|
|
|
.
|
.
|
.
|
Story by Tor Pinney
Back to List of Tor's Tales
Isla Beata
© 2012 Tor
Pinney - All Rights Reserved
Waypoint to High Point
I was single-handing,
bound for Ile à Vache, Haiti 200 n. miles west along the
south coast of Hispañola. Any break along the way would be
welcome. So when I cleared out of the Dominican Republic in
Las Salinas, I planned to stop over at remote Isla Beata off
Hispañola’s southernmost cape. It was just a waypoint, a
place to anchor for the night, or so I thought. But
sometimes the happiest cruising discoveries are those you
least expect.
|
I
set sail before dawn to cover the 70-miles that day.
Silverheels made good time, pushed by 25-30 knot winter
trade winds and shoved by cresting 8-12’ seas. It was
rough going, a 2-Bonine afternoon, but we fetched Cabo
Beata in 10 hours flat, scooted through the channel, and
rounded up in the island’s lee well ahead of sunset.
Oh, and what a sweet landfall it was! Transparent
turquoise water, white sand beach flanked by palm trees
and a string of fishermen’s huts, their painted skiffs
bobbing on moorings along the shoreline or hauled up
onto the beach. Amidst this Gauguin-like setting the
concrete Marina de Guerra (DR Navy) outpost seemed an
anomaly, but a welcome one; I knew could sleep easy here
with no threat from pirate wannabe’s. |
 |
 |
No
sooner had I set an anchor, coiled lines and popped a
cold Presidente beer than a couple of Marina de Guerra
officials headed my way from the shore, chauffeured by
one of the local fishermen. As they came alongside and
boarded Silverheels, I noted one of them had
considerately removed his shoes, the first Caribbean
official I’ve ever seen do that. The other, younger one,
incongruously toting an automatic rifle, wore flip-flops
and a friendly smile. Like all the officials I’d dealt
with in the DR, these men were courteous and hospitable.
Once they’d checked my despacho, Silverheels’ clearance
document from her last port, we sat in the cockpit and
chatted a while. They said I was welcome to come ashore
and to stay as long as I like. Apparently it didn’t
matter that I had officially cleared out of the
Dominican Republic. Isla Beata is a world apart, a
paradigmatic tropic isle. |
The next day I dinghied
in and strolled along the row of beachfront shacks, most
pieced together from scraps of corrugated metal, a few wood
planked, all of them shabby. These fishermen have homes and
families on the mainland. They come here to work, often for
weeks at a time, and their “camps” are ultra-basic. Yet,
while the huts were rough the grounds were conspicuously
free of the rubbish that so often blights mainland roads in
the DR. I was surprised, too, to find iguanas - big fat ones
- relaxing on the paths everywhere I went. Normally these
great lizards are afraid of humans, and rightfully so since
they’re a popular meat among rural natives. But on this
island they’re protected by law and have no natural
predators. You have to be careful not to trip on them!
As I idled along the
waterfront path exchanging greetings, I was invited several
times to sit and join small groups of men for a visit. They
were as curious about me as I was about them; it was a fun
exchange that gave my “conversational” Spanish a good
workout. As I headed back to my dinghy, the Marina de Guerra
comandante drew me aside and asked if I had any medicines I
could spare. The fishermen sometimes needed antibiotic
ointment, he explained, or pain killers like ibuprofen or
naproxen sodium, and (he added personally) a laxative if I
had any.
Back on the boat I rummaged through my medical kit, bagged
up what I could spare, and brought it in the next day. I
found the comandante to make my delivery and we sat in the
shade and chatted a while. He told me that Isla Beata hadn’t
always been so delightful. Fifty years ago it was a prison
island garrisoned by the military and off limits to
civilians, including fishermen. In those days the soldiers
stationed here harvested the abundant fish, storing them in
a refrigeration bunker for transport to the mainland. All
that remains of their occupation now is the old prison guard
tower and a few crumbling concrete outbuildings at the north
end of the island.
Today native fishermen set out in their skiffs each morning
to ply their trade, returning in the afternoon. Then they
relax around their camps mending nets, doing a little boat
maintenance, enjoying a game of dominos or chess, or just
kicked back in a hammock chatting with friends. When they
work they work hard, but it’s a balanced, low-stress
lifestyle that shows in their friendly smiles. Their needs
are simple and few; their workplace a genuine tropical
paradise. I know a lot of people back home who only wish
they lived as well.
When I weighed anchor a few days later several fishermen and
a couple of the Marina de Guerra guards waved farewell. I
had been a welcome guest on their island, and Isla Beata had
been a rare treat for me.
~ end ~
Back
to List of Tor's Tales
|
|
|
