Retiring South of the BorderChapter 8
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Retiring South Of The BorderChapter 9 free porn video
I had a brainstorm. I informed the crew that I didn't want to spend much time at our home port as the federal marshals and ATF were bound to be looking for a couple of stolen Vulcan 20-mm rotary cannons. We'd made our round-the-world tour. Now it was time to fill in the blanks. I voted for taking another case of 20mm cannon ammunition from stores, flushing the poop tank (black water), taking on a load of diesel and booking for Cuba. We'd liked it last time, even though only half the current crew was with us then, so we'd probably like it again. I got the support of the team. We were underweigh within six hours.
During that six hours I'd loaded the ammunition and researched where to stay in Cuba. Upon looking up high-end resorts I came upon Varadero. I couldn't find much with a close dock for us until I used google maps and went to satellite view. There it was, a beautiful little cove at the end of the island, near Hotel Barcelo. Bingo! I got the hotel's number from the internet and reserved suites for the twelve of us. I only told Ellen, as she'd have to navigate into the place. Since it looked like the bay cove was used by a yacht rental company I gave them a call and arranged for dock space for a 55-meter vessel--us. A little gold unlocks a lot of doors.
I also transferred our working capital, a little over 66 million, into my account at Bancomer, a major Mexican national bank. I'd had an account with them bearing over a million and a half dollars for several years by then. I wanted those funds out of the states pronto.
The voyage was smooth, as travel in the gulf usually was unless a hurricane was around to stir the pot. Navigating a vessel as long as ours into a berth without thrusters is an art form and Ellen was practiced at her trade. There was no tug to help us but there were a couple of guys to help us tie up. We didn't have springer poles or need bumpers--there were three layers of old car tires fastened to the edge of the dock. I laid out the gangway with the aid of the crane and we were docked. I took care of the little nasties such as securing shore power and paying the rent. There was local cell-phone service. All we had to do was introduce our phones to the towers. Customs was a breeze with our type of passports. I had the ship guarded via the yacht rental place. Since he was having the basin guarded anyway it didn't cost much over the berth rental.
The resort was huge--six restaurants, five bars and three pools. We shifted into vacation mode again--swimsuits or light shirts and bermuda shorts. We began with a small celebration--Cuba Libres all around to celebrate our freedom on Cuba. We agreed to hang around through the off season, soaking in the food, culture and sun. We also agreed to continue our morning Tai-Chi and runs (Well, they'd run, I'd do kata.) I convinced a few to spend a couple days a week with me learning Spanish. Ellen was happy that she could converse with the servers. Kimberly already knew Spanish--no surprise there. Dawn seemed a good time to exercise as the crowds wouldn't notice or bother us, and it would be as cool as the days would get.
I found that there was a government premium on anyone converting U.S. dollars to pesos that bearers of other currencies were not obliged to pay. I shrugged my shoulders and brought out packs of 100 Euro bills to pay for our expenses.
Living at the resort was like being on a cruise ship--everything was provided and there was no reason to leave the property. As a group we had grown used to a little more variety. We dropped the Cigarette cutter into the bay and headed around the east end of the country to Havana. When we tied up across from the ferry wharf the cops were on us like white on rice until we showed our passports and paperwork from Hotel Barcelo. Then everything was sugar and butterflies again. We took rooms in a downtown hotel for a couple of nights and wandered around seeing the sights. Whenever we saw a restaurant we stopped in and tried the food. There were a lot of breads, a lot of grains. We hit on a barbecue place and had a good feed. I shrugged. Nice place but I wouldn't want to live here. The income gap between the poor and the wealthy was astonishing. It was as bad as some places in the pacific rim. It definitely made us targets for someone desperate enough to take the chance, despite seeing cops on almost every corner. We stayed together for safety. Come the morning we headed back to our ship. This country was dangerous for any rich tourist that didn't speak the language. It was like fucking Istambul or Cairo.
