Getting on the Boat

My flight landed in Puerto Plata, D.R. Monday morning, November 21. I zipped through customs and out into the sunny parking lot where Chris Small and Ryan Smith were waiting for me with a hired driver, Nino. We drove along winding roads to Luperon, a small village on the north coast of the island. The roads were crowded with animals, cars, motorbikes, vendors, trash, and pedestrians.
We reached a small wooden dock where we loaded a small dinghy with my luggage, which consisted of only a medium backpack, a handbag, a ukulele, and a guitar. We also had several bags of groceries and ice from a supermarket in Puerto Plata. We nearly sank the little boat down to the water line as we held tight and motored out into the harbor. Ryan's sailboat, Ventana, was waiting there, at her mooring, where she'd been at rest since June. Ryan and his partner and child had left for the storm season to live and work on San Juan Island, Washington, for the summer and fall and now we three would pilot this ship back out to sea and across the Mona Passage to Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands.
Ventana is a 35' single-masted sloop sailboat with a fiberglass hull, built in 1963 per the Alberg design, among the first generation of fiberglass sailboats. Although not intended for long-term ocean cruising, Ryan had outfitted his boat with additional cabinetry, a highly efficient water-maker (desalinizer), a solar panel and wind generator, an array of batteries and an 110 Amp alternator. Technological additions include a small array of 12-Volt car-type plugs, a DC-to-AC inverter, a Wi-Fi antennae and router, a speaker system connected to a car CD player, built into the woodwork, and a GPS-powered navigational system on a netbook in the cockpit.
With all of this, plus our laptops and musical instruments, we felt like we were really cruising in style. Our amenities, as I would learn, pale in comparison to the luxury of many of the vessels we encountered. Vast expensive vessels fill the harbors and yacht clubs of the Caribbean equipped with more creature comforts and luxury accouterments than I have ever had at home. We were, comparatively, roughing it old-school with our hank-on sails and compact cabin space and early 60's rig.
I made myself at home, despite an odd mix-up of comforts and annoyances. Absolutely everything has a place, and often several things must be moved to get to the thing you want. There is a delicate order of operations to each endeavor on-board. This includes water use, using the head, taking a shower, stowing groceries, preparing a meal, going swimming. It is vitally important to keep salt water out, and to preserve energy and water, and to keep everything tightly stowed, and to kill any and all cockroaches on sight. Chris pointedly warned me early on that the boat beats you up. Bumps, and bruises, and scrapes are an accepted part of life on the boat. We are all frequently hitting our heads, getting our fingers smashed, getting smacked by cabinetry or loose objects, and stubbing our persistently bare feet. And that's when the boat isn't moving. Underway the rocking and pitching on the waves sends us careening from one side to the other of the cabin or cockpit, swings doors in our faces, launches kitchen items and tools through the air, splashes sea water in our faces and has us slipping and gripping our way along the deck. I would estimate we've each sustained an average of 2.5 moderate injuries per day. I'm not even going to talk about sunburn and bug bites.
I have taken well to cooking on the boat, even underway. The kitchen contains an oven, a 3-burner gas stove, a sink, a cutting board, a cooler, and some spices. What else does one need? I will go into detail on some of the things we've cooked and eaten later on (with photos, of course).
Now, I've been living and sleeping aboard Ventana for two-and-a-half weeks and it feels like home. Even the motion is becoming unnoticeable. I am eating and sleeping at least as well as I do at home. Our consumption of rum and cheap Caribbean lager is substantial, but I believe justified, and we are perhaps deficient in at least Vitamin K. What I would give for a crispy bunch of lacinato kale right now...