SS Penn Leader

In 1974 (or so) I was waiting for a ship in New Orleans. Shipping was always better in Houston, but I had reconnected with friends in New Orleans and didn't mind that it took longer to get a job. While I waited I worked for a jeweler on Royal St named Mr Antin. He told me he had stowed away on a ship from Brooklyn when he was a teenager and came to the Crescent City to seek his fortune.

After a few months of waiting at the union hall my shipping card had enough seniority to get me a job on the Penn Leader, bound for India. I was standing on the levee talking to a friend when the old ship passed by, going to load grain. When I told her that I was going to India on that ship she just laughed as if I was making it all up! I would be gone for close to four months.


The Penn Leader was a converted T-2 tanker; hatches had been added to allow the WWII era steam tanker to haul sugar from Hawaii. This was to be her last trip and, as I learned later, the Captain was not happy with the fate of his ship. He hated India and took sick as soon as we arrived in port, leaving us for a hospital stay in New Delhi.


We sailed the same route that my first trip had taken, around the Cape of Good Hope, stopping in Durban, South Africa for bunkers and arriving, over a month after leaving New Orleans, off the port of Madras. We then spent two weeks at anchor before we entered port and began to unload our cargo. One day we swam off the back of the ship and even though we were far offshore and the water was clear, we all got sick with sore throats and ears. We were innoculated!


Once at the dock I was able to call home on Christmas day! A great difficulty in those days. When I finally got a call through at the public long distance company it was evening, but I woke my parents up before dawn due to the time difference. I also went to the market nearest the ship and made friends with someone my age who found me a bicycle, which I bought for $20 and was able to sell back to him when I left (for slightly less) That helped a lot since everything interesting in town was a little too far from the docks to walk. Taxis aren't very convenient if you're not sure where you're going. One night when I was on my way back to the ship a police officer, also on a bike rode alongside me for a while to tell me "you must not ride without holding the handlebars" I just kept riding and disagreed politely with him until he gave up. Not sure what he would have done if I had stopped.



Soon after we arrived, the ship became infested with cock roaches. We couldn't really work during the day due to the method of unloading which involved about 75 people being on board. The grain had to be scooped into sand slings and lifted to a rail car where it could then be bagged. We were unloading around 1,000 tons a day. We were in port close to a month!



When the Captain left the young Chief Mate was in charge of the ship. I gave away my gangway watches and took a week off, from Christmas to New Year. The Captain had been holding us to the minimum draw allowed by law, $60 a week. He didn't want us to waste money in this country that he disliked so much. So I borrowed $60 more from Chilinski, one of the older ABs and bought a plane ticket to New Delhi! The plane flight took a few hours I realized how big India really was and wondered if I was doing the right thing. By the time I got to New Delhi I had to buy a wool blanket! It had been cold for a few days and I was going north by train to Rishikesh. I knew this was near the mountains and higher in elevation, on the Ganges River. The Beatles had studied meditation there. What I didn't know yet was that the train took all night and I would have to take a "tonga", a two wheeled horse drawn carriage, for another hour after Hardwar, the last stop for the train.

Once I arrived at the end of the trail I took an open ferry boat across the river. This was Rishikesh, a collection of Ashrams along the Ganges River at the place where it comes out of the mountains and onto the plains of northern India. The river is crystal clear at this point. On the ride across I noticed fish below us that looked like trout, only they were 4-6 feet long! When I got excited about it, pointing and talking loudly to anyone who would listen, one of the other boat passengers made sure I understood that "No one fishes here. No one ever hunts or eats meat of any kind. This is the one of the most sacred places of Hinduism." I assured him that I knew that, but that those were really big trout.



I got out of the ferry and headed up the hill. I was told by everyone at the landing that the Ashram I was asking about was twice as expensive as the ones along the river that were about $1.50 a day. I felt recklessly rich even though I had very little money. For my $3.00 I was given a large suite of rooms, my own bathroom (even though the water was cold) and two teas a day. The main meal was lentils and chapati, bread that I watched being made on the open coals of a wood fire in the room where the cook worked. No one was at the ashram as it was winter, except two other Americans. They were in school in Benares, down the river a few hundred miles. They said they were preparing to go farther up river on their spring break when the water level is low and pilgrims seek out the high valleys of the Himalayas where many yogis live in caves. Uttar Kashi, one of those valleys, had been described to me by Maharishi when I first met him at Humbolt University in Arcata, California.



