Puerto Rico: In the Company of Warships and Stained Pajamas

As I write this, I am watching the sun rise. I am on watch in the pilot house, and I am still wearing pajamas stained with coffee, food items which missed my mouth, and the shattered dreams of anyone who thinks boating is glamorous. But we did survive a rough night crossing from Isla Caja de Muertos to Vieques, albeit just a touch more disheveled than yesterday...

Last Wednesday, we arrived in Puerto Rico from Dominican Republic, docking at Puerto Real Marina on the southwest side after another nine hours of crossing Mona Passage being flung around in the dark like Tom Cruise’ cocktail shaker.

We are still under the possible false belief that night passages are “smoother”. l have adopted the Big Bird Theory of Seamanship: if you can't see the waves, the waves can't hurt you. A theory disproven instantly by my carefully placed Christmas decorations flying across the boat, and my growing rock collection becoming stealth missiles.…However, it is true that at night the upside is fewer boats to hit. The downside is we can't see the ones we are about to hit. Despite all of these sea challenges Captain Silver Fox continues to keep us safe - although admittedly he does have his hands full.

And some discoveries have been made re; night passages…

1. We need coffee cups with lids.
2. The dog needs prescription drugs.
3. I may also need prescription drugs.
4. If sufficiently exhausted, I can sleep even while slowly rolling off the pilothouse sofa like a dozy burrito.

Puerto Real was a great place to check in—friendly staff, remote clearance (thank you, America), and some pretty epic margaritas and fish tacos at the marina restaurant. What they failed to mention in the reviews is the local dog-friendliness situation. Probably because there aren’t many people nuts enough to take an 80 pound dog from country to country on a boat. The moment you leave the marina, you’re greeted by what might generously be called a “suggestion” of a sidewalk—mostly borrowed by parked cars—and a welcoming committee of stray dogs who clearly need new job descriptions. After dodging traffic and the canine hit squad, we opted to leave after a day and head for Isla Caja de Muertos-the Southern most island in Puerto Rico.

On the way we were boarded again. Do we look like drug smugglers? (Don’t answer that-I'm aware our matching pirate pony tails say "international criminal" more than "luxury cruiser"). This time by the US Coast Guards. I’m getting used to the scariness of having a police boat with lights flashing steaming towards you demanding to board you.

I’ve also got a video of the last time we were boarded - apparently a brush with the popo is good for YouTube analytics as 4,000 folks have already tuned in - no doubt hoping to one day see us arrested...

Once again, Captain Silver Fox got gold stars and a boy scout badge (OK it was just a receipt, but he should have gotten more) for having all of the correct paperwork and safety equipment on board. I just stood there like a goon taking sneaky video for more YouTube fodder.

My Spanish is atrocious, but even I thought the name Isla Caja De Muertos sounded ominous. How wrong I was. The island once had what looked like a state park center, but the last tremblores de tierra (I’m now calling earthquakes “ground tremblers ”) left it artistically disassembled. The dock, much to the seagulls’ horror, was just safe enough for us to tie up. We swam, collected amazing green stones, watched Gypsy bound around, and were just starting to get bored when—because our travels are apparently curated by a mischievous scriptwriter—a massive U.S. Navy warship appeared.

It was the USS Iwo Jima, which Ken has flown helicopters from when he was a Navy Commander. Honestly, nothing makes my husband hotter than casually pointing at a giant warship and saying, “Oh yes, I used to land on that.”…(That and correct boat paperwork of course). We were treated to a full air-and-sea spectacle as various military machines zipped around right over the boat. For those who want the facts and not more of me drooling over my very own Top Gun, I wrote down what Ken's commentary of the machines, with my own helpful descriptions in parentheses for us civilian types:

We saw the USS Iwo Jima LHD7 (the bloody big warship). We saw a flight of V22 Ospreys (big helicopters that turn into planes and can carry about 30 muscley marines or 40 skinny ones each), we saw LCACs landing (those were hovercraft type boats which somehow climbed up the poop chute -Ken actually called it that - into the rear end of the bloody big warship), we saw H53 Echoes (just big normal helicopters….boring at that point).

All that made for a jolly good time, and regailing of some fun Navy stories from Captain SF, but at sunset, when USS Iwo Jima pulled up her anchor and headed West (closer to Venezuela perhaps?) we headed East into the night…

Like following two semi-capable adults who sold everything and sailed into the unknown? Become a crew member and get exclusive episodes, stories and questionable decisions delivered straight to your inbox.

For an hour or so everything was going suspiciously well until very loud warning alarms started going off with a lady’s cheerful voice declaring we had an emergency - smoke in the engine room. At about the same time the waves picked up to bucking bronco level. Not good. Ken went down to the smokey engine room, Gypsy started whimpering and I wondered, while I helmed, how long I should wait before checking whether my husband was unconscious...and whether Google has a tutorial for radioing maydays.

And you know what my reaction to this situation was? I couldn’t think of one sensible thing because my weird brain was completely filled with Dido’s song….”I will go down with this ship…” A banger to be played at every break up and ship emergency apparently. Since at this point, the dog was having her own personal meltdown, and I was sailing solo and sober, I decided to blast Dido-because nothing boosts morale quite like a middle-aged woman promising to go down with the ship in a tone deaf and shameless bellow. (The song is called White Flag if ever you too find yourself in a disaster situation and need constructive help).

At least now everyone knows there are worst things than a smoky engine and 7 foot waves in the middle of the night. You’re welcome.

Which brings us to where we are now: Husband thankfully still alive, engine issue resolved, dog still questioning our sanity, seven miles from Vieques, once the U.S. military’s target-practice island and now home to villages, wild horses, one of the best bioluminescent beaches in the world, and—miraculously—a mountain they did not blow up.

Tonight we’ll anchor in Ensenada Sun Bay, Vieques where—mercifully—no one expects me to change into clothing that makes me look less like a deranged woman.

I think this lifestyle suits me.