Friday the 13th; what a lucky day. We were scheduled to call at Cartagena, Colombia, but Cartagena has closed its port to passengers. Freight only. So we sailed on, and our stalwart captain, bless him, found us a welcome at Aruba in what used to be the Netherlands Antilles just north of Venezuela.
When Bill and I did our Panama Canal cruise, we spent only a few hours in Aruba, but we fell in love with the place. Aruba is a delightful island full of cheerful, friendly people. Indeed, Bill and I were going to fly down for a week or so just to hang out here, rent bicycles, etc. Fate intervened and we never made it. So I was thrilled when we were diverted here; I had not been planning to leave the Queen at all had we stopped at Cartagena.
We are berthed at dockside; none of this tender business despite that we were last-minute arrivals. Bill and I had taken a bus tour, familiarizing me with part of the island, so I simply went walking along the shore.
The island is sort of kidney shaped, and the northwest side is all splendid beaches—most belong to resort hotels, but some are public. Ah, but the east side…Winds that start in Africa have nothing to bump into until they arrive at Aruba, so a fifteen-foot crashing surf is a calm day. No beaches there, but the fishing is good. All the dinky little fishing boats have two 500-horse motors. Each. They need the muscle to deal with the wild surf on the east side.
Winter rains are hoarded in huge hilltop tanks to be distributed by gravity during the dry season. The place only gets about 20 inches of rain a year despite being in the tropics, about 12° north. Whatever acreage is not developed is covered in a sort of organ pipe cactus, vast fields of cactus. The climate is perfect for aloe, and they have made a commercial success of it. You can buy aloe soaps, lotions, potions, all sorts of stuff.
Did I see any birds? I did indeed. Magnificent Frigate Birds soar gracefully, all over. Two new lifers are Royal Tern and Yellow Tyrannulet, not to mention the Tropical Mockingbird chirping raucously in a palm tree beside me. From my balcony I watched brown pelicans do their twisting, piercing dive for fish. Everyone who has seen nature shows know how they dive, but then what? Then the camera cuts to another pelican plunging into the water and you never do find out. What they do is bob to the surface, often with wings flapping. If their plunge was successful, they sit on the water, throw their heads back, the long beak pointed straight up, and swallow their catch.
We are berthed at the pier to port, and less than four hundred yards to our starboard, a barrier reef forms a lovely breakwater. The waves barely break across it at low tide and it is a couple feet underwater at high tide. While I watched, a bait ball developed between the reef and the peer. Scores of gulls were circling and diving. A few Frigate Birds tried to get in on the haul. Their flight is graceful. Their dives, not so much. They sort of just fall in on purpose, wings flapping willy-nilly, sort of like an octopus falling out of a tree.
But they too manage to catch fish. Beauty is as beauty does.