As we meditated and lived quietly, going back to the landing for fruit and yogurt (which came in coconut shells, unrefrigerated) we met one of the other yogis who accompanied Maharishi in the West at that time, Satchitananda. He had been an attorney before he became a yogi and he asked me what life on the ship was like. I was a little confrontational in my answer perhaps: "Its like an Ashram, only there is no God" He stopped talking to me and showed me the heel of his bare foot, a universal insult in the East. Our conversation was over. I guess I was trying to pursue the question I had been asking about "a blind date with God" (after Cosmic Conciousness, God Consciousness is achieved) when I had studied with Maharishi in Spain. My point was, "how can we be expected to pursue a practice that promises this without any discussion of the nature, character or origin of God. Transcendental Meditation was taught and learned as a scientific way to use one's physiology (breathing, awareness) to purify thoughts and emotions (the soul).



I took a day off and hiked up into the foothills. After the initial jungles near the river the path leading up was through relatively open woods. There were wild peacocks and large monkeys. The monkeys gravitated to wherever people were and had really big teeth. I had thrown a rock at one that sat outside my room for a few days staring at me.. he didn't budge, just moved his head to avoid the rock. I was instantly repentant for my transgression against the order of the region. I had hiked for about two hours when I came out of the trees onto a barren ridge and could see the snow covered peaks of the Himalayas! I was in the midst of a Himalayan village of small stone houses.

There was a pile of stones on the ridge with a small, hand forged iron trident laying across it. As I picked it up to look at it and contemplated taking it with me, I looked below to what I thought was an abandoned stone building with no roof. There was a man and a bunch of kids looking up at me from inside! I soon found out this was the (roofless) school for a small village of people who lived on this ridge. The teacher brought the kids up to meet me. He spoke English and explained that the kids didn't speak Hindi, which he was there to teach them. I had put the trident back and he explained that it was the sacred symbol of the God Shiva. The pile of rocks was the shrine for the village. He further explained that when the shrine had been disturbed in the past a tiger had come up out of the river valley and killed one of the villagers. I was really glad I hadn't disturbed it too much. He went on to explain that the village owned a rifle and would go to the river side to hunt deer! So there you go, I was less than 3-4 miles from the landing where I was told that no one ever ate meat! India; it seemed that every mile changes things by a few thousand years. These villagers had to carry water up from the river to water their barley crop and the teacher asked if I could arrange for a pump that would lift water from the river up to their barely patches. I still want to meet that request some day.



On the way back down the path I met someone about my age who had been sent by his Master to the valley to bring back one squash, which he carried like a baby, back up into the mountains.. And so life goes there, with a lot of footwork. I also went with the Americans to see a yogi who lived in a cave very close to Rishikesh. He had been there for forty years or so, he had dreadlocks that reached the floor when he stood up. Even though it was cold, he had nothing to wear but a loin cloth, no furniture in his cave except a picture of Shiva on the wall above a wooden platform that made it easier to do his asanas. He knew Maharishi and of his work in the West as a watered down attempt to interest people in the yogic practices described in the Vedas, which had given rise to Hinduism. He didn't see the point, the interpreter said we were practicing the McDonalds version of those ancient truths. We went away glad that we did not have to approach any other yogis to be able to practice our watered down version of knowledge that would eventually enlighten our consciousness (In those days I was hoping it wouldn't lead to a "blind date" with God).



We three went on one last hike before I had to leave for the city. I had a plane to catch back to Madras to rejoin my ship! We wanted to climb down from where we were staying to the river. The bluff below the Ashram was steep as a cliff, soft clay and sand. I thought we could make it so I went first. I fell about twenty feet and cut the heel of my left foot. The guys waved goodbye and went back. I still had another twenty feet or so to the river which, at that point was a deep pool with a dead water buffalo in it! It took a while to summon the courage to dive into the river, which turned out cold and swift. I made it to the gravel bar upstream and back to my room, but not without getting rejected by Shiva. The river Ganges is considered to be his hair, so before I dove, I asked him for help! It seemed that some huge elemental force or voice answered, but in the form of a question that was not addressed to me: "Is this one of your followers?" followed by: "Because he is not really one of mine" It seemed as well that the answer came back as "Yes, but he doesn't know it". I had my idea of who it might have been that answered, but I kept it to myself and reassured, dove in, hoping it would work out in my favor.



