Taking Off

****

It was a bit of a squally rainy day the morning we left for Los Hiatuses National Park.

"Doesn't matter" I said. "We're on Moby Dick patrol"
"And WaterMaking Procedures" replied the Capt'N, in all seriousness.

We departed our marina berth, coiled up our lines, brought in our fenders and motored out. All systems go for the watermaker, camera at the ready, and we kept busy scanning the waterlines for any suspicious waterspouts or humps arising.

Although the skies were dark and grey, the rains never bothered us as we slowly meandered across the Bay,



the shoreline eventually emerging from the grey mists,



like something out of one of those movies!

We had initially asked the Comandante, Mr Shepard of the Marina Guerra, if we could go visit the Los Hiatuses National Park and he had said, one night, possibly. Maybe. Shrugged his shoulders in a Perhaps type of way.

One of the formalities when visiting the Dominican Republic requires you to check with Customs, Immigration, Marina Guerra, Drug Inspection, etc, etc when departing AND arriving, and arriving only at designated ports that house the above Officers, at each and every stop, which makes it all, rather... tedious and often hard to explore.

When we asked him again the day before we wanted to leave, he gave us until Monday. Since we were coming right back to the marina we did not need a Despacho.

"Hold on to your hats, look how fast we're going!!"



And only with the jib !! Since we needed to make water it all worked out beautifully as we had to slow ourselves down to cover the ~10 nm at a no wind, jib only, sailboat type of pace, for the next 3-4 hours.

But, how could you ask for anything better when the skies started to clear just as we entered the San Lorenzo Bay.

"How do you pronounce Haitises anyways" asked the Capt'N.
"High-tee-sis" I answered, glad I had done some research with the internet we had had back at the Marina. There was going to be no connectivity here.

Located at the western end of Bahìa Samanà, the park was established in 1976. The Taínos reigned there, and in their language, Haiti means highland or mountain ranges. It has become quite the ecotourism experience, and features mangrove swamps, a varied and lush landscape, with caves to explore.

We anchored deep in Bahìa de San Lorenzo, near the Cano Chiquito, and were (perhaps) surprised to see ourselves being the only boat there. One rev back was all that was needed to satisfy ourselves that the anchor was set in the muddy bottom. Permanently.

The water was green here. Clear, and not dirty, just reflecting the lush green grasses of the bottom back at us. And that's when we noticed the jellyfish. Large desert plate sized translucent blobs of jellies floating about in swarms and clouds.



"There will be no swimming here" I declared, intending to not even drop one big toe in with any blobs the size of that !!

Once the engine off, the silence descend upon us, along with the heat of the emerging sun and lack of any noticeable wind. Our boat sat as still as a land-based house, and we felt, instantly, alone.

"Look hon, the skies are blue and the sun is out, perfect to go Adventuring !!" I whispered, even my words feeling like screams in the stillness that had suddenly descend upon us, like a wet, humid blanket.

We got the dinghy ready, packed some water, and off we went,



heading towards shore, the limestone cliffs jutting up and out and around in dramatic, irregular formations that made the landscape so fascinating. So pretty. So unique.







This is home to the Brown Pelican, and there were quite a few fighting for their perch, and then resting



on the many perches of what might have been once an old dock,





And then, yikes, that's when our outboard started to smoke. Triple yikes. A few quick checks confirmed it was overheating. No water coming out.

We had no radio, not that there would have been anyone to call, or anyone listening. We had no phone, again, not that there would have been anyone to call. We had ourselves and our oars. And some water.

So we rowed back. Past the Dock,



and all the way around the cliffs looking for the shortest distance back.

The sounds around us few and remote. We were accompanied along our journey with the occasional far-off splash of the Pelicans as they dove into the waters. The frigate birds circling overhead. The splash of our oars as they propelled us along, slowly, one oar stroke at a time. We felt small. Insignificant. Almost Lost. Alone. And yet awed by it all.

And we continued to row. All the way back to Banyan, which was anchored by herself, deep, way deep down in the Bay.

(...to be continued...)