The Battle of Virgin Gorda

Mami loaded the three of us in her Volvo sedan early in the morning. We started the long journey East to the marina where La Pepita was docked, leaving the bombs of Condado and the workers’ strike behind. We looked forward to a weekend vacation.

Papi stayed back at the Ojeda house to make sure all was safe and secure before he left. “I’ll join you soon.” He’d sail to Virgin Gorda from San Juan on La Victoria, Abuelo Carlos’ Hatteras, which was much faster than La Pepita, Abuelo Beto’s Bertram. 

The drive to the Isleta Marina ferry in Fajardo was two hours long. It took another hour to motor to the flat island with the two tall towers overlooking the tin roofs of the marina.

Getting on the ferry was the beginning of the six-hour-long journey to the Anegada Passage at the edge of the Caribbean Sea. Beyond Anegada, was the Atlantic Ocean and the long crossing to Europe. Ours was a much shorter weekend adventure. Only 200 nautical miles to Virgin Gorda, one of the British Virgin Islands, and back.

During the drive, I thought of Abuelo Carlos, who had made the dangerous journey across the Atlantic, to Spain, on La Victoria with a small crew. Similar to Captain Bligh in Mutiny on the Bounty, he was an excellent sailor, but quick to anger. I had to be on my very best behavior when I visited him and Abuela Vicki in the penthouse of the Kings Court Tower, which overlooked the Atlantic Ocean.

Abuela Vicki often told the story of Abuelo Carlos’s marriage proposal. He held her captive on his small Chris Craft skiff runabout during a sunset cruise across Condado’s lagoon. She refused to give him an answer until they were safely back on dry land.

She said yes.

Instead of rum, Abuelo Carlos liked to drink Black & White Scotch whisky on the rocks, bottles of which he kept in the wet bar on the terrace of Kings Court. He also served Cutty Sark to his guests, which I preferred because the green glass bottles had tall ships on the label.

Pictures of his powerboats hung from the walls of their apartment. I spent a long time looking at the old and fading photos of the first two Victorias. And the picture of the shiny and sleek Victoria III, all named after my grandmother.

They hung next to the large Spanish terracotta ceramic plates decorated with paintings of Christopher Columbus’ three famous caravels. The dishes were weather-beaten by the salt air, the salitre in the wind, which whipped around the sitting room every time I opened the sliding doors to the penthouse terrace.

***

As we approached Isleta Marina, the smell of brine and rotting seaweed hit me.

I looked forward to seeing García, the captain of La Pepita, named after my great grandmother, Josefina, Abuelo Beto’s mother.

Captain García had been in the merchant marine of his country before the Cuban Revolution. He was a tall man with big shoulders. But he also had a soft voice and spoke rarely, giving him an air of mystery.

He’d been working for Abuelo Beto a long time. Since the old Norseman, which the family had been sailing to Caja de Muerto from the Ponce Marina, on the Southern side of the Island, before I was born.

Many said that Caja de Muerto was the original treasure island where the pirates took Jim Hawkins.

“Not so,” said Petrus, the second mate of La Pepita, a stocky and prickly man. Short hairs standing at attention at the end of his nose. He was waiting for us, on the pier, next to the motorboat.

Petrus spoke with a thick Greek accent, and I was afraid to cross him. He was sweet like diesel, but also just as explosive.

“Are you wearing black soled shoes?”

Petrus fired his first shot across the bow before we set foot on the sparkling white fiberglass deck of La Pepita.

“If you are, you better take them off right quick. I’m not cleaning after your slipping and sliding.”

I lifted my foot and showed Petrus my white-soled Converse tennis shoes. And he put out the stepping stool to allow me on La Pepita.

As we boarded the trawler, we walked through the main bridge where García was waiting for us. He stood tall and firm, but his smile was relaxed.

The teak-wood and stainless-steel steering wheel stood behind García as he greeted us from the bridge. He had on his neatly pressed green uniform, complete with long pants, and a captain’s hat under his arm. The olive uniform made García look older and wiser than Petrus, who had to wear gray short pants, until he graduated to a higher rank.

