Caribbean Prince with Emily

Captain Luther Blount, owner of American Canadian Caribbean Line, Inc., of Warren, RI, invited me for a free Belize/Guatemala cruise as agent for the Caribbean Prince. He also invited Emilie Bowen, whom he had met several times during earlier trips to Belize.

I thought I knew all about the Caribbean Prince and her cruises after being agent for the ship for five seasons. Being a passenger was like changing from black-and-white to color film.

Friday, 31 December, 1993

Emilie and I decided to take our gear aboard early in the afternoon, then return home to bathe and dress in New Year’s Eve finery before returning to the ship around 5:00 pm. Emilie did just that. She told me later that her man Cecil scurried through a squall with her luggage, despite her shrieked protests.

Intermittent rain made me decide to do everything in one move. Alex drove me to the Fort George pier, where the ship was docked, at about 2:30 pm. I walked out to the vessel and met the Belize pilot, Charles Westby. He sent a deck hand, his son Erwin, back to Alex’s truck to get my luggage.

Emilie’s baggage already was standing neatly on the floor in cabin 55B. I spent a happy couple of hours unpacking and settling. Taking advantage of living nearby, I had packed slacks and shirts already in place on multiple hangers, which held my entire wardrobe in a couple of inches of our limited closet space. My quota of one wide and two narrow drawers, plus one shelf in the “head” medicine cabinet, held the things I needed regularly. Everything else remained in the suitcase under one bunk, where it could be slid out easily when needed.

By the time I had bathed and dressed for the First Night cocktail party and dinner, Emilie arrived. After a reunion so excited that you would have thought we had not seen each other for a decade, we got to the main order of business, deciding who would sleep where. I was perfectly happy to let Emilie have the bunk under our small window. On the other hand, she wanted the air conditioning to ease her breathing, and I lived in dread of the chill. We ended up with Emily taking the bunk on the right-hand side as one entered the cabin, while I had the one across the end, along the outer bulkhead. The bulky orange life jackets stowed neatly in designed space under my bed. We both put suitcases, shoes, and carry-ons under Emilie’s bunk, where we could get them as necessary.

 

Emilie and I descended to the main deck. The first person we saw was our host, Captain Blount (hereafter referred to as Luther). We combined our hellos with our thanks to him for making the cruise possible. We circulated, meeting a few of our fellow passengers. In situations like this, one of the first questions always is, “And where are you from?” Emily’s and my smiling replies of “Belize” routinely were greeted with shocked, sometimes unbelieving, gasps, followed by barrages of questions.

We were invited to sit at the Captain’s table with our attractive, bearded Master, Mike Snyder; Luther; and other guests of his. Anna and Del Girard became favorite friends on the cruise. Del is a retired Mississippi River pilot and tug captain, whom Luther has asked to help on the first upper-Mississippi trips of his soon-to-be-launched vessel Niagara Prince. I spent many a morning over early coffee enjoying the tales I encouraged him to tell.

After a superb dinner, there were speeches by Captain Snyder (hereafter referred to as Mike), Cruise Director Teresa, and Luther. To our surprise, there was no special New Year’s Eve activity. Passengers continued trying to meet one another. Teresa, a talented musician, played the piano for a while. One of the passengers tried to promote group singing but could not win against First Night diffidence. Gradually, the group thinned. We learned later that only a few hardy souls remained to open champagne at midnight. Emilie and I went up to our cabin around 10:30, had a touch of the 12-Year-Old Single-Malt Scotch Emilie had brought to toast the New Year, and turned out the lights on 1993.

Saturday, 1 January, 1994

I awoke around 6:00 am, dressed hastily, and descended for coffee. I took coffee back up to the cabin for Emilie, then made three successive trips for refills for myself. This became the early-morning program.

Emilie was in the breakfast buffet line ahead of me. She took a seat at the starboard corner table by the window. I joined her. One of our new friends walked by, grinned, and said, “You girls don’t smoke! That’s the smokers’ table.” We had forgotten the announcement of the previous evening. Emilie replied, “They’re welcome to join us.” As it happened, there apparently wasn’t a smoker on board. Emilie had picked out where she wanted to sit and guarded “our table” jealously for the rest of the trip.

