November 18 to November 29, 2004
Aruba
Aruba
N 12° 06.614’
W68° 55.211’
November 2004
We sailed close hauled in 15 knots of wind over a relatively flat sea for the
70 miles westwards from Willemstad, Curacao, to Oranjestad, Aruba. We
approached the coast at dawn amid a rush of cruise ships, oil tankers, cargo
ships and fishing vessels. The local coast guard, which seemed to keep tabs on
everyone, was impressive, hailing vessels on the radio in a friendly but
professional tone.
After checking in, we dropped our hook in the local anchorage which was
located at the end of the at the airport runway. For the rest of the day, a
stream of US carriers descend right over us to land just a few hundred yards
away. We were delighted to find an open slip at the nearby marina the next
day. Better still, we were on the same slip as the catamaran “Omazey” sailed
by Jonathan (a Brit) and Astrid (born in Uruguay and moved to England as a
student) and their two girls, Mia (8) and Lucia (5). We had met them in
Trinidad, in January 2004, and had last seen them in February at the dock in
Union Island, in the Grenadines. Jonathan, Astrid and their girls are
wonderful people and it was a real treat to see them again. Astrid’s fluent
Spanish earned her a King Mackerel from a local fishing boat and they had us
over for a great fish dinner. Over seven bottles of wine, mostly South
African gems we had carried in the bilges for a year, Jonathan (a
Eurocentric, anti-war protester) and I (a completely reasonable Republican)
discussed politics, both remaining convinced of our own insightful
righteousness. Around midnight, Jonathan stood up and loudly profoundly
proclaimed, “I am so drunk, I can hardly see the casino I am about to go to.”
The casino was part of the marina complex, a large, brightly lit building a
hundred yards away. I went with Jonathan, and we both lost our money, a
reasonable basis for reestablishing our common ground.
Of the 3 southern islands of the Netherlands Antilles, Aruba long ago threw
its lot in with the Americans. Unlike Bonaire and Curacao, Aruba has
numerous direct daily flights to the US, has pegged its own currency to the
US$ and has pursued the US tourist market. After months in the quaint, but
somewhat sleepy European island atmosphere of Bonaire and, briefly, Curacao,
we found Aruba positively throbbed with on-demand American service and
entertainment. American luxury hotel and casino complexes dominate the
skyline and provide modern shopping malls where you can find Maui Jim
sunglasses, hi-tech gyms, sports bars with huge steaks, real hamburgers and
zillions of TV screens showing the latest football games, cocktail bars with
coconut martinis and mango daiquiris, and internet cafes with genuine high
speed services.
The marina was part of a Renaissance hotel and casino complex and each night
we would sit by the pool as the sun went down over the ocean, drinking
cocktails with the Doors and Peter Frampton playing over the poolside
speakers, and I was happy. I was also drawn to the gym on a daily basis to
get my fix of Fox News, which I hadn’t seen outside of the US in almost a
year. The catch was, the headphones only worked if you were using a
machine. So, if you plugged your headphones into a treadmill, the sound did
not come on until you started walking on it and, worse still, automatically cut
off once you stopped walking. So, that’s how I came to exercise on a regular
basis. Actually, I preferred the cycle machines as at least you could sit down
while you exercised. At some stage, I started to enjoy the exercise and would
actually work off more calories than my usual quota of poolside mango
daiquiris and coconut martinis.
The slip next to us at the marina was home to an unusual, oversized speedboat
that is a hit among adrenalin-based junkies. Painted in day glow lime green
and yellow, the boat has a huge shark’s tooth mouth painted across its bows,
together with a pair of red eyes, no doubt for the sake of animal reality. The
name “Screamer” in child-like script is proudly displayed down the length of
its sides. Each day, Screamer would head to the beaches where close to 50
people at a time would pay $30 each to fly across the water at 50 to 60 mph
while the driver induced his craft to undertake sharp turns and other
maneuvers that would certainly result in the immediate destruction of normal
water craft, all in an effort to impart to the passengers the certainty of
impending doom. One day, the friendly young guys who operate Screamer
asked Andrew, Richard and Lauren to join them for the day and off they went
for the ride of their lives. I thought of inviting myself along, but then
considered how hard it would be for my heart to withstand such fun and I
realized that I was, well, too mature for this childish stuff.
A cab ride across town, at the Marriott sports bar, we watched the Packers
beat the Rams one week and the Texans the next. Richard and Lauren are
both die-hard Packers fans and we actually extended our stay to watch the
second game. We ate burgers and nachos, yelled at the umpires when they
made a bad call against the Packers, played pool during the breaks and were
always the last ones left in the bar. Even back in the US, I hadn’t done this
stuff in a long, long time, but it was fun doing it as a family.
On November 21 we celebrated Carol’s 29th birthday, again. Then, on
November 25, we cracked out the bubbly to commemorate the anniversary of
the day we departed Cape Town for our crossing of the Atlantic. What a trip
that had been. It was hard to believe that a whole year had flown by.
After two weeks in Aruba, we felt the call of Cartagena. Perhaps it was
because Omazey had set sail a week earlier. Perhaps it was the craving for
something a little more exotic. In any event, one beautiful, sunny morning, we
slipped our lines and headed west.
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