“Welcome to La Pepita, Ma’am,” García said, formally addressing Mami as was his custom when talking with older members of the family.

“Come on in, children. You know where your sleeping quarters are.”

He put his large hand on my shoulder.

“We’ll be leaving as soon as you board. We mustn’t keep Toribio waiting.”

As soon as we boarded La Pepita, Petrus started to work on the ropes, and the motorboat started to drift into the channel that would take us out of the marina.

I watched García push-and-pull the shiny chrome levers that made the engines engage. They revved. García moved the trawler slowly and safely forward and back, until we cleared the dock.

“Will we finally get to meet Toribio?”

“I have a feeling this might be the lucky trip when you’ll meet the shark of Virgin Gorda!”

***

Papi had taught me all about sharks. He told me stories about the fantastic animal when he took me out on trillitas around San Juan Bay on his double-hulled Boston Whaler. On one of the short boat rides, he told me the legend of Rufino, the killer of sharks, a Taíno Indian from the town of Aguadilla on the Western side of the Island.

Rufino, Papi said, was protected from the dangerous fish by a scapulary of the Virgen del Carmen, the patron saint of fishermen. But he became overconfident, Papi warned.

As we sailed out to the mouth of San Juan Bay, we would see an old fisherman aimlessly wandering below the walls of the old city, looking out at the water, and cursing. I could hear him across the bay shouting, “¡malditos tiburones!”

“That’s Rufino.”  

Many years ago, Rufino had gone out fishing with his eight-year-old son. They put out their sailboat on the dock just outside the last remaining gate of the old city. The sky was dark, and he knew better than to set sail. Rain brought sharks closer to shore. But Rufino was reckless. He ignored the warnings, and he took his son fishing.

As soon as they crossed the mouth of the harbor, it started to pour. Ten-foot waves hit the small vessel, making it rock, and his son fell overboard. Rufino jumped into the water to try to save him, but it was too late. A shark got hold of his son and dragged him to the bottom of the sea.

After the accident, Rufino went insane with grief. Every morning, he would go fishing for sharks. When he hooked one, he brought it into his boat, still alive, filled its maw with sea urchins, and put it back in the water.

“That was Rufino’s revenge,” Papi said.

The story made me afraid to swim when it was raining. I didn’t want to end up like Rufino’s son, dragged to the bottom of the sea by sharks.

But the story of Rufino also made me like sharks more than any other fish in the ocean. I liked their grinning mouths, their ferocious teeth, and their angry beady eyes.

In The Mutiny on the Bounty, a Midshipman tells the second mate that sharks are following the three-masted ship. The predators smelled the blood of the sailor that Captain Bligh had keel-hauled, and killed for an act of disobedience.

“Let me get a musket to shoot him,” the Midshipman said, “and then I’ll kill the other shark on board our ship.” He meant the evil captain of the HMS Bounty.

But the second mate stopped him and reminded the Midshipman of his place.

“A seaman’s a seaman. A captain’s a captain.”

And he recited the Golden Rule, “Where the captain rules, sailors have no sway.”

Captain Bligh might have been an evil and cruel man, but he was also a match for the blood thirsty sharks.

Papi told me that the captain’s discipline must be harsh, to protect the sailors from the sharks swimming around them.

“Your ship will keep afloat, and you’ll stay on course, if you remember the Golden Rule, Noti: ‘donde manda capitán no manda marinero.’”

I thought of Captain García, a gentler sort of captain. His stories of Toribio, the harmless Hammerhead shark of Virgin Gorda, made me wonder if Papi was right.

***

After clearing the marina, García climbed on to the flying bridge of La Pepita, where I followed him. We sailed in silence, as we passed St. John Island and Tortola. I could see the southern tip of Virgin Gorda with the captain’s binoculars.

In case a storm developed, we were cruising as fast as La Pepita could go, to reach safe harbor. I studied the pitometer. The 63-foot Bertram was going 18 knots per hour. It cut through the growing waves, a knife through soft butter.

García told me the story of the legendary Hammerhead shark. “Toribio, lives in the Baths of Virgin Gorda. A great volcanic eruption gave birth to the island.”

