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January 27, 2008
Leaving Aruba
We left the customs & immigration dock shortly before 8am, four souls on board – Mike, Judy, Marciano, and me. Mike & Judy decided to hire Marciano, whom they found through the marina office, since he has done this passage many times. He is a charming man, slightly younger than me, and runs a charter business on his sailboat “Morningstar”.
We motor-sailed in light easterly winds, hoping that once we were out of the lee of the island we would pick up some winds. As the island became smaller and smaller on the horizon behind us, the winds diminished at the same rate. By mid-afternoon, as we were motor-sailing passed the Gulf of Venezuela, the Venezuela Navy hailed us on the VHF radio. (Last I heard, the country didn’t have a navy, at least no ships to speak of, and Chavez had resorted to laying chains across the harbours to keep unsavories (American-flagged sailboats?) out of his waters.)
Nevertheless, we cooperated with their request.
“Boot at [insert longitude and latitude] eedenteefy yooself”. His accent and English were so bad we didn’t know he was actually speaking to us. Inevitably, we responded.
“This is the sailing vessel PorFin. How can we help you?”
“Oka, what ees yoo flag?”
“Americano” Judy answered in her best Spanish accent.
“Oka, what is yoo coonits?” Judy and I looked at each other dumbfounded. Mike and Marciano were below playing with a leaking hose on the engine. We decided not to interrupt their progress, despite Marciano’s fluency in Spanish.
“No comprendo” Judy answers.
“What is yoo coonits?” Egads. I think they want our coordinates. We gave them. It took several broadcasts to finally get our coordinates to him, which by the time he finally accepted them, we had moved about a mile west.
“Oka, boot nam in international fontics?” Oh, sweet chilli peppers!
“Papa. Oscar.” Judy asks me if that’s correct and I shrug my shoulders. “Romeo. F.. F.. Febrero”. Oh, no, that can’t be right. “India. November”. After several attempts, the Venezuelan Navy officer got PORIN. Good enough.
“Oka. Last for”. What? Last four? I suggested Judy give him the last four digits of our coordinates. “No. No. Last for.” Ding! Last port! Judy says “Aruba”
“Oka. Nest for.” We got this one straight away. Judy replies “Panama”.
The conversation went on for several more minutes, after which the radio went silent. We have no idea whether he was able to obtain the information he needed, although I joked with Judy that since they now had our longitude and latitude, the incoming scud missile would put a big hole in one of the sails. She didn’t laugh.
Posted by dave at January 27, 2008 02:19 PM