Luther, Emilie, and I were joined by Jack Woods, a prominent travel writer and photographer who was aboard to do an article for his magazine. We either invited another couple to join us, or someone asked if they could sit with us. I was a little embarrassed at the unintended exclusiveness that seemed to have been established. Luther was at liberty to join other tables, but seemed to enjoy relaxing in our little group. Jack made it plain that he intended to be part of the coterie. Conversation was varied, stimulating, always entertaining. The nagging little sense of guilt was easily stuffed back into a corner of my conscience.

I liked Jack Woods immediately and Emilie did not. Jack has visited Belize off-and-on for years. He had a good time playing do-you-know our first lunchtime together. One of his close friends was Jackie Vásquez, the scruffy hunter and international orchid expert who beat three murder charges in the Forties and Fifties. Bucher was fond of Jackie; when we were neighbors in the Fifties, Carli played with his daughter; he was the man from whom we got our beloved pet Oscar (the margay that we thought was an ocelot). Emilie decided that no one who consorted with an accused murderer could be trusted. She mellowed slightly when we all howled with laughter at her admission that she let her sons go hunting with Jackie.

Jack was a depression child and went to work at twelve. He batted around all over the world one way or another and gradually became a journalist/photographer. He has done articles for National Geographic. In latter years, most of his trips have been assignments in out-of-the-way, exotic places. Jack never bragged. He mentioned other lands or other ways only a propos of a conversation’s turn. I found him a bright, professional, kind person, and a delightful addition to our dining table.

 

Back in our cabin after breakfast, Emilie discovered that she had lost her book. She was distraught. We both moved things from under the bed, searched bed clothes, and checked every container of hers and mine repeatedly. Finally I pulled everything out from under the bed at once, lay flat on the deck, and wiggled under the bunk. No book, but a prolonged attack of the giggles. When I tried to emerge, I was blocked by luggage. Frantic attempts to return to a vertical position failed.

Emilie began calling out, “You’re stuck! You’re stuck!” I wasn’t, but my aging frame needed more than six inches to turn and arise. Finally, in uncomprehending response to commands distorted by hilarity, my cabinmate moved her large suitcase. I was able to struggle to my feet, still laughing. A few moments later Emilie found her book in a purse she had searched twice.

By lunchtime, I had learned that Emilie loses something every hour on the hour. Chaos reigns briefly. The object proves not to have been snatched away by some psychopath obsessed with other people’s glasses or hats. Little intervention was called for on my part. A gracious expression of concern and sympathy usually was enough to bridge the brief gap between loss and discovery.

 

The Caribbean Prince moved slowly away from the dock at about 8:30 am. In line with my annual requests to the ship’s captains, I earlier had asked Mike to sound his horn on departure. His eyes twinkled as he replied that he was not sure he would endear himself to anyone blowing it at an early hour on a New Year’s Day.

Emilie and I spent a lazy morning, much of it under the canopy on the top deck, as we steamed toward San Pedro. After lunch, we took the ship’s launch ashore. San Pedro, on Ambergris Caye adjacent to Mexico, is our northernmost island. It has become a mecca for skin divers. When Bucher and I first visited it decades ago, it was a picturesque fishing village. Small white frame houses with thatched roofs were separated by wide white-sand roads. There was not a single vehicle on the island. Now the streets along the shore are honky-tonk. The “main drag,” one street back from the shore, is lined with low modern buildings that look more like Miami than Belize, despite the unpaved street in front of them

Emilie and I found our way to see Tuto and Juanita Alamilla, dear friends who were our downstairs neighbors in the house we rented before Hurricane Hattie in 1961. The Alamilla’s handsome new 3-story building has shops on the ground floor, a small hotel, and large apartments for daughter Alida and her family and for Tuto and Juanita. The roof is a vast open area, attractive with lawn furniture for lounging hotel guests. Alida has begun flying flags of various countries on holidays or when government officials of foreign countries visit. Recently Tuto called to ask me on Alida’s behalf for house flags for the shipping lines we represent. The CGM flag has not yet arrived, but the Laser flag was flown on New Year’s Day, Alida told us.