The captain stood on the flying bridge. The wind threatened to blow away his hat.

“When the volcano exploded, it threw out gigantic boulders. Molten lava carried the boulders to the shore and when they settled, Toribio hammered them into the shape they currently have.”

García held on to the black visor of his captain’s hat.

“That’s why the Baths look like a big house, half-filled with water, complete with walls, passages, rooms, corridors, and skylights.”

García kept adjusting the course of La Pepita against the strong currents that pushed the trawler too far to the left or too far to the right of Virgin Gorda.

“If you ever see Toribio swimming around the Baths, you should count yourself lucky, Noti. He’s welcoming you to his magic kingdom.”

The captain looked straight forward as he spoke. The sun was on his broad back, and he cast a long shadow across the instrument panel and dials of the bridge of La Pepita.

We arrived at Virgin Gorda too late to go to the Baths, so we took a detour to Dixi Bay, where La Victoria was laying in anchor, close to other motorboats.

García found a spot for La Pepita far away from the others. He knew the family valued, and expected, privacy above all. He put down the dinghy and helped Mami, my siblings, and me, to get on.

We headed for La Victoria III, a smaller motorboat than La Pepita, but it’s smoother and aerodynamic lines, as well as its deeper keel, made it a more seaworthy vessel, while the shallow keel of the Bertram trawler was designed for comfort.

Papi, Abuela Vicki, and Abuelo Carlos sat on the back of the sleek Hatteras, drinking their cocktails, waiting for us to arrive. They were dressed for dinner.

García motored next to La Victoria, and we climbed aboard. Papi waved, and Abuela Vicki gave each of us a kiss.

She smelled of perfumed talcum powder and was dressed to the nines. The crucifix around her neck shined, together with her pearl earrings, her golden broach, and the rings on her fingers. Her auburn hair was set in a big wave. She wore bright red lipstick, and her nails were carefully manicured.

Abuelo Carlos had named the Hatteras after her, but Abuela Vicki looked out of place in the muscular powerboat. Virgin Gorda was as far as she would sail. She preferred to make the journey across the Atlantic on an airplane.

Abuela Vicki brought me next to her and said, “this is you, Noti,” pointing to a little fish on a charm bracelet. Each charm was there to remind her of each one of her nine grandchildren.

We then went to kiss Abuelo Carlos, who was sitting on the vinyl sofa nursing a glass of Black & White. He put out his Cuban cigar in one of the colored bean bag ashtrays.

Abuelo Carlos was balding, and he protected his head from the sun with a Greek captain’s hat. His Popeye arms, blotchy and hairy, bulged out of his short-sleeved Oxford shirt. He let us kiss him and went back to his conversation with Papi.

They were discussing the recent workers’ strikes, and the merits of a TV jingle for the family brand of canned beans: “Hogar products: pure and simply good for your family!”

Mami sat down next to Abuela Vicki, and we listened to the adult conversation, eating piscolabis of Hormel and blood sausages. The bell would signal when dinner was ready.

“It’s so good to see you, Mija.” Abuela Vicki called Mami Mija or worse, Mijita, to her chagrin. She cringed every time she heard the word.

“It’s been too long since we last saw you for Sunday brunch.”

“Yes, Vicki, it has been too long. And the children so enjoy your delicious crispy cod fritters, your bacalaítos, and your croquetas.”

Mami smiled at us as she replied.

“And my husband will only eat dishes from your collection of cooking recipes. Thanks for allowing me to type them up.”

Abuela Vicki smiled.

“It seems like ages since I last took Noti to Church with me, Mija.”

She turned to face me, “As your godmother, I’m responsible for your religious education, Noti.”

Turning back to Mami, she said, “I’ll never forget his crisis!”

“Yes, we were in Switzerland, and you were so kind to stay at the Ojeda house with the children.”

Abuela Vicki turned to look at me again.

“You were so feverish that Tita and I had to put you in a bathtub filled with as much cold water as you could stand.”

The scene was frozen in my memory. Pieces of ice floated on the water of the bathtub like icebergs from the North Pole. The story of The Titanic came to mind: the sharks circling and waiting for the victims in their evening clothes, the captain standing on the bridge until the last moment.

