The Little Things

Things have settled down to a turtle trot. Boats are leaving for the eastern Caribbean. We’re still here. I got re-invited to join Los Normans for an away game. Destination Sosua, the sex capital of the DR! I prepared myself for a night of revelry. We departed promptly at 2:00, only an hour behind schedule. A mile shy of Sosua we turned up into the hills. Upon arrival the game commenced. “Team Emanuel” wore bright blue jerseys. I noted the first batter’s name was Jesus. Jesus Viene. So was the second. And the third. Then it hit me, “Jesus is Coming”. We were playing an evangelical squad. At the conclusion, instead of beers and debauchery, we had orange soda. It was a long ride home. We managed one beer stop just outside of Luperon. It didn’t help knowing that hordes of scantily clad women were roaming the bars back in Sosua. We’d been that close. So, instead of an amazing adventure, you’re getting an insipid description of Luperon before it falls back into the sea. 
Every morning our stern deck faces the scorching sun. At exactly 8:46 a.m. the easterly trades pick up. Our boat slowly swings around and we’re soon covered in shadow. Only then can you venture out. I sat sipping coffee with a newspaper on my lap and made note of the minuteness around me. Off to my left, a man stood motionless in the mud flats holding a cast net, mimicking the long-limbed cranes that spear fish with their sharp bills. Ten minutes later he tossed it. Sparkling slivers of silver flashed in the webbing. He filled the bag slung over his shoulder and as he departed a crane glided in and took his place.
In front of me a bright blue rowboat slowly circumnavigated the edge of the harbor. One man rowed while the other carefully played out a large seine net. Then each grabbed an oar and crashed it down on the surface. Once they tired of that, they settled back and gathered it in before heading to shore.
To my right a man in a bright red golf shirt waded in chest high water amid the mangroves. A bucket brimming with oysters floated in front of him. He cautiously threaded through the tangle plucking shells from the roots, immune to the plague of no-see-’ems that swarmed about him. He casually tested an oyster, then scooped up a mouthful of toxic harbor water, swished it in his mouth and spit it out.
To his right, two handmade dinghies drifted next to a half-sunken fishing boat. They tied a line to the piece of the bow that stuck above the surface, then roped a plastic barrel to the submerged stern. They cranked up their outboards and headed off. I watched as it leisurely followed them across the bay.
I lifted up my paper and thought, “This must go on every day. I just never took the time to notice”.
p.s. HUGE news possibly coming next week (besides the boils on my hand finally disappearing). Stay tuned.