We’ve been scrounging our way through Luperón, scrapping together Spanish and hand gestures to hunt out supplies and expertise. The initial plans for sail repair and propane fill up had morphed into a to-do list including: mend 30’ tear in genoa sail, repair hydraulic steering, repair emergency tiller, thoroughly repair main engine motor mounts, repair generator (which stopped producing voltage to charge our battery bank), and finally finish repairing the plank on the bow sprit. Oh and also, when we checked in with customs I was made aware that my passport had expired. In November! At least now I know that the Bahamas don’t really look at the passports of incoming tourists and maybe I should get my eyes checked when I return to Seattle because I swear that I had checked the expiry prior to leaving and thought to myself, “oh good, I have plenty of time left”. When we told Papo that we’d be here for a week, I had thought that was generous. How naïve.

I’m realizing that out of all the things to communicate about in Spanish (even including mechanical conversations which I know diddly-squat about in English), receiving and following directions is the most difficult. While I can understand the directional, prepositional, and descriptive words being used, I have yet to be able to process these data into a successful arrival to the intended destination. I wonder if part of the confusion is culturally rooted, similar to how matters of time are so different here. For example, the “tall, white house” that I was looking for to use a printer for my passport form ended up being a tall green house, and when I asked when the woman would return to the house I was told 5pm. I immediately looked at my clock and it said 5pm. Hm.

We’ve also dedicated portions of our time scouring the town for parts to scouring for empanadas, a savory treat whose South American cousin I’ve been longing for ever since I left Argentina. Empanadas, in Luperón, are only made and eaten at a certain time of day. What time of day? “Noon and 8pm”. We checked the recommended street food stand at 8pm and found absolutely no activity. The next day, we lucked into the oil being hot and golden half-moons on the counter at 2pm and were told that they are making empanadas everyday between 6-11am. Whether it’s Latin American Time, Island Time, or just Luperón Time, we’ve begun to adapt and free ourselves of the rigid adherences to time that our North American roots have bred into us (and yes, even Maxwell on his perpetual Big Easy time has found room to relax).

In between projects, we had taken a smaller trip to see the 27 Charcos, a tourist attraction that features 27 waterfalls, cliff jumps, and natural slides that you hike up to then jump/slide/swim down. Dominican Republic has been in a drought, so there wasn’t enough water for all 27 falls, but we were able to go from waterfall 12 to the bottom—the first and biggest jump being 25’. Parts of it reminded me of the side canyons in the Grand Canyon: surprisingly brisk water weaving through magnificent, carved bedrock. But this time I was looking out of the canyon at cocoa trees and native mahogany rather than mesquite and sycamore. After the new tiller tabs were welded on, the generator fixed (it needed a new regulator), the engine adequately mounted, the bow sprit plank complete, the sail dropped off at the sailmaker, and the replacement seal kit for the hydraulic steering cylinder en route from Seattle, we were ready to take a little break and see the country.

Craving elevation, we managed to rent to motorcycles (this was accomplished by going over to the mechanic’s shop and asking if he knows where to rent them, being motioned inside and shown his, then agreeing to let him go in search of another, smaller one for me. We paid an indulgent $54 for the two for two days) and orient our maps toward the “Caribbean Alps”. After a bit of a rocky start, I’m just learning to ride a motorcycle after all, including running out of gas in the first few miles, we were making our way south toward Jarabacoa. A mix of paved roads, graded/under construction roads, freeway shoulders, city driving, and patches of gravel roads led us to the mountain town that had a remarkably different feeling than the other towns we’d been in thus far. Cruising downhill from the mountains as the sun was setting, the town was bustling with beautiful produce and bumping music.

After a nice rest at a hostel, we set out of town toward the south west, our eyes on the tall peaks and occasional hang-glider. We wove our way up the mountainside on a narrow, two-lane road that had been freshly paved, and turned around when we got to the entrance to the National Park, as there was no outlet road that would let us head north again toward Luperón. A majority of our trek north from there was on the back roads, which were characteristically steep, unpaved, and rutted out. Riding a motorcycle offers no rest for the senses, and this “technical riding” really put my mind and my nerves to the test. What made it, though, was the gorgeous pastoral scenery that went on and on.

Now, back in Luperón, we’ve hoisted the mended genoa back up the furler and reassembled the hydraulic cylinder back to its flawless function. We were treated to a delightful dinner on the beach in La Isabella (thanks, Mom and Mike!) and are finally ready to head back out to the open water. I believe that I’m the most anxious to get going from the Dominican Republic, but at the same time I have some inexplicable unease about heading back out there. I suppose that is the poisonous effect of getting too comfortable in a cheap, and climatically-agreeable harbor. Regardless, we are all packed and battened down and ready to untie from the mooring ball tomorrow morning, Friday March 29^th. We are painfully behind anticipated schedule, but we hope to make good time to Panama and get scheduled to move through the Canal as soon as possible. From there, it will be a major provisioning and inspection period before the crew of two—Maxwell and me—will set off for the offshore-but-not-quite-out-to-Hawaii arc toward Seattle.

P.S. If anyone reading this is interested in going through the Panama Canal, we are in search of volunteer line handlers! We won’t know our transit date until we arrive to Panama, which we estimate to be about 8 days away, with the transit only taking two days.