"Excerpt
from 'Saga of a SeaGoing Dog'
From time to time this site will have cruising stories
from published and soon to be published books by Capt. Peter
Muilenburg."
Chapfer 17 PUERTO AZUL BEACH BREAK
Santos was miserable.---the
oppressive heat of the Venezuelan coast suffocated him in his thick black
coat. And he was bored. There was nobody to romp with, nobody to slip
him morsels from the galley porthole because Dorothy and the boys were
in St. John 500 miles to the north. Worst of all, he was imprisoned on
the boat day in and day out, with never a chance to visit a tree, or shrub---not
even a patch of fragrant earth.
Breath sat high and dry on a soulless slab of concrete in a boatyard,
hemmed about by other boats. The harsh noise of grinders and sanders assailed
his ears; clouds of noxious dust and fumes drifted over the deck. Santos
and I had just finished a 3 week charter to the Spanish Main, and I had
decided it was a smart idea to get the boat's bottom painted here at the
Puerto Azul marina where haul-outs and help cost a fraction of what they
did back in the Virgins. Then Dorothy and the boys would fly down---tickets
were cheap in those days---and help me bring the boat back.
It seemed a damn poor idea to the dog. Not that Puerto Azul lacked attractions---
Venezuela's biggest country club/marina boasted won-derfully green lawns
and winding walkways shaded by giant hardwoods. Santos, lying disconsolately
under the awning, could see, smell, and hear an open air restaurant perfect
for begging, a big swimming pool filled with shrieking kids, and best
of all a long smooth beach . But---the club was strictly off limits to
dogs.
Every time I climbed on or off the boat to get sandpaper or some tool
the poor dog attended me at the rail and implored me with his eyes, hopeful,
desperate and so sad...and every time I steeled myself to ignore him.
I felt guilty but my hands were tied. I had specifically agreed to keep
him on board and numerous guards patrolled the area. The only way to give
him some liberty was to take him by dinghy outside of the entire Puerto
Azul complex which included everything protected by the breakwater---the
cove itself, the docks, beaches and condo buildings.
I tried that the first day of the haulout, dutifully hand carrying him
to the dinghy in which we set off looking for a safe landing place---no
easy matter on this bold coast. Beyond the breakwater the sea broke roughly
on the shore, an unbroken mountain wall that towers up to 9000', its peaks
covered in clouds and its slopes mantled in thick jungle. So sheer is
the ascent from the sea that in many places the coastal road had to be
dynamited out from the base of the cliffs.
Rising and falling in the swell, we looked in vain for a break in the
rock studded shoreline til we came to a small steep beach. The surf foamed
up the sand but I judged we could make it---we had come too far to turn
back. I waited for a slack interval in the waves and gunned the motor
and rode a swell to the beach. We hit the sand with a jolt. As I hopped
out, the ebb tore the dinghy out of my grip, then the next wave flung
it back at me sideways. I ducked aside just in time, the dingy half swamped
and Santos found himself tumbling upside down to shore. We got back to
the boat soaking wet and I vowed never again! Santos would just have to
suffer.
However after a few days his luck turned when he managed to attract the
notice of Elena, an Israeli girl living with John, an American on a small
cruising boat in the harbor. John had noticed the seaworthy lines of Breath
as they walked through the yard, and had stopped by to talk. He was fascinated
by Colin Archers and gaff rigs and plied me with questions about the boat
and its construction. Elena grew visibly restive---the fine points of
fiberglass lay ups held scant appeal to her. Just then, Santos put his
head and paws over the cap rail, looked down and whimpered. Elena looked
up and fell in love. Her wild black ringlets bounced as she ascended the
ladder and with earth mother emotion scooped Santos into her arms, exclaiming
passionately in Hebrew how adorable he was. Santos was young in those
days, his coat shiny black, his fox face sleek and sensitive. He looked
ardently into Elena's eyes and quivered with affection, knowing intuitively
that here was his prime chance for a woman's care.
Henceforward every day when Elena and John came ashore she would come
by the boat, perfunctorily greet me, covered as I was with boatyard dust,
and ascend the ladder to spend up to an hour with Santos, feeding him
leftovers, playing games, cuddling him like a baby. Santos lived for her
visits, and from the comparative lethargy of his dull times with me, he
would incandesce when he heard Elena's voice at the foot of the ladder,
wiggling and bouncing with anticipation.
Eventually Santos and I were invited out to their boat for dinner and
to meet their animals. Like a number of yachties cruising Venezuela they
had acquired a conure, a kind of half-sized green parrot with a red ring
around each eye, a cheerful, lively little thing that did constant acrobatics
on the swings in its cage. I had seen a similar bird on the streets of
Caracas, telling fortunes. An old man had it in a large cage set up on
a cart that he pushed around the parks. Under the cage was a drawer with
folded slips of paper, each inscribed with a fortune. For a quarter the
bird would open its door, hop down to the drawer, and pick out a slip
with its beak and give it to you--- an ancient link to the avian augury
of Rome.