When I got to Delhi with a makeshift bandage on my foot and only a few dollars, I found out that there was an airplane pilots strike. I had to rent (for one dollar a night) a cot in the hall of a hotel in Old Delhi that catered to European junkies. Hippies who came there to live out their days as heroin addicts. They didn't sleep much so neither did I. The following day I found the Meditation Center, near embassy row, and they let me sleep on the floor for another night. After a third night back in the city I was able to board the plane to Madras, but when I arrived at that airport I had to beg money for the train into the city. Begging in India is somewhat acceptable if you are lower class but it was disturbing to most of the crowd at the train station when I did it, even though I was limping by this time on what I thought was an infected foot.



When I finally made it to the port my ship wasn't there! The street urchins that lived in the port felt sorry for me and told me that the American ship had finished unloading and had been moved to another berth awaiting departure. I was very glad to get back aboard the old ship! The Chief Mate had the agent send a Doctor to look at my foot. He heard my story and said that the reason it wasn't infected was that there are many sulphurous hot springs that feed into the Ganges above Rishikesh. He added that it was still a miracle that I made it four days on the streets in India without contracting an infection.



We fed the urchins, who would climb the mooring lines and eat left overs from a bucket on deck. I gave the one that had told me where the ship was a tee shirt which came down to his knees and he wore it every day, the leader of his troop. Those little guys don't live long, a twelve year old is an elder statesman. I asked the Captain if I could pay off and stay in India to hike up the Ganges in the spring and he said "Absolutely not, this is not a fit place to leave any American" and we sailed for Singapore.



The ship was sold in Singapore and I tried to pay off again, but Singapore would not allow any one to stay unless they had their airfare to their home country, which was $800; a lot of money in those days. Impossible to get as there were no cash machines. Pay off was back in New York when we arrived at JFK at midnight, there was a dispute between the crew and the company over living conditions as there had been almost 90 days without cold water so we hadn't been able to take a shower without cooling the water off in a bucket. We settled for half of what we were due; $15 a day x 45 days.. Our flight home had taken two days due to a long plane trip through the Mideast and Europe during the fuel shortage. It was winter and I went to New Haven to stay with Kelvin Chin at Yale where I slept on their couch for 24 hours! I still had the wool blanket I bought in New Delhi and still wore it as a coat (Kelvin made sure to explain where I had just come from when we were out around the campus) until I left for New Orleans on the train. The "Southern Crescent" was full of people going to Mardi Gras and I felt like a King returning to his kingdom from exile.

Matarani, Peru

Our last port leaving South America was in Peru, just over the border with Chile. We had made three ports in Chile, some only for a few hours. We heard from Customs officials that Chile and Peru were having a border dispute, a few miles away and both armies were facing off with soldiers and artillery. This port stop was for cargo to carry back to the US, lead ore. Its a heavy cargo so a small pile in the bottom of a couple of cargo holds was a shipload. I stayed on after we unloaded in Tacoma to clean the holds and found out that it was more than just a greasy, dark sand as it burned my skin when we were hosing down.

The ship looked small as we climbed up out of the port to the bus stop, going to town. There was one dock, a very small harbor surrounded by cliffs, and the Pacific Ocean beyond that. The loading equipment clanged and banged as it delivered ore by conveyor from the mine in the side of the mountain. This was also the port where the Spanish had loaded ships with gold taken from the Inca capital of Cuzco, which is only a few miles inland but high in the Andes Mountains. When we got to the bus stop we noticed how bleak the landscape was and found out we had about an hour to wait for a bus. There were about 6 of us and we walked around, across the road, back over to the edge of the cliff above the port.

For hundreds of meters in every direction there were crumbled walls and broken pottery so we began picking up pieces of pottery and glass and wondering why there was so much. One of the workers from the port came across the road to walk with us and explained:

In the 1500's after Pizzarro had conquered the Incas and taken their Emperor captive ships started coming to collect the gold that the Spaniards were taking from the empire. Gold to an Inca was the sacred blood of their Mother Earth. So all their gods and goddesses, sacred animals, etc. anything they loved was made into gold statues. Also gold masks, jewelry, etc all had religious significance. The priests that were with the Spanish soldiers were determined to stop idol worship and almost all the gold was melted down and carried down the mountains to the ships to send back to Spain.

