Back at our home port, I coxswained “The Admiral’s Barge,”
so at sea, they left me pretty much alone. I was all set to enjoy three days of
liberty on this fabled island. I can’t help thinking about it today. I wasn’t
on a fast ship, nor was I going “in harm’s way,” well not really. They told us
which parts of San Juan not to enter. That was simply a challenge to some
sailors and they paid the price for it—and not in John Paul Jones style.
I knew we weren’t “in Kansas” when the tugs snugged us
against the pier. I joined in the fun. It was bit of a different experience for
our merry band of bosun’s mates. We normally employed what they called a “Med
Moor” from the practice of tying ships up ass-end, oops stern-end, to the dock
so as to allow more ships in the crowded ports of the Mediterranean. Pulling
alongside a waiting pier was a gracious way to enter a strange port. We all felt
so.
The young boys sitting on the docks, their legs dangling
over toward the water didn’t agree. Each had a brown paper bag from which he took
deep breaths, tapping on the bottom of the bags to help expel the fumes of
airplane glue. They gazed with stoney, dreamy, faces and paid us no attention
until an ensign, probably an Annapolis man, yelled for them to “get away from
the dock.” Extended fingers shot up in the universal sign of disrespect. The
hands went back to tapping the sacks. The ensign went back to whatever it is
that ensigns do. Young boys claimed that spot for our entire stay, coming and
going as if in shifts. I don’t think the beauty of that island dominated their
dreams.
Meanwhile, we “hit the Beach” and had a grand time. We explored
the old fortresses that once guarded the island from pirates, the English, and
other dangers. We experienced food and drink. We strolled the beaches, much to
the disgust of the young folks. Some things never changed back then from place
to place.
Some shipmates and I signed up for a trip to the rain
forest. One of my memories is of the ride there in a converted school bus. I
held my head in place against the window and watched the scenes roll by. The
highway ran along a wide strip of land bordering, in most places, the sea. The
scene changed from monumental masonry walls, whitewashed and bordering
immaculate golf courses, to long stretches of cardboard shacks, hardly fit for
human habitation. There wasn’t much in between.
I’ve been thinking also lately of my glimpse of the rain
forest. What a heavenly place. What a blessed spot of Earth’s serenity. What
kind of riches must be in store, at least in the mind, for those who would
destroy such a place, one provided by nature, or God—take your pick, for us
puny homo sapiens.
It was a grand trip and still provides me happy memories. If
some natives proved a bit surly, it was understandable. They didn’t dislike us
any more, maybe a bit less, than our own folks back home, especially in our
home port of Charleston. Further, they were sorta Americans, sorta not. We fell
somewhere between the extremes along the scale of their allegiances. That was
no surprise.
I think the Galilean would have us love the people of Puerto
Rico. Why our president doesn’t remains a secret with which his own heart must
deal. We are fortunate in that we don’t have to share his demons. So, goodbye and
good luck, Puerto Rico. Best wishes to a beautiful place.
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| Farewell wondrous island. |
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