They also had a very old, fat and bad-tempered Pekinese. This decrepit
dog waddled around with its hair in its face, glaring petulantly, in fact
looking slightly deranged. I tried to pat it on the head and it snapped
at me. I gave it a wide berth and so did Santos at first, but eventually
they started relating.
When I asked if their dog had a litter box on deck Elena said that she
always took the Peke to the beach ashore.
"I thought that was strictly forbidden."
"Oh, the guards are my friends," she smiled. "She's just
a little thing, they let me take her to the very end of the beach where
there are no condos. Let's go, we'll bring Santos too."
"Are you sure?" I asked dubiously, wondering what outrage Santos
might commit if set down on long beach after days of being cooped up.
"Don't worry---I bring Alexandra in every day. They're used to us.
One more little dog... they'll look so cute playing together on the beach.
I'll bring my camera."
He might be little, I thought, but he was explosive compared to the old,
fat Peke. Still, perhaps the guards would intimidate him and he'd be on
his best behavior. I brought a leash for him just in case.
We motored in to the far end of the beach, away from the side with the
lounge chairs under the palm trees where members--- plump matrons in string
bikinis with diamond rings sparkling from languid hands---draped themselves
in the sun. This beach was part of Puerto Azul and security was tight.
A high concrete wall topped with broken glass sealed off the grounds and
to get to the outside one had to pass through two well- manned check points
with guards and ID and bullet proof glass. The social order in Venezuela,
after all, is not exactly stable nor the work of consensus.
When the two beach guards saw us they came to inspect the dingy. Elena
jumped out as it grated on the sand, holding her long skirt halfway up
her shapely thighs to avoid wetting its hem. She was charming---tossing
her glossy ringlets, fluttering her long curly lashes, stretching her
ample breasts against the thin cotton of her T-shirt. No wonder that both
guards were in the habit of hurrying right over with big smiles.
Elena put Alexandra on the ground but the dog just stood there and begged
to be carried again, then hobbled reluctantly about like it had bound
feet and abruptly squatted and peed, sopping her long belly hair. It was
a pathetic animal.
Elena indicated Santos waiting eagerly in the dingy, and asked for permission
for the other "perrito chiquito" (cute doggie) to come ashore.
Most Venezuelans love dogs and the guards were duly fascinated by Santos'
unusual appearance, his alert ears, silky muzzle and soulful eyes. "Precioso!"
they said admiringly.
While I got out to pull the dinghy higher on the beach I had told Santos
in the sternest of tones to sit and stay and so he did, albeit in an agony
of anticipation, quivering and keening with desire to get his paws into
the sand. But when one of the guards, the young skinny one with a shock
of black hair beneath his cap, whistled to him the dam of Santos' self
control broke. He leapt off the bow, hit the beach in full sprint, whipped
around the two startled guards and shot down the strand---straight for
the chaise lounges where Venezuela's well oiled elite basted in the sun.
The swiftness of the dog stunned the guards. They looked bewilderedly
at the Peke, still dribbling into the sand, then back at Santos streaking
down the beach, barking madly, already halfway to the first beach chair---whose
occupant was looking up in alarm. The guards took off running, looking
like the Keystone Cops with their patent leather shoes kicking up puffs
of sand as they tried to accelerate on the yielding beach, clutching their
hats to their heads and holding their billy clubs so they wouldn't flop
at their thighs.
Mortified, I called my dog, but it was hopeless; with the bit in his teeth
he was gone, free, in his element, feet flying over the sand, the sea
sparkling at his side, the wind of pure speed in his face. He barked his
joyous war cry, alerting the world to a formidable presence hurtling like
an asteroid onto the scene.
He bared his teeth and growled as he feinted by the first chaise lounge.
The matron jerked up her feet convulsively and toppled off the chair with
a cry of alarm. Santos shot past a couple more surprised people, screeched
to a halt at a coconut palm nicely painted white around its base, and
lifted his leg on it, letting fly a short staccato stream---then scampered
off to the next tree where he did the same. This was virgin ground, unmarked
by any other dog. Santos was the prime canine of Puerto Azul.
He was being patted by a crooning lady and her delighted children when
he looked up from his reverie to see the guards charging him red faced,
out of breath, extremely agitated. Even from a hundred yards away I could
see the funlight go on in Santos' eyes as his stance changed to his "catch
me if you can" posture--- crouched down in front with his forepaws
low and his hindquarters high, poised to spring. This was a familiar game,
one he loved and excelled in. He awaited the rush and darted in, easily
dodging the young skinny guard. He ran straight towards the older heavier
one, stopped almost within reach, feinted left, then right, then left
again---and the man went down with crossed legs.
I was apoplectic with calling him before finally he decided to hear me
and ran up sheepishly. Elena scooped up her dog and I collared mine and
we launched the dingy like we were evacuating Dunkirk. The guards were
still down the beach explaining mightily and I did not want to be there
when they got back. I hope they weren't fired.
For what it's worth, they learned that not all little dogs are created
equal.
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