The eyes of the young intelligence agent betrayed that he was not as
composed as he would have liked the Haitian locals to believe. The
strong, synchopated beat of the drums captured his panicy breathing.
He wasn't afraid of the magical powers that they believed in. He was
afraid of the unknown direction that these maniacal ceremonies could
take. He assumed that, as a white boy, he could easily take the place
the sacrificial goat tethered to pole inside the hot and sweet
smelling mystery house, the houomfort. Outside the stucco-on-mud
shack, the brush covered hills were silent but for the far reaching
deep souled rhythm coming from inside. It was dark outside, and he
was a good twenty kilometers out on the peninsula, southwest of
Port-au-Prince, the only modern city in Haiti. He did not understand
that the substitution went the other way. That the doomed goat held
the soul of the semi-conscious girl writhing on the floor.
(continued)
The single handing graybeard weighed anchor just as the first light of the day came into the sky. Farewell to Rodney Bay and his cruising aquaintences that made their annual trips up and down the Windward and Leeward Islands of the Caribbean chain. Jeff planned on navigating a perpendicular the cruisers, a route directly from St. Lucia to the island of Hispanola, the first landing and colony of Christopher Columbus.
Once he secured the anchor, he swung his boat onto a northwest heading and let out his jib sail, and the boat picked up speed. After putting Pidgeon Island behind him by half a mile, Jeff found 4-foot swells of the open ocean. He refined his heading for Hispanola, taking into account the sideways slipping of the boat.
The aparrent wind was 20-knots on the starboard stern quarter. This is
a perfect point of sail for the second forsail, the staysail. Jeff
hoisted the staysail. Trimmed the angle on the other sails and
adjusted the rudder. The conditions were perfect. The boat was moving
9-knots over the bottom with the apparent wind direction over the
starboard beam, a beam reach is the point of sail. The boat rose and
fell over the seas, occasionally parting a steep wave into a heavy
spray from the bow.
(continued)
Maperl is the nickname for a boat, Mother of Perl. The boat is gone (see R/V Llyr), the name remains. The site is no longer limited to Mother of Perl, now includes art from members of the Smith family, and project notes of all sorts, and family tidbits.