The second mate of La Victoria interrupted my imaginary sinking ship. He came from the galley, pale, holding two large cans of Hogar tomato sauce, one on each hand.

“Sir.” He raised the cans so Abuelo Carlos could get a good look at them.

“We found the last two cans of tomato sauce. But they were down in the hold during the last storm, and they must have gotten wet.”

The cans were rusty on top and a little puffy.

Abuelo Carlos gave the cans a cursory look and said, “I think they’re fine. Go ahead and use them.”

Papi warned Mami about cans that looked like that.

“They’re Botulism Bombs.”

Papi threw them out automatically.

Mami looked at Papi. Then she looked at us. Finally, she asked Abuelo Carlos, “are you sure it’s safe?”

“Of course, they’re safe, Mijita! They are Hogar, pure and simply good.”

“But,” she said looking at me, “Noti has a weak stomach, and I don’t want him to be ill on your boat”.

Abuelo Carlos gave Mami an icy cold stare. His tight-lipped grin was frozen on his face, another Captain Bligh.

“Cook,” he called, “come out here!”

The cook came out to the sitting area.

“Are these cans safe to open or are they not?”

He looked at the cook squarely in the eye.

“They are Hogar, pure and simply good!, he parroted.”

The cook reminded me of the Bounty’s second mate. I wondered if he ever ate what he served us.

La Victoria suddenly turned very quiet. The lapping waves hit against the hull of the still powerboat. The ripples made the Hatteras sway gently. Vicki’s charms tinkled. Papi tried to break the ice and lighten the mood. He made a joke.

“Remember the Golden Rule, honey …”

Mami wasn’t having any of it. She turned to us and said, “children, go below deck to the master bedroom and turn on the TV.”

“Aw, really, Mami?”

The second mate of La Victoria took us below decks, single file. The dining room door slid shut behind us.

I heard the muffled voices of the grownups arguing on the upper deck. Güicho turned on the TV, but I turned down the volume. I wanted to hear Mami fighting with Abuelo Carlos.

I’d seen Mami and Papi go at it before. One time, Papi threw a plate full of spaghetti marinara against the kitchen wall. But that was just a skirmish, and this was a full-on naval battle.

Abuelo Carlos tried to silence Mami with his booming voice. Mami backtalked, argued, and fought to change the menu.

Finally, something heavy hit the deck loudly above our heads. Was it the “Botulism Bomb” or had Papi broken another dish?

La Nena was hiding between the pages of her book.

It started to drizzle. I sensed the sharks swimming circles around us. The master bedroom portholes were just above the waterline.

The second mate came back downstairs to fetch us.

Back on deck, Mami spoke to Papi.

“Dear,” she said, struggling to keep her voice under control, “please be so kind as to radio La Pepita. I’ve lost my appetite, and the children need to go to bed early tonight.”

“Honey, please, reconsider,” Papi pleaded.

Abuela Vicki played with her bracelet as if the charms were rosary beads, and she was praying for a miracle.

Everybody but Abuelo Carlos was standing up. He was sitting on the sofa, smoking his cigar, and looking out to sea. There was a tumbler and ice on the floor as well as a big stain on the rug. The room smelled of Black & White. Was the sound of the crystal glass hitting the deck the explosion I had heard below?

Mami didn’t budge, and Papi had no choice but to go indoors and make the radio call. He would stay back on La Victoria.

García came to fetch us.

We stepped carefully into the dinghy, made slippery by the rain.

I glanced at the dark water, looking for dorsal fins. The light from the moon and stars reflected on the lapping waves and made a shining path to La Pepita.

I gave a sigh of relief when we climbed back on board.

Petrus served us Greek Salad with Star Kist Tuna before bed. As I ate, I imagined the voice of the TV announcer saying, “sorry Charlie!”

***

That night, I dreamed that I was swimming in the Baths, and I saw Toribio. I floated around his magic kingdom. The rooms were dark, and the water was warm. I looked for the friendly shark. Shafts of light came in through cracks in the boulders and strange noises echoed inside the chambers. It was Toribio, tapping his hammer head softly against the rocks.

