V
A motor-schooner was about to leave for Costa Rica.
Its skipper was a Cayman Islander—a hard-faced ruffian with a whiskey-shaded mustache, who might have passed for a white man were it not for his Jamaican speech. Its crew was composed of semi-naked blacks. But all of them understood seamanship, which was fortunate, for the passing of the Red Bar, at the mouth of the San Juan, is fraught with danger.
We crept out through a winding channel. Giant combers, sweeping across the low sandspit, caught us broadside, and turned the little craft until the gunwale dipped water. Again and again they piled us against the opposite bank, while great sheets of spray broke over us and sizzled through the rigging.
The skipper, braced against the wheel, shouted orders that flew to leeward with the screaming wind. The blacks, seemingly unmindful of their peril, leaned their weight upon their poles as they struggled to pry us loose, while a dozen sharks cruised hungrily below. Natives affirm that the sea-tigers gather about each passing ship, and are seldom disappointed. There were moments when it appeared that they might enjoy their accustomed banquet. But at last we were safe, and climbing up the mountainous waves toward the open sea, while the boatmen raised lusty voices in a chantey of the old-time pirates. And with a stiff breeze filling out sails, we scudded southward toward Costa Rica, the most charming land in the world.