After a lovely visit with the Alamillas, we walked down the beach to visit Emilie’s son, Barry Bowen. Emilie prowled around Barry’s house, calling out and peering into windows as I hovered at the edge of the circling veranda, trying not to look like an incipient thief. Finally we heard a repeated “Hello” in reply. No one was at the door, but we eventually spotted two interested parrots peering down at us from an upper railing.

Just as we were about to give up, Kevin, Barry’s son, strolled up from the dock. Within moments the Doberman, Rusty, rushed up to announce the arrival in Barry’s plane of the rest of the family. They had been in Gallon Jug, Barry’s enormous ranch near his resort Chan Chich. After a toast to the New Year and a brief visit, Barry took us back to the Caribbean Prince in his launch. And don’t think our private transportation didn’t cause a stir among passengers and crew.

When we reached the ship, I asked the attending deckhand if the Bowens might board. He went off to ask the captain for permission. Almost immediately he returned with a smiling Captain Blount. Luther ushered Barry and family aboard and gave them the grand tour. Teresa whisked 3-year-old Courtney off to her Inner Sanctum. The little girl emerged, smiling shyly, a New Year’s Eve tiara perched on her blond head and a paper cup full of chocolates in one hand.

 

Following dinner, three musicians from San Pedro entertained with guitars and singing for a pleasant hour-and-a-half. Emilie began calling out requests early in the performance. She stage-whispered that the musicians didn’t seem to know what they were doing and that she was helping them. The trio acceded to her suggestions with commendable grace. The musicians were far more successfully than our fellow passenger the previous evening at sweeping the audience into an enthusiastic sing-a-long to end the program.

Sunday, 2 January

By now, Emilie and I had worked out a comfortable cabinmate routine. Without discussing it, we established schedules that did not conflict. I rose early, went down for coffee, brought Emilie a cup, and returned for coffee-and-conversation, leaving Emilie the privacy of the cabin. We spent most of the time together, but separated for our own activities as we wanted. Emily and I got along gorgeously. Both of us were thoughtful in the confines of our cabin. We enjoyed visiting together, laughed a lot, and both gloried in being where we were. As I had expected, the other passengers were entranced by Emilie’s exuberance and outspokenness.

In a way, I felt I paid for my passage. Luther repeatedly summoned me for private conferences about operational matters. At first Emilie was a little annoyed at losing me unexpectedly, but soon accepted the situation, going up onto the top deck to read or visit. As for me, I was pleased and flattered that Luther included me in discussing things that were not technically agent’s business. He is a darling. I never have seen him as relaxed and happy as he was on that cruise.

 

My special time was the early-morning coffee group. Del Girard was one of the early risers. It was easy to cue him into fascinating verbal trips through the untamed waters of the Mississippi. Another early riser was Paul from Santa Clara, California. He and his wife Margaret became comfortable friends of both of ours. One morning over coffee, almost by accident, I learned that he keeps Arabian horses. He described training various mounts and told about his regular half-day-long rides along the winding trails of a nearby national park. Another of the coffee klatsch was Whit Davis, retired naval officer, deeply involved in the administrative side of large-yacht racing. He measures yachts for races, including the 12-meter boats for the America’s Cup. We had long discussions of the fashions and foibles of yacht racing.

 

The Caribbean Prince began its island-hopping cruise down the coast of Belize, stopping at one deserted caye after another to allow passengers to swim and snorkel.

Emilie and I spent a lazy Sunday morning as we cruised to Goff’s Caye. I brought my Journal up to date, wrote postcards, and visited with passengers. After a brief time in the dining room, Emily and I retreated to our cabin to get away from the over-active air conditioning.

Meals became a high point of the cruise. We had two qualified chefs on board, one of them acting as sous-chef. Both were men of substantial girth, which I took as a promise of delight in their jobs. Meals were superb.

After lunch, Emilie enlisted me in the first of our regular sets of ten laps around the 50’s deck (the deck containing cabins 50 through 59). Most days we managed this after breakfast and again after lunch. A length of line coiled over a railing near the beginning of each lap became our marker. Emily, striding ahead, slapped the coil as she passed it, calling out the number of our circuit. At the end, we both leaned on the rope-cushioned rail to congratulate each other on our fortitude. Sometimes the respite turned into a convivial conversation about the past and the present and “shoes, and ships, and…”

 

Emilie and I signed up for bridge, hoping to find players as interested as we were in regular games. That evening after dinner, Teresa set up the three tables of bridge players for what she called a practice evening. Unfortunately, it was a little chaotic because each table scored differently.

