What I know of Puerto Rico stems from the time our ship
docked there for a few days back in the early 1970s. They range from despondency
to awe.
I was coxswain of the Admiral’s barge so I didn’t have much
to do at sea, and noncoms generally steered around me. I was free to wander up
to the fo'c'sle when someone said land was in sight. Sure enough, one could see
the dark outline of mountains rising on the horizon like a bank of clouds, and
I thought of how the first Europeans must have felt upon experiencing that
sight. Colors became pronounced as we steamed closer and the magnificent
grandeur of the island showed itself like a young girl modeling her Easter
finery.
The beauty faded as we docked alongside a greasy pier,
watched all the while by a line of young boys sitting side by side with their
feet dangling over the dock. Each had a paper bag which he would raise and
pat from time to time, with the opening around his nose.
Sniffing glue, they were. That seemed to be a common pastime
for many of the young boys. One of our more pompous officers yelled for them to
leave. It only took one finger each for them to respond. Thus began our
relationship with the locals.
My pals and I had liberty next day. There being no Bible-study
outlets near, we opted for a tour of the famous El Yunque National Rainforest. A bus transported us there and we
were able to see a great deal of the countryside on the way. What I remember
was staring out the window at mile after mile of cardboard and barn-tin shacks interrupted
from time to time by a long stretches of whitewashed masonry fences with
brilliant green golf courses beyond. There didn’t seem to be much middle ground
in the local society.
We were warned not to go into certain sections of the “Old
Town” area. There were groups there, we were told, that didn’t care much for
military personnel. This was nothing new to us, so many from or ship went
anyway. There were no incidents with the locals, but a sailor from a German
warship taught one of our guys a lesson about the myth of American invincibility.
Boy, did he ever.
Our little group searched the historic district for museums,
libraries, and monuments. I later recognized some of the locations when they appeared
as substitutes for Havana in such films as I’ve
Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up To Me. The beauty was breathtaking, the
landscaping lush and rich. Do bodies still lie tangled among it now while our
mainland government dawdles? I don’t know.
Our stopover ended quickly. On the last day ashore, we
walked down to the local beach and ogled the girls in bikinis. We had no
religious literature to distribute, so we just sat and watched while enjoying
beverages of choice. My last memory of the island was of a young girl who
appeared to be enjoying herself with a group of friends. She was quite gorgeous
and curvy, the very image of a young, wholesome, fresh-faced teenager engaged
in harmless recreation with her friends.
She would have fit seamlessly in any park in America. This
was only natural, for they were Americans, just as we were. She looked at us and one of the group smiled and
nodded. She took us in, symbols of truth, justice and the American way, in our
starched white uniforms and service ribbons, protecting her freedoms as well as
well as those of all peoples.
“I hope you drown in the sea,” she said in perfect English. She
nodded, her pals giggled, and they all strode away. At that moment, we felt as
though we were back home.
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| Local hero … not. |
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