One Beautiful Place

“Hey, you can see Puerto Rico.” Of course, any of us who weren’t working or standing watch headed for the foc’sle, forward on the starboard as per Navy rules. When we arrived, it was true. There in the distance was the faintest blue-gray outline of an island, only a miniscule tad darker than the sky. How did those earlier mariners locate such a dim spot in this vast ocean, using only dead-reckoning along with the skills and intuitions gained from a lifetime at sea? I could only wonder.

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.

Farewell wondrous island.

Morning Thoughts: September 28, 2016

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.

Local hero … not.