A couple of the others had gotten that 'street meat' vibe too. I collected all our pesos and had them converted back into Euros. We split for friendlier climes. Cancun was barely a half-day's travel west. We took a chance. It was a pretty good decision! With all the resorts in the tourist-driven city we shrugged and took the one with the goofiest name--"ME". It was fairly pricey but had facilities on par with what we'd found in Cuba, however this place had an open campus with regular trips for golfing, shopping and fishing. Again, paranoid me hired a bonded security service to intercept anyone messing with our ship. The first morning after we finished Tai-Chi I started screaming and running in place. Everyone else copied me. Soon we had a bunch of maniacs screaming like hell and running in place like a souped-up '57 chevy with the brakes locked. Then I powered off into the surf and dove in. They all followed me, laughing like hell. We were all out of breath and having the time of our life.
My time on the beach watching my body follow the forms made me a little critical. I resolved to change some of the flaws that I'd felt and seen. Day by day I tightened up my dancing the forms. I could not stop smiling at the end of each exercise, it felt so good. My blade flickered and danced about as if it were a demented dragonfly wing. After one exercise had finished I opened my eyes to see Kimberly watching me with an odd look in her eyes. "I wish that I were that proficient--that flowing. Your morning exercises are both free-form violence and controlled poetry." She shook her head. "This is what defines mastery. I wish to practice the forms with you each morning to gain skill." I bowed low, using my sword as an accompaniement to the gesture. "Your wish is my command. We shall find a blade that agrees with you then dance the katas together." She left very, very happy.
Jim and Gene would watch us, trying to keep up with what we were doing. They were proficient in kendo but had no experience in bladework or Buddhist not-here. That's the hard one--the level of attention changes and reflexes become faster, more focused. I have achieved it but a few times.
Cancun was a nice diversion after our scare in Cuba.
I took us across the canal to Coquimbo Chile, where the desert reflected on the city life. It was very different. Next came Valparaiso where life was fat and the good times rolled. This was an old tourist city and nobody fucked with the trade.
It was the middle of November.
We finally docked at my favorite city--Puerto Montt. The winds were cool and damp, the fish were abundant and fresh, the beaches were dark wet pebbles. I looked up my old hosts, then paid for a rubble-filled dock to be built to accomodate the Jamieson. They freaked at the size of our ship but got used to it. We rented a section of their beach for a couple of months. I built fires on the beach as I had when I lived there. The crew came to love the bleak silence of the place as I had once before. We did the local smoked-salmon thing again, boosting local business. I talked a couple of shippers into supplying not only iced fresh salmon but also deep-smoked salmon for their international markets to be delivered to our dock. I screwed myself because it became harder to obtain after that. We smoked our own when we couldn't find the commercial product. We danced Tai'Chi on the beach, being blown about by the sea breezes. My dancing gained a certain focus and grounding there. Ellen agreed--"This place would be a good place to retire. It all seems to come together here." I smiled. She understood.
The crew seemed to back down to a lower gear--much like being at sea yet without the stress of coping with heavy seas or watchstanding. we caught up on our reading and sleep. Kimberly watched me practice forms, doing her best to mirror me as we faced each other across the beach. I had my eye on Chinquio. According to the internet maps about 2 miles south of the city there was a large (well, large to me) forest butting up against the shoreline. Perhaps one day we'd build a home there.
Soon, refreshed and revitalized we steamed for a city. I'd never been to Uruguay's capital--Montevideo. We talked it over after examining a tourist's guide and decided to give it a go. It would be a trip of some 3,500 miles around the south tip of South America and bypassing all of Argentina. It would take some eleven days if we didn't get pounded by the weather. If we stayed in the coastal waters the seas wouldn't be as bad as they could be if we were out in the real open water. The trouble comes when one steams too close to shore--the rising bottom can reinforce the wave action to some truly dangerous conditions.
January south of the equator reflects high summer. Montevideo has more than enough tourist attractions to keep a normal crew busy. The problem was we weren't a normal crew. Kimberly and I flashed swords about as if we were mad. The rest of the crew sang dirges as they ran furiously through the city streets in the early mornings. Buncha wingnuts.