Monday, 3 January

The ship stopped at Tobacco Caye so that swimmers and snorkelers could explore the reef. The glass-bottom boat was lowered. Emilie and I were on the first trip. I have to admit that it was bitterly disappointing to me. I forgot that everything would be greenish through the glass. The colors of flora and fauna were obscured. Only rarely did color flash from a fleeting fish. Furthermore, the sea was slightly cloudy because of the waves. I have wonderful memories of snokeling in the sea world and delighting in the glorious colors, shapes, and movement of its inhabitants. I prefer those images. I will never ride in a glass-bottom boat again.

When we returned to the ship, Emilie stayed to take the next launch-ride to the island while I went up to our cabin to read. Emily had a wonderful time talking to the people living in Tobacco Caye’s two or three little houses.

 

A photographer, hired by Luther to take pictures to be used in a new brochure, was with us on the cruise. Seymour is a thoroughly likable, quiet, businesslike man. He retired from teaching five years ago, had a brief, unhappy fling as a real-estate salesman, then launched the career he wanted as a photographer. He and his amiable wife became good friends of ours. Emilie asked Seymour about getting some of his pictures. He promised to make a representative package of the cruise available.

 

In the afternoon I made a temporary conversion from passenger to agent. We reached Placencia. I joined Luther to go ashore while the ship was anchoring. We separated near the post office. He proceeded on his own business and I went off on Damage Control. The Minister of Tourism had telephoned me a couple of weeks earlier about a problem regarding permission for the Caribbean Prince to make a bow landing in a certain location.

Luther is an inspired inventor as well as a ship builder and owner. He designed a gangway set into the prow of his shallow-draft cruise ships that allows passengers to walk directly from the lounge, down the gangway, and onto dry land—a bow landing.

The problem of the day involved a local fracas over the landing site. A local couple, the Leslies, owned the land and the Village Council wanted to. I had a long session with Gene Leslie, then walked briskly about a mile up the narrow sidewalk to find his wife Janet and go through the same diplomacy with her.

It was an exhausting afternoon, but valuable. The problem was not completely solved, but resentments were rooted out and assuaged. It was almost 5:30 before I returned to the ship, completely jaded from my diplomatic endeavors.

 

That evening, we had our alleged bridge tournament. It was rather silly: two tables; two systems of scoring.

Tuesday, 4 January

In the morning Luther called me for a report on my Placencia visit.

The vessel made a bow landing in waist-deep water off the Snake Cayes. Dedicated swimmers and snorkelers went ashore. I returned to my cabin to write my Journal and read.

 

After lunch, the ship moved to Icacos Beach and made another bow landing. Emilie insisted that I go ashore with her to try to locate Sister Josella’s extensive family property. I considered it a fool’s errand in view of the fact that not only were there no markers of any kind, but the only life available probably would be a reticent hermit crab. Still, it was as good an excuse as any to browse along the beach. Emily gave up her mission when the beach disappeared into a long line of mangrove. We picked up pumice and visited our way past fellow passengers back to the ship.

 

It was Celebration Night—dedicated to everyone who had a birthday or anniversary during the cruise. It was pleasant that it happened to fall on my birth date. The stewardess put a card at my place, a delightful and touching one from Alex and María with a note saying that Alex had put two cases of Belikin (our local Belize beer) aboard for my sustenance. I was absolutely taken aback and delighted at his thoughtfulness. The ship is Bring Your Own Bottle and it seemed too much trouble to bother with beer, though both Emilie and I enjoy it at lunchtime. Alex said in his card that he thought I would enjoy his gift as much as anything he could think of to give me. He was right.

At the end of the dinner, champagne was served and the chef brought in an enormous chocolate cake, alight with sparklers. Everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” then altered the words of the familiar tune to “Happy Anniversary.” One couple was celebrating their Fiftieth.