A similar sound woke me up. It came from upstairs.

I got up and went to the large state room on the upper deck, where Güicho was sleeping on one of the sofas, set flush against the port side of La Pepita’s state room.

It was still dark, but the reflection from the sun started to rise over the low hills of Dixi Bay.

Usually, the sliding windows of La Pepita were shut for the night, silencing the roosters of Virgin Gorda, and its braying wild donkeys. So, I was surprised to hear them now, and to feel the warm salty breeze on my face.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I saw the outline of a bowsprit jutting through one of the windows of La Pepita. It spanned across the relatively narrow space from one side of the long state room to the other. As if the thick branch of a tree had somehow managed to come in through the window of a shotgun house.

The sea was calm, so the bowsprit barely moved. The strange branch broke the symmetry of the living room. It split the part where Güicho slept, from the dining room area that made up the second half of the state room of La Pepita. I rubbed my eyes hard, wondering if I was still asleep.

The anchor of a sailboat must have broken off the bottom, and the boat drifted to where La Pepita was, without making a sound, slowly tapping her side until the window cracked and finally broke. That must have been the sound I heard in my dreams!

Miraculously, nobody noticed. Not even Güicho, who was sound asleep. I heard him snoring. There was broken glass all around him.

I ran to Güicho and woke him up, brushing aside the broken pieces of glass so that he could get up. We then looked for Petrus, who was sleeping on a bench in the narrow galley, beyond the dining room.

All hell broke loose. Petrus woke up García, and the captain raced to the flying bridge to try to separate La Pepita from the rudderless sailboat, preventing any more damage. He tried to remain calm but raised his voice and spoke angrily into the Motorola.

I presumed the captain of the sailboat was at the receiving end of the call. Petrus went to the port side of La Pepita to try to help separate the boats, but he gave up after a while. They were stuck together, and too large to budge.

Petrus came back inside to sweep the broken glass off the floor. He was swearing in Greek at the crew of the sailboat.

Everybody but Mami forgot about us. She rounded us up and we boarded the dinghy. She opened the compartment of the motor, took out the chord, clutched the handle with both hands, and pulled. The Evinrude started on the first try. She yelled to Petrus. “We’re headed to La Victoria. Radio ahead!”

Papi and the crew of La Victoria greeted us. By now, word had gone around the bay about the accident, and there were people on the other motorboats staring at us through their binoculars.

Mami frowned at the unwanted attention. She looked embarrassed. And I figured it wasn’t easy for her to return to La Victoria after what Güicho, La Nena, and I called “the battle of Virgin Gorda.”

“Thank God you and the children are safe,” Papi said as he lifted the teak rail of the Hatteras to allow us to board the powerboat.

“How on earth could something like that happen?”

Mami threw a line to Papi who grabbed it from the deck of La Victoria. He drew the dinghy closer. Mami stood up and grabbed the side of the powerboat. The waves, and the difference in height between the dinghy and the Hatteras made Mami wobbly and unsteady on her feet.

I looked down at the water, hoping to see Toribio.

Mami took us by the hand, one by one, and she helped Papi to lift us out of the dinghy.

Once safely on the deck of La Victoria, I saw Mami climbing aboard, disheveled. Only then, I noticed that she was still in her pajamas. We all left La Pepita in such a hurry, we didn’t have time to change.

She looked back at La Pepita and sighed, shaking her head. She then turned to Papi and looked behind him, squinting into La Victoria’s dark dining room.

“And where is Captain Bligh?” she whispered to Papi.

“Mamá and Papá are still asleep. It was a long night.”

Papi held her hand and kissed Mami on the cheek.

“I figure you’ll be wanting to sail back to Fajardo after breakfast.”

Mami kissed him back.

“I’ll let Papá know when he wakes up, but I’m afraid he’ll want to stay. We only just arrived.”

She rolled her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Please Mami, let’s stay. I want to see Toribio and the Baths!”

“It’s not up to me, Noti.”

There was sadness in Mami’s voice.

She looked at Papi in the eyes, and repeated the Golden Rule, “donde manda capitán, no manda marinero.”