The Streets

“Dadadadadaa”, Danny says, as he walks down the dock, his constant easy smile glaring across his face as he moves with a certain step and at 71 the man has swagger. I am sure that in his younger years he was the Latin killer that Julio Iglesias sang about.  As he walks down the dock more friends follow, for a second week in a row he has come to visit Chappy. A sailor from a near port, he sailed in last week for lunch, and once he set eyes on Chappy’s lines I think he found himself swirling in love.  It’s not hard, Chappy’s charm caused me to buy her on the spot and the first time I sailed her up Narragansett Bay I knew it was a fatal attraction that would cause me to do something so very crazy, like run off into the sunset. We sit on the dock talking shop, swapping swashbuckling stories.   It’s evident that these men are not D'Artagnans pretty paraders, but real blood and guts type having been all over, and they tend to only go sailing when everyone else won’t. It’s just who they are. As we sat eating pinchos and talking a jet ski comes up and at slow speed and taps into Chappy, elevating Giberto to his feet as if the man just slapped his wife, and in full bloom his Spanish becomes unclear….for the first few words the man doesn’t care; then sorrow falls across his face, he makes eye contact and suddenly his Spanish becomes very proper, his words start to stutter as if being spoken like the hangman begging for his life. I look at Danny, who is sitting there smiling as if he has never seen the sun, and I ask, “What is he saying”. Danny, looking around the sky, says “You don’t need to know that kind of Spanish James.  I can tell you he has thrown the book at him, you see my friend here is someone, someone that man doesn’t want to mess with.”  No quarter is give and Gustavo continues to go on, his words becoming faster, the man half his age looking to disappear but won’t until Giberto releases him. The man bows in sorrow and slowly retreats.  An hour later it’s settled they will be sailing with me to Boquerón where I am planning on spending Easter week. They have made arrangements for Chappy to have a perfect stay.

In the dark, I rolled down the shore in my new friend Freddie’s Baja style jeep, its tires humming on the road, the wind blowing cooling the hot night, reminding me of my youth riding around with my dad in a doorless jeep in the hot desert night. Reaching Boquerón the main streets were closed to cars and there were a thousand people in the street. A spectacle of food drinks and music it is simple perfection. There are no police and no need, everyone is there to be there and have a good time. As we walked down the street I was surprised to see it was a family affair, young and old; families setting up chairs in the street just hanging out watching it all go by. After dinner we found a table near the center, had a sweaty beer, listening to music while people watching. All of a sudden there was an eruption, people screaming, jumping and running through the streets….Puerto Rico had just beat Venezuela in pelota (baseball) causing a whole new beat on the street, the bands played harder the people talked louder and the salsa on the sidewalk began. It’s not a holiday it just another Saturday night in Boquerón. It’s funny the city isn’t nice, but the vibe has reminded me once again that things don’t have to be perfect to be perfect; the ever constant lesson of this trip. It is addicting to live in a world where stress doesn’t exist. I just need to remember to keep both feet in this one. It’s too easy with technology to keep a foot in two worlds.

The Princess Bride, X marks the spot and Cool Runnings

So a pelican walks in to the restaurant…..no really a pelican just walked in and is standing in the doorway not letting anyone in or anyone out.  The sight is too much for the patrons to handle and has suddenly turned everyone into Facebook Paparazzi’s jumping up out of their chairs and snapping pictures of the larger than life bird. Unfazed by the flying flashes, he turns his head front and back, side to side and as if on the red carpet he gives one last snap signaling “that is enough” and slowly saunters in eyeing every person carefully as if looking for the man who killed his father. Suddenly he stops, puffing his feathers then spreading his massive wings as if impaled on a cross, staring at the man who is eating with his wife. In the silent discomfort the man puts down his fork and gulps what appears to be his last bite, shifting in his chair as if he had been caught in a lie, he reaches up and adjusts his glasses and checks his hair with a sweeping motion over the top. His wife looks at him and the man returns the look as if he has no idea what this is about , he looks down at his plate, then back around the room giving his best “Im innocent… it’s a bird people “ look but no eyes flinch, all eyes are settled on him, the guilty. The Pelicans massive 6ft wing span still blocking the man in and in the silence I swear I heard “My name is Inigo Montoya you killed my father prepare to die.” After a min or two the pelican drops his wings half way and starts to walk to the back door turning every few steps locking eyes with the man. When he gets to the back door he turns and faces the man one last time calling him out, then walks 4 paces from the door and turns staring in, presumably waiting for the marked man. When I leave I will be looking for congregations of pelicans on the roof tops, poles, wires and on the ground. If they are there I am leaving tonight in order to get away from the marked man, this town and the fate to come. Thanks Hitchcock for feeding these birds something more than people food, you have fed them ideas. Apparently I am not the only one who has been to Bodega Bay.