Wednesday, 5 January

We departed our anchorage near Punta Icacos early in the morning and were at the dock in Punta Gorda soon after breakfast. Emilie and I went ashore to check at the drug store for an anti-allergen for her (unavailable). We then walked around to Alistair King’s Texaco station, hoping to find him. The Kings are old friends; Alistair and Alex were high-school classmates. I was writing a quick note to Alistair when a man I had barely noticed said, “Kate Scott, aren’t you going to say hello?”

I looked up, startled, and against the glare of light coming through the doorway saw only an unfamiliar silhouette. The man grinned, removed disguising hat and dark glasses, and became an old shipping friend from Guatemala, Peter Baak, improbably placed in Punta Gorda. Peter explained that he is semi-retired. He has someone running his marine business, and he himself is growing oranges and rice in Toledo District. He travels back and forth between his two interests.

We continued on to say hello to Mrs. Ovel Leonardo, the wife of the man who handles clearing and entering the Caribbean Prince in Punta Gorda and rides the ship for the Guatemalan run. I have had many telephone dealings with his wife through the years. She proved to be a lovely, friendly woman helping out in her mother-in-law’s tiny, immaculate new restaurant. Three of the Leonardos’ beautiful little daughters shyly gave Emilie and me sprigs of a flowering bush as we left.

 

Back to the ship. We settled on the 50’s deck to read until the sun drove me inside. I went on down to the main deck to get a beer, but was distracted by conversations until Emilie arrived almost an hour later.

We reached Livingston, Guatemala, mid-afternoon. Livingston is a charming mixture of Old British Colonial and New-World Spanish. The homes lining the hills as we approached looked almost like Belize. In town, the shops were the typical junky Central American “caves” with hammocks and garments hanging from the ceiling over a mixed array of handcrafts, tinned food, jewelry, and auto parts. All the passengers went ashore to explore. Most of us were searching for gifts for the Yankee Swap.

Emilie and I had an early night. We could not find another couple for bridge because of competition from casino games and a good movie.

Thursday, 6 January

We sailed from Livingston slightly ahead of schedule at 9:00 am. The trip up the Rio Dulce was gorgeous. Steep green mountains with occasional white limestone outcrops lined either side of the winding, narrow river. Pelicans and egrets perched by the dozens in foliage that appeared to climb vertically from the water. Cormorants swam and dove and flew away in front of the advancing ship. Small birds skittered in flocks on the water. Cayucas (dugout canoes) with one or two passengers paddled past. The infrequent buildings tucked in tiny coves ranged from simple thatched huts, perhaps with a small dock in front, to sprawling, informal homes with sailing yachts anchored in the river in front.

After a long stretch of curving, green canyon, the hills became lower. The river broadened into El Golfete. We docked at the orphanage of Casa Guatemala. Children clustered in clutching, black-eyed groups as passengers landed. Most of the Caribbean Prince crowd walked directly to the gift shop where there was a fine selection of handcrafts. Purchases were spurred by the knowledge that proceeds would benefit the orphanage, as well as by the variety and quality of the items on display.

We sailed under the new highway bridge and on to the Fort of San Felipe. Emilie and I walked ashore as far as the first open-air market, then returned to the ship. We had been warned to take flashlights to explore the ruins of the fort. I had no intention of going where light wasn’t. Furthermore, both of us felt we had seen our share of old Spanish Colonial forts.

 

Mid-afternoon we docked at the Hotel Tropical in Lago Izabal. Luther and Mike snagged me as I was walking ashore with Emilie to listen to the marimbas on the hotel terrace. They asked me to call Alex to arrange for a carpenter to be available on our arrival back in Belize City, regarding construction of a temporary crew bunkhouse Luther wanted built on the top deck.

Fortunately, I found Ovel Leonardo at the hotel reception desk. He arranged for my collect call to Belize City, then took shifts with the distracted receptionist trying to get the call through. Ultimately, almost to my surprise, Alex’s voice came faintly through the squawky radio-telephone receiver.

By the time I finished my complicated conversation, the marimba concert had ended. I joined Emilie as she returned to the ship.

