183 Trouble in paradise 



nephew, I never knew which Rafael, who looked as if he might 

 have been part Chinese, watched diffidently, picking his strong 

 teeth with a splinter of wood. I never saw Rafael smile. In the 

 sleeping room, to one side, several smaller children of assorted sizes 

 also watched, the older ones perhaps wondering if old Julio would 

 buy them some candy if the Americano gave him pesos for the 

 use of his boat. Three of them had certainly had a Negro mother. 

 I asked Arturo if he thought Julio's price was too steep. Arturo 

 raised his brows, pursed his lips, shrugged expressively, and spread 

 his hands. "I do not theenk so," he said at length. 



So it was agreed that we would meet the following night ex- 

 actly at midnight, and set forth then on account of the favorable 

 tide. Julio was paid a small advance, and a few pesos extra for gaso- 

 line, and shaking hands all around, we walked back to the town. 



The next night, loaded down with groceries, we met on the 

 long stone quay that juts out into deep water on one side of the 

 harbor. The boat was a sorry affair, but had been the only one 

 available. It was an open launch, sixteen feet over-all, and the 

 heavy-duty engine occupied at least a quarter of the space inside. 

 Added to that it smelled strongly of dead fish, mixed with oil, 

 grease, and raw gasoline. A pile of dirty nets cluttered the forward 

 half, and with boxes of grub, two large water tins, odd jugs and 

 bottles, and a half drum of gasoline in the after portion, there 

 was scant room for the crew and passengers. It was a still night, 

 with a bland three-quarter moon. We sat down on the stones of 

 the quay and tied handkerchiefs around our faces to keep from 

 breathing mosquitoes into our noses and mouths, flailing our arms 

 about like men trying to keep warm. At length Julio was ready to 

 go, so we went aboard, Arturo and I first and then Rafael, who 

 was the ingeniero, followed by three other fishermen who were 

 going as far as Maboa, the first fishing village up the coast. It 

 made quite a load, and once under way our freeboard was next to 

 nothing. Clear of the harbor, and with the mosquitoes behind us, 

 Arturo and I stretched out and napped by fits and starts. It was a 

 wet journey. 



Two hours later, the boat stopped off a dark shore that was 

 barely discernible in the blackness. Then a dog began barking, 