The town that grew up here, above the port attracted goldsmiths who made the gold into chains, crucifixes, etc. so that it would be suitable for the King, God's representative on earth. The town was rich. Ships brought the finest dishes, perfume, clothes, etc. from Europe for the Europeans who lived there. Also along for the ride were rats. After many years and a lot of dead Incas, sunken ships, broken hearts.. Bubonic plague ravaged the town, killing the inhabitants. The riches from high in the mountains slowed to a trickle and the ships quit arriving. Then over the next 400 years the houses crumbled and nothing remained but broken dishes and perfume bottles. They looked like little footballs, only dark blue.

As we were looking closer to the edge of the cliff the youngest in our group let out a scream! He had been poking around at something that looked like a barbeque pit with a corrugated iron lid. When he opened the lid he dropped it and we all went to see what he found. There was a row of skulls lined up along a wall under the lid, all looking out to sea! The Peruvian port worker explained that this was done by the Indians (Incas) from the mountains. When they realized the Spaniards had all died and no new ones were coming and that there were no more rats or plague in the town they collected a few skulls to put as a warning to any future invaders from the sea.

We left our collected pieces of pottery near the skulls and went back to the bus station to wash our hands. We didn't feel real good about taking the lead ore at that point, but went to town anyway when the bus came. In the 15 mile ride there was not one blade of grass or thorns, nothing alive. It has never rained along the coast there, all the moisture from the sea rises up into the Andes and waters the home of the Incas. Town was dusty, quiet.. kind of strange for a weekend. We bought a few souvenirs at the hardware store and got back on the bus.

Just as the bus came around the last curve in the road at the edge of town and started to climb into the bare hills I looked at the outlying neighborhood of the town. What I saw was hundreds of people walking with candles! In the dark this was an astonishing sight. I tried to ask around on the bus as to what was going on, but it was mostly Indians and they wouldn't say. Was it a Catholic holiday? A local tradition? Something to do with the skulls? The bus went back to the port and we walked back to the ship in silence.

The next day as we were finishing cargo we heard that war with Chile was over after a few artillery rounds had been fired by each side. No one was killed. The leaders of the two countries were satisfied about their borders after all. We sailed for the States with a little bit more of Mother Earth in our holds.

Buenaventura

Buenaventura Colombia is in the jungle. In Colombia there is a saying about "crossing the line" that is from the old days when Africans that had been brought to the country mostly settled along the coast and there was a "line" because as you go inland you go up in elevation and the climate gets drier and more suited for the majority of the Colombian population which is European and Native (South) American. I found this out the first weekend I was in town and took a car to Kali, a few hours inland. Big difference in the two towns. Kali had large, old, relatively clean and functioning buildings. Banks, churches, grocery stores, sidewalks were in good repair, cars on the streets. Buenaventura on the other hand, in the 70s, had open market places, old but sadly decayed colonial looking buildings that had been banks and churches but, for lack of money and attention were anyone's guess as to their current use. The streets were full of trucks because it was a port, and buses.. taxis were kind of sketchy. Not too many private cars. Tropical rain and heat tends to tear everything down, mold and mildew ruin the paint put on a hundred years ago and it all starts to look a little rough.



For the ship, this was our main discharge port, as I recall we had bagged cargo, grain? The deck department worked days and every third day an 8 hr gangway watch. Weekends were overtime, so no work, unless we had to shift the ship or rig the Stulcken boom, a 30 ton derrick with dual king posts. It could be shifted to work either of two hatches fore and aft of the boom for heavier lifts. That took all hands available.



Pretty much Buenaventura was turning out to be a challenging port. Our crew consisted of a bunch of Californians and even some South Americans who were all getting mugged when they went ashore. The bars and streets in general were patrolled by various criminals who were really good at taking your wallet, slapping you around if you complained and not getting caught. Sailors usually end up in a bar when they go ashore; the taxis that pick up around the docks take you there. Most guys don't want to deal with the confusion of not knowing the language and really don't have anything to buy. Some go to dinner and then the bar. Some meet girls at the bar. Life in port revolves around the bar. Some, like the two brothers from Alabama mentioned earlier try to really live large and rent an apartment, up over the bar. They usually finish the trip owing money and just sign back on for another 3-4 month trip.