Friday, 7 January

The ship departed from the Hotel Tropical and crossed to the other side of Lago Izabal. There Emilie and I were among the passengers deboarding for the trip to the Mayan ruins of Quiriguá.

The bus that met us was comfortable. The first stretch of road was gravel and potholed. The mountainous scenery made up for our lurching. We passed a large grove of trees, scored for the collection of latex. The bus stopped so that passengers could examine the process up close. The ones who could not resist touching the sticky white fluid returned to the bus rueful at their inquisitiveness when they found they could not remove it.

Quiriguá was a surprise, different from any of the other Mayan ruins I have seen. It was a lovely, grassy national park with Maya stellae, sculptures, and altars set apart from each other, each attractively protected by its own tall palapa (thatched roof supported by posts). Low, grassy mounds edging the park promised unexcavated Mayan buildings. At the far end, a low set of steps stretched the entire width of the court, with excavated rooms almost out of sight at the back of the platform topping the stairs.

We drove back another route, passing a banana plantation where, again, passengers were allowed to stop and explore briefly. We paused to visit an incredibly smelly small factory that processed latex into rubber. Several passengers turned back, looking slightly ill as they passed the vats where the small half-balls of latex first are washed in acid. Even though there were no sides to the factory and the wind blew through, it was not a place one wanted to linger. We all quick-stepped through the process, which led to piles of rough rectangles of yellow-brown rubber looking like frozen, heavy foam.

 

It was a relief to return to our air-conditioned bus and, soon, to board our ship. By mid-afternoon, the Caribbean Prince was on her return trip through the green glory of the Rio Dulce. We anchored for the night in the stream at Livingston.

A group of ten Garifuna dancers came aboard after dinner to entertain. The Garifuna are descendants of Arawaks of the island of St. Vincent, Caribs of mainland South America, and Africans who survived the wreck of slave ships off St. Vincent. They were exiled to the island of Roatán in the Bay of Honduras and from there made their way to the coast of Central American.

The dancers were completely authentic and highly professional in their variety of wailing songs and jerky dances. At the end of the program, they motioned passengers to join them. Luther was the first. He shuffled happily with a slim young woman whose hips flung themselves from side to side as if half-unhinged from her body. When he returned from his exertions, he remarked wryly, “She asked me for ten dollars!”

Saturday, 8 January

At daybreak the vessel departed Livingston for Punta Gorda, where the ship had to go through the formalities of entering Belize.

I was in the cabin when Emilie arrived urging me to hurry below to the dining room where “there’s some man who hasn’t seen you for four years.” I went down to find one of my favorite Immigration Officers, Mr. Leslie. He was transferred from Belize to Punta Gorda four years earlier. He said he happened on my passport while making the routine passenger check.

“It’s Mrs. Scotty,” he exclaimed.

Mr. Leslie is a tall, attractive young man with beautiful manners and an uninhibited smile. We visited enthusiastically for five or ten minutes, trading news about ourselves and mutual friends, while Mike (Captain Snyder) and the other boarding officers listened with amusement.

 

Plans for more island-hopping, swimming, and snorkeling were quashed by increasingly heavy weather and the first rain of the cruise. Mike sailed directly for Placencia.

Our lunch group was fun, as usual. We had Luther; the travel writer and old Belize hand, Jack Woods; and Anna and Del Girard, the Mississippi River pilot. The chef produced a special dessert of make-your-own-sundaes in compensation for the disappointing change in the weather.

 

After lunch, passengers took turns at a table of materials for making costume accessories for the evening’s Pirate Party. Emilie asked our photographer/artist, Seymour, to cut her out a pirate’s hat. He made a superb, three-dimensional one of heavy yellow construction paper in moments, then sketched a skull and crossbones on the front.

Emily made herself an eye patch of black construction paper on a long band of white crepe paper. She decided she needed a parrot perched on her shoulder. Emily hedged her bets by wheedling Seymour into making one for her and at the same time asked the Captain if she might borrow his life-size cloth Macaw.

Seymour cut a huge parrot from the same stiff yellow construction paper. Later, as we were dressing, Mike knocked at the door of our cabin and presented his gorgeous Macaw to Emilie, promising death and destruction if she didn’t return it in pristine condition.

