their chairs to join him. The feel of the soft night, the island music, and the sight of Mandela, almost eighty years old, joyfully dancing as fireworks burst overhead dull my memory of the long, salty passage. It was simply the price to be paid for rewards like this.

Midway through the event, after the speeches, when we’ve left the bleachers and have joined the crowd of thousands on the field for the entertainment, the first young woman who had led us partway to the grounds earlier in the evening approaches and asks if we are having a good time. “I’m amazed she could pick us out in this crowd,” I say to Steve as she walks away.