I don't drink. Didn't then and don't now. Not more than one to be sociable. I'm too cheap. And it gives me a headache. So when the taxi dropped me off at the sailor's bar the first day I was in luck! For one thing, it was early afternoon and there was no one there. the bartender had lived in the States and was happy to explain to me the realities of Buenaventura. He recommended I meet one of the girls that came there. By the time the sun went down there were dozens of women there and at other bars up the street, which wound up into the hills at the edge of town. This part of town was called "La Culebra" because the street was curvy, like a snake. It was part of the reason that Buenaventura had a rough reputation.



The girl that Loco, the bartender sent over to talk to me was younger than me by a few years. Later I met her younger sister, who took care of their kids, they each had one. They all lived in one room in a very poor part of town. Esmeralda (Emerald) explained to me that she had been a college student in Cartagena on the Caribbean coast. She had a bad limp and further explained that she had been injured while riding a scooter to school and had to quit school to raise her kid when the father left because she was injured. This story is told a million times a day in the third world, I'm sure. She was as black as the room we were in but she seemed to be very smart. Loco had explained that I would want someone to go around town with me so I wouldn't get mugged. So it was agreed, she would meet me everyday when I got off the ship.


Best decision I ever made! I never got robbed, in the three weeks we were in port. We went everywhere in town, talked to all the criminals when we had to.. they were respectful of her because she was crippled, smarter than they were and not afraid of them. Is there "honor among thieves" apparently so. The scary gang leader stopped our taxi one day when he saw us in it and rode with us for a few blocks. I gave him my hat (she recommended this) and he wished us well and hopped out. I think he was glad that I was taking care of her. One less thing to worry about. I think I ended up giving her about 30 dollars all together for probably less than 30 hrs of her time as bodyguard and tour guide. That would be a month's rent. For me it half a day's pay.



That is the background to my story. One day at work in the port we were all (deck dept) on the stern at coffee time and someone shouted at us in English. Two bearded guys in a dingy with an outboard motor were in the harbor, passing by! What they said was (thick Aussie accent here) 'ave y'got any baggy-wrinkle?" I knew what this was, having friends who were sailors; it keeps the sails from chafing against the standing rigging when sailing downwind. I answered, "we'll look and see, who wants it?". They thanked us and gave the name of their schooner, anchored just inside the jetties. Once I explained to the bos'n what baggy-wrinkle was he went to a deck locker and pulled out an arm load of marlin! Like yarn only very coarse. Just what they needed. We didn't have much manila line anymore, that would need a marlin whipping on the ends when cut to keep it from fraying. This was a left over from earlier voyages, and it was all mine. When I got off that evening I had it with me in a shopping bag and explained our mission to my friend.

She explained that we had to wait until after dark, to avoid big trouble with the customs and military that "protected" (read extorted) the port. No problem. We walked down the port until no cars were coming and we saw a guard inside the fence. She spoke to him in some African dialect and he let us in the fence! I gave him a bribe (a couple of dollars, for which I would be reimbursed by the schooner Capt later) and we were shown to the quay. No lights were on in this part of the port so we could see the outline of a very dimly lit schooner in the harbor.. I walked to the end of the stone quay and hailed them by name as loud as I could.. I couldn't hear their answer, but after a while the little dingy pulled up off the end of the rocks and spoke to us. We got in and away we went..

Once we on deck I was amazed to see about 20 Americans! They looked tired and sweaty and a little uneasy. They were from some prep school in New England and their chaperons were teachers, fresh out of college. They were sitting on their luggage as if they had just arrived and when one of the teachers saw me and figured out I was an American she asked me very earnestly if I thought this was "alright" I went down in the main cabin and there was a short wave radio and three very apprehensive looking Aussies. They had very long hair and beards and they looked like their dog had just died. Two other guys were in the cargo hold forward of that, building bunks out of lumber for all they were worth. The three at the table explained that they had been hauling cargo under sail (every sailor's dream, eh?) and ran out of cargoes and money in Mexico. They had advertised the ship as a Galapagos Islands scientific expedition. The school thought that sounded lovely, bought plane tickets, sent the "tuition and fees" to the Aussies' and showed up on time. Now these carefree schooner Owner/operators realized they really did need to build bunks, buy food, and go to Ecuador to (try to) actually get a clearance for the Galapagos. Easier said than done, even without the beards.

