As I passed one such shop—and it seemed to be about the one kind of shop in the city—a group of my former associates from the launch journey greeted me with an overjoyed, “Paisano!” and called me inside, assuring the colony of patriarchs, “This gringo is a good fellow! He’s our paisano! He’s one of us!” With that recommendation the darkies accepted me as an equal. Theirs was the elaborate phraseology of the Jamaican:
“When I first see he,” they said, “I presumption that he be American.” And to me, “Am I not conclusive, sah, that you be a traveler, and that you will embrace the primary opportunity to emigrate from this region?”
My former associates were rather tipsy with rum, and all were eager to show me the sights of the city. The only point of interest they could think of, however, was the chapel across the way. It had fallen greatly into disrepair, since the Church of England is a more favored institution on the East Coast, but it contained a well-molded image of the Saviour. Some local artist evidently had done the work, for the complexion of the image was a rich chocolate brown. The natives looked upon Him with astonishment.
“Carramba!” exclaimed one. “He’s as dark as ourselves! He’s our paisano!”
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.