For the last few weeks and for at least the next month I will be in Puerto Real PR situated on a small bay  almost lagoon on the south western coast of the island. With mangroves, manatees and the biggest tarpon you have ever seen it’s a cool place. Poor in appearance and wealth but loaded with character and good people, this is a perfect hamlet to try to learn Spanish as very few people speak any English here.  If you were walking along the main street on your left you will come to the Pescaderia Carro Valle (Carro Valle fish market), a bright yellow building with red fish painted on it, it’s clean on the inside and full of beautiful seafood. Usually at the front counter you will find Carro’s wife Mildred, about the same age as my mother she has taken it upon herself to be my Puerto Rican mother and helping me a great deal with my Spanish. Her younger years were spent in Brooklyn and she still speaks perfect English but won’t EVER since I told her I wanted to learn Spanish; maybe she just likes to watch me struggle.  When you get to the back of the market you will find an old man with a wooden leg waddling around snapping it forward to walk, usually with a knife in his hand, he’s the fish butcher. Meticulous in his fish cutting, he is serious, always eyes me with a deep stare (like the pelican) mouth closed, he just keeps looking at me, breathing heavy over his white moustache as if the verdict is still out on me (sound familiar), swirling his knife high in the air and slamming it down on the board he will slowly look back up at me. Little happens around here and little will happen fast, always echoing the words of Earl in my head as I deal around town, “don’t expect things will get faster, count on them to get slower” The nameless butcher returning my hellos may take a while. If you walked out the back door, down the dock you will find Chappy on the right passing her and moving to the end you will find a crossing dock which is a large seating area, built with thick wood planks spaced about one inch apart the green water peering through, once painted red, long ago it has lost its luster taking on a charming patina after years of rain and sun.  The benches all around built in the same fashion; they are comfortable for any length of deliberation and my new office. The rusty tin roof above shields me from the sun and rain surprisingly well having been riddled with rust in a pattern of machine gun fire. Maybe Che hung out here on a sabbatical from freedom fighting and after a few rums in a fit of passion shot up the place. I would like to think that; it’s the romantic in me.  

During the days Chappy is getting sanded down, new paint, varnish and rebedded. Around here good skilled boat maintenance labor runs around $7.25 an hour and at that price, have at it boys. Of course nothing is perfect and the slower rule does apply here. The guys working on the boat bust their humps but the min they work enough to cover their beer or who knows what money for the night they are done, will leave and when the money is gone they come back. I am glad I am planning on spending over a month here or I would be banging my head against the wall.  Good thing is the boat looks great.  Recently I posted a video of me ridding to the bank with one of the boat workers  in a cab. There was no gas tank left on the car just a jerry jug stuffed in the engine compartment with a hose going into it, capped with a rag and a spare gas can in the back seat next to me. The driver couldn’t understand my protest as he lit up a cigarette but soon understood my phobia of being burned alive in a Buick 98 and tossed it out the window. Rolling down the street like 3 G’s we blared Reggaetone but as we approached the town a more crooner style music was played. The driver looking back at me and in broken English/Spanish said “this one is for the ladies.”

To stay fit I have been running in the mornings. At day break I head up the road finding many sprints in me to avoid the millions of loose dogs and of course the cars give me an agility workout since they don’t know what to do with a runner. As they pass they will slow down and swerve at me inorder to get a better look, usually as they past every head is turned and looking at me as if I were “Cool Runnings”