A few of the more energetic kids were down in the hold helping to build their own bunk. When I got back up on deck Esmeralda was talking to some of the preppy girls that spoke Spanish. She looked like she was in heaven, having met such rare creatures. They looked at me like I was from Mars. I didn't bother to explain, but did give their teachers my reassuring assessment of their situation. I think I suggested having the school help with any additional fees they might have to pay in Ecuador before being allowed to sail for the Islands. We climbed back into the dingy and one of the crew brought us ashore, back into the dark, steamy, dangerous (unless you knew someone) jungle town.

I wonder how they got along as time passed? The motley crew and the spotless passengers? I was quite thankful to have my own circumstances in that part of the world. A large, steel steamship with a union crew, to carry me on down the coast and the local knowledge gained through a "good adventure".. "buenaventura".

Acajutla and Corinto

In 1978 0r so I sailed onboard the US flag Del Oro (Delta Lines) from San Francisco and made a number of stops along the West Coast in Central and South America.. I had been sailing since 1970, mostly out of Houston and New York and mostly to India or Europe. This was real liner service. Break bulk freight and less than 12 passengers. A steam ship. Delta was famous for their Brazilian and West African runs out of New Orleans and I had never been privileged enough seniority-wise with the Union to be able to get one of those jobs.. Rumors had it that those mariners had two families, one at each end of the run, which motivated them to tie up the jobs forever.. So be it. I had found the West Coast on another ship and had come back to investigate when I saw this job on the board at the hall in Seattle. I made it back thru E. Oregon to drop off my Grandfather's truck and to the Bay area and got aboard in time to sail.



Our first stop was Guatemala but we only lightered cargo to barges offshore and were on our way. First real port was Acajutla, El Salvador.. I remember that the pier jutted out into the Pacific and the main street was blocks of concrete that were upset from tree roots and such and there were very few cars. We walked far enough to find a beer and went back to the ship relatively intact. My knowledge of politics in those regions was in the blissfully ignorant category. Just as well.



The deck officers on this ship were the first guys that were even remotely close in age to me and the other 20 something deck hands. The Captain was probably 40 and the Mate might have been 30. I'd been to sea with the WW II generation up until then and this was an exciting revelation! These guys talked to us instead of barking commands! They would even put their hands on the same work we were doing! And best of all, they told us what their jobs consisted of as they worked! The Old Man was a really good and somewhat daring ship handler and he would talk to us while he did it! It opened up my mind, heart and soul to the possibilities of a life at sea. one in which I would someday do those things to which I had so far only been a silent witness. An indentured servant who hadn't managed to work off my debt.



We pulled into Corinto, Nicaragua. This port is on a river and at that time there were no tugs. We approached the wooden dock and as I was on the wheel I learned that the thing to do in that case, with a 700' ship, is to let go the offshore (starboard) anchor and continue stemming the river current, moving ahead. At that point you can put some left wheel on the ship and let the anchor chain pay out twds the dock as you move ahead. It is similar to coming alonside a moving vessel as far as rudder work. When we departed the rudder was set to port to lift the stern off the dock and the chain hauled in to bring the bow around. At that point you don't want your anchor to hang up in a snag on the bottom as the ship gathers steam to gain steerage way down river.



Once we were all fast, the Captain called down to us on deck to "go ashore, I'll blow the whistle for you when the cargo's been unloaded". It was a small town and we were more than happy to comply with that order. We made a beeline up the street away from the dock to the first cantina we could find. When we walked in (there were six of us) there were five or six really mad looking girls sitting away from the bar in a tight little group. Two other young women in army uniforms came out of the back room and the bar tender explained that if we wanted girls those two were it for the day. They explained that they were Sandinistas and their dettachment was still fighting in the hills outside of town. They had been sent to town to get some money for "more bullets". Two of the members of the deck department, brothers from Alabama, did not hesitate in seizing this unique opportunity and quickly disappeared into the back room!



The rest of us went back to the little park in town, where we miraculously met two "normal" girls who were eager to talk to us! After some pleasant formalities they asked us to follow them and off we went, right back to the cantina! When they realized they would have to join the crowd and support the Sandinista cause they shrugged and put some money in the juke box and ordered lunch. Pretty soon the whistle blew and we all ran back down the street in the hot Nicaraguan afternoon sun. Steam was gotten up, lines were thrown off and stowed and we sailed with a deck load of bananas! The Capt wouldn't say much about it except that him and the agent had agreed that this was the best way to get this extra cargo to the next port. I don't think Delta Lines knew or cared.



Our next port was Buena Ventura, Colombia.