Emilie dressed in tan slacks with a horizontally-striped brown and white long-sleeved tee-shirt. She fixed the eye patch in place then crossed the ties over the top of her head and down around her neck, ending in an improbable bow under her chin. On top went the handsome yellow pirate captain’s hat. She finished off her costume by slipping a bent coat hanger up under her sleeve, pulling the sleeve down over her hand and letting the hook extend beyond it. The captain’s Macaw perched garishly and unsteadily on her shoulder, held by her good hand.

My own costume was a dismal failure. I decided to go as a pirate’s moll. Shortening slacks to approximate knee pants was a plus, as were the gold chains and a headband of aqua crepe paper. The lovely scarf María gave me for Christmas made a sash that held the “jewel-studded dagger” I had made that afternoon from cardboard, foil, and dots of colored construction paper. I went back to my high school theater make-up tricks, creating a fine black eye and vicious scar down one cheek. I used “Cover Mark” to remove the color from my lips. The only problem was that my glasses hid my black eye, my scar was snorkeling livid enough, and my pale lips made me look like a corpse. I resembled a tomboy Cinderella more than a pirate’s abused consort. It was too late to worry about it so I went down and had a good time.

Some of the costumes were incredibly ingenious. Emily and I were amazed at how many people participated enthusiastically. First activity of the evening was a limbo contest, hardly pirate-like, but who was complaining? The indefatigable Teresa led out. Our 24-year old passenger John won the contest easily. Next came the Pirate Parade in a long conga line of swinging bottoms. Finally costumes were judged. To my absolute delight, Emilie won Third Place. Everyone cheered and clapped as she swaggered out, balancing tippy hat and tippier Macaw, waving her handless hook.

 

After dinner, one of the passengers showed his video of the Quiriguá tour, the limbo contest, and the costume parade from the Pirate Party. Everyone enjoyed it, of course, but we all were spellbound at the end when the photographer apparently set his camera down, not realizing it still was running. It photographed a succession of familiar pelvises, ending with the lower half of a man happily scratching himself in a tender area with both hands through the pocket of his shorts.

Sunday, 9 January

The sun came out. Despite a good wind and less-than-calm seas, skiff-load after skiff-load of passengers went ashore at Laughing Bird Caye. Most simply strolled around the picture-book-pretty little island, while a few hearty souls snorkeled in the well-roiled waters.

Passengers spent the afternoon taking turns with the gift paper, wrapping their donations for the Yankee Swap.

The evening was a huge success. In a Yankee Swap, everyone is given a number. Number 1 selects and unwraps a present. Number 2 does the same, then has the option of trading his gift for the gift that Number 1 has. Each successive person may keep his gift of swap for one of the earlier ones. No one may refuse to trade.

Certain gifts proved to be favorites and circulated all evening long. One was a charming, colorful cloth Toucan about six inches high and the other was a coconut carrying a card promising the recipient a video of the cruise.

I had a high number. When my turn came, I unhesitatingly exchanged my gift of a colorful Guatemalan billfold for a little woven book mark with Mayan motifs.

Monday, 10 January

The end of the cruise. Emilie and I spent the morning packing. The ship stopped at Goff’s Caye, where a few stalwart swimmers chilled themselves thoroughly.

We docked back at the Fort George pier around 3:30 pm. Alex was on the dock waving greetings, accompanied by the requested carpenter—a wonderful elderly Belizean of portly build with a white mustache against his dark skin and a beautiful Panama hat on his snowy head. Bruce Bowen also was there to meet his mother. Alex vanished aloft with his carpenter and both captains. Bruce and Emilie dropped me and my luggage home.

Luther invited Alex and María for the Captain’s dinner. We all met Emilie back aboard. I was able to let Alex meet and talk to both of my marine friends: Del of the Mississippi and Whit of the racing sailboats. At dinner time, we congregated at our traditional table with our established group: Luther, Jack, Emily, and me, joined by María and Alex. Chef Hank outdid himself with perfectly prepared prime ribs and Baked Alaska.

After dinner, with as few goodbyes as possible, we eased ourselves off the ship and down the dock, chattering about the fun we had and saying our silent adieus to a glorious cruise.