Montevideo was a curious city--the ultra-poor seemed non-existent, or at least they were in a critical minority. It was a working city with plenty of industry and shipping, hence the localized pollution, but it was a healthy city. We searched out good places to eat and drink. We didn't limit ourselves to the 'high class' places either. Some of the best food I'd eaten was rubbing elbows with stevedores and container truck drivers. (Making excellent chicken-fried steak is an art form that many have attempted and few have mastered. A truly good short-order cook draws customers like flies on--well, you get the idea.) As a team we hit a bar/pool hall with a truly great reputation for fried grouper sandwiches and deep-fried pork cutlet sandwiches with all the fixin's. I shook my beer glass at Carl. "A good product makes up for all the rest except for poor service. Who cares what your front end looks like--you can even make it a travesty. Truly great grub like this will always carry the day." My glass was soon filled by an attentive and attractive waitress. I smiled, leaned back and burped. This was a good day. I had a little too much to drink.
I felt a bit delicate the next morning. I took steam and lots of water. By noon I was fine. I felt like a walk so I just took off, letting my feet guide me. I stopped at a couple of street vendors that advertised tacos con cabritos (goat tacos). It was soooo good ... Once the vendors cook the meat it stays over heat in their trays, getting crispier and more flavorful. Good stuff!
I wandered into an old catholic church to see the stained glass, alter and general architecture. The priest must have been bored as he approached me.
"May I help you my son?"
"Father, I am not of the city and wish to find others that practice as I do. Can you point me to a Buddhist temple?"
He drew back a minute then smiled. "We each worship in our own way. Of course." He drew out a map for me.
"Thank you, Father. May your life balanced."
He nodded to me and left me. On the way out I dropped a krugerrand in the poor box. I was half way down the block when I clearly heard "HOLY SHIT!" from the church behind me. I smiled my evil smile. Got another one.
I found the temple. It was small and old. It truly needed some Tender Loving Care (TLC). I entered and sat on my heels before the Buddha. I breathed and contemplated where I had come from, where I was and where I was going. I rose and performed kata with my short staff before the Buddha. My focus came quickly and I danced in celebration. I felt as if I were barely touching the floor. When I finished I dropped to sit with my short staff across my knees, supported by both hands. I felt--different. Soon I felt a hand on my shoulder. I rose and turned to see an older monk, bald and wrinkled. I suspected that he hadn't a tooth in his head. "I have never seen such a gift to the Buddha before. Come, let us have tea." Well, could I say no?
We sipped tea as he gathered his thoughts. "We are each called to the Buddha in our own way. The warrior priest is an ancient way that is little practiced now. Zen archery is but a shadow of what has gone before."
"Ah, but the skill and no-mind necessary to the practicioner is the same that I seek. The essence has not passed on."
He bowed a bit. "The old katas are different from those practiced now. I saw in your devotions things that I have not seen since I was a youth."
"I have no idea what changed my katas to these forms yet they seem -right-. They flow more smoothly than those taught to me as a green youth."
He nodded. "Perhaps this is how the original katas were discovered. It is of no matter." He sai'ed to me. "Thank you for your time." He rose and turned away, retreating back into the depths of the temple. I couldn't let this old holy man slowly fade into obscurity. I had a pocket full of krugerrands. I dumped twenty-two of them into the begging bowl near the doorway, leaving me four. I'd be that he said "HOLY SHIT!" when he found them, too! But then, being a Buddhist monk, he might have only smiled and nodded.
I didn't want to leave the city without sampling what drove the tourists to come. I talked the group into a guided tour.
Monevideo is flat as a pancake. The city itself is about twelve miles broad by ten miles deep but the shoreline is developed for a long ways up and down the coast. A mad spider's web of roads cover a wide area surrounding the city. The white sand beaches are backed by ten-to-fifteen story hotels. Everything was looking like everything else. We were getting museum fatigue. We needed to stop and recharge our batteries. I proposed spending carnival in Rio de Janiero, just up the coast maybe 1400 miles, all shallow water.
It was the beginning of February. We had a month until carnival ripped the top off the city. The port master had us tie up at the commercial docks on the north east side of the city, near Cidade do Samba, Samba City. I had the tanks cleaned, the fuel topped off and established security. We sat down in a restaurant and pored over a tourism map, supposedly highlighting things